Things are starting to get really interesting in this story and I'm so excited for you all to read it! Please keep reviewing and reccomending this story throughout Online Newsie land/fandom. :)

The clock feebly struck midnight, and Spot Conlon still sat by the front door of the Lodging House in Brooklyn. His newsies welcomed him warmly, glad that their leader was back and Ghost wasn't in control anymore. The newsies revered and respected Spot, while Ghost was nothing more than a large joke to them.

When the crowd from around Spot cleared, Roller bounced about him for hours, never losing his energy. It wasn't until after supper, though, that the anticipation nearly killed him, and words poured from him.

"So, Spot, youse go out and find Queenie?"

He ignored the boy, opting instead to talk to Hayseed.

"Spot!" a voice rang out anxiously.

Roller tugged on his leader's sleeve, pleadingly.

"Spot!" he asked, dragging out the word imploringly.

Continuing his conversation as though the young boy didn't even exist, Spot chuckled at something Hayseed said.

"And den what'd youse do?" he asked him, a chuckle still on his lips.

A little body then materialized directly in front of Spot's face.

"Spot!" He shouted, frustrated at the constant brush-offs.

In a moment of lost patience, the leader snapped back with equal annoyance.

"What!"

Reeling back, shock crossed over the younger boy's face. A memory flashed in the back of Spot's mind. Memories of his girl and the way she treated Roller with such kindness. He swallowed back the guilt it made him feel and steeled himself.

"What, Roller?" he asked, quieter, but even colder.

Glad the shouting ceased, the light appeared back in Roller's eyes.

"Did youse go and find Queenie?"

Not even a beat passed before the young boy tugged on Spot's sleeve again.

"Did youse? Did youse?"

Spot shook his head nonchalantly.

"Nah, Roller. I didn't gose out t'find hers," the leader muttered, not meeting the young newsie's eyes.

The little boys eyes furrowed in confusion.

"Don't youse want her back?"

Spot shrugged him off, waving his hand in the boy's direction as though he was waving a fly away.

"Why would Ise? Wese don't need girls 'round here, Roller. Wese fine."

Roller's eyes grew to the size of supper plates, and he looked as though some one just told him that Santa Claus didn't exist.

"Youse don't want Queenie back?" he asked, breaking each syllable apart slowly, as though they were words of a foreign language.

By this point, the entire room tuned into their conversation. Spot lazily picked up a stack of playing cards from the table before him and carelessly shuffled through the deck.

"Dat's what Ise said," Spot said, glad that no one knew of the promise he forced Jazz into.

Disappointment sunk into Roller's features as he turned to walk away.

"'Ey, Roller."

Lighting up, imagining that it was all just a joke, the boy spun so hard he almost fell over.

"Yeah, Spot?"

Dealing out some cards for a game of five-card stud, Spot barely even leant the younger boy a glance.

"Next time, don't interrupt mese when Ise'm talkin' t'someone. Youse got dat?"

Fully deflated by the end of his leader's words, Roller nodded and walked from the room.

"Spot-?" began Dealer, his confusion echoing the confusion of every boy in the room.

Picking up his cards and popping a cigarette between his lips, he looked up.

"Yeah?"

The steel in his eyes matched the steel of his heart, and everyone saw it. And in that moment, everyone's belief in his love for the girl vanished. She meant nothing to him. At least, that's what they believed. But if they had seen him the way Jazz saw him that morning, or the way Ghost saw him the night she left, not even a shred of doubt would have been found.

"Nothin'. Let's play."

So, Spot sat there, listening to the clock barely croak out time as he nursed his last cigarette. Every few seconds, his eyes flickered to the door, waiting for it to creak open. But, as the clock crawled toward one, Spot's patience ran thin. The cigarette died out, and he stood, pacing anxiously until a burst of Arctic air flew through the room. His head snapped toward it's source and relief flooded him.

"Jazz, youse think youse got heres late enough?"

Shivering, the younger boy stalked into the room and strode over to the dying fire place. Rubbing his hands together, he tried to warm himself, but with no success.

"God, it's freezing," came the boy's only response.

Following him, Spot walked over.

"What'd youse find out? What'd youse see?"

Now came the difficult part for Jazz, because, in fact, he hadn't looked at all. After the promise he made to Queenie, he knew that no amount of pleading or threats from Spot could ever make him actually look for her. Jazz saw the look in her eyes and the way Spot's betrayal cut her to the core. He knew that if he was responsible for Spot finding her, he could never forgive himself. But most of all, he knew that finding Queenie for Spot would mean nothing because all Queenie really wanted was for Spot to find her. And for Spot to apologize. Lies come forward from him as though they were second nature.

"Ise looked all over, Spot. But no one's heard or seen from 'er."

Spot scoffed, not buying that.

"Someone's gotta've seen Queenie, Jazz. Youse aren't lookin' hard enough."

Jazz tried to cover it up and divert Spot's attention, to no avail.

"But, Spot, Ise looked and asked around since we'se got back t'Brooklyn."

Spot kept a stranglehold on his cane and ground his jaw, his frustration evident.

"Did youse check da ferries?"

Not missing a beat, Jazz's lie rolled off his tongue.

"Yes."

Spot began pacing, jittery from all the nervous energy.

"Da factories?"

Jazz nodded.

"Yeah, Spot. I told youse-"

Rattling off more places, his pacing increased.

"Tibby's?"

"Yeah."

"Medda's?"

"Uh-huh."

"Romano's?"

"I told youse, Spot-"

"Da Train station?"

The younger stared into the fire.

"Yep."

Snapping, Spot ceased his pacing.

"Not dat one, da one in Manhattan."

Inching closer to the fire, Jazz shrugged.

"Yeah, Jack. All of 'em. Dere's no sign of 'er."

Adjusting his grip on his cane, his nervous habit, Spot tapped his foot.

"After youse sell tomorrow, we'll both go out."

Jazz opened his mouth to protest and leapt to his feet.

"No, Jazz. Dat's final."

Without another word, he turned and exited the room.

Queenie boldly kept her chin up the entire walk to the West Side Lodging House. Time after time, Captain tried to wrap an arm around her, or speak to her, but she shrugged him off. She shivered, the snow soaking into her skin, but she tried to hide it, knowing that he got immense pleasure from her suffering.

"Here we are," Captain said, motioning to a run-down building wedged in between two tenement houses.

A shiver went up and down Queenie's spine as she looked upon the lodging house. The brick seemed to be falling apart. Cracked windows painted the façade, making it all the more foreboding. She gulped, and felt the all-to familiar feeling of eyes watching her from a close distance.

"C'mon, little Alex," mocked Captain.

Wrapping his paw-like hand around her wrist, he pulled her along in spite of her protests. The streetlamps barely flickered, casting ghostly shadows across the building, and a sick feeling built up in her gut.

"Captain, I-"

Ignoring her, he drug her up the front stoop of the building and swung open the door.

"Guess who Ise found hangin' outside da whorehouse down da way?" he shouted.

Swinging her by her arm so that she fell to her knees, Captain chuckled.

"Ise told you dat Ise had someone who wanted to see youse."

Queenie looked up into a familiar pair of eyes.

"It's good t'see youse, Alex. Or, should Ise call youse Queenie know?"

Gulping, she looked down, and knew that she never should have left Brooklyn.

Oh my goodness! What's going to happen? Please read and review! I'd love your input! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!