"Dere's trouble."

Finch sat up straight and locked his eyes on the brown haired boy who had just entered the room.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Word is: Soap, dat guy youse argued wit', he's talkin' to tha otha newsies all ova Brooklyn."

Finch frowned. He did not like the sound of that. He knew perfectly well what he and Soap had argued about. It was the type of thing that was dangerous to him. The type that had the potential to throw him off his spot at the top, and he liked the top.

"So why ain't youse dealt wit' him yet?"

No one answered him. He scanned the faces of his boys. His eyes lighting on one particularly ugly, black and blue one.

"Marcus."

"Yea, Finch?"

"Dis got anythin' ta do wit' youse?"

"Spot Conlon. He did dis." Marcus said in a low voice indicating his injuries. "He's wit' Soap."

"So? Ya scared of him?"

Despite the clear provocation, none of the boys in the room laughed. They had all been there when Marcus had received his bruises under Spot's cane. They had all seen the look in his eyes. The truth was, they were scared of him.

"It ain't gonna be easy ta get ta Soap wit' Conlon on his side." Marcus spat.

"How many of dem are dere?"

"Jus' four or five so far. But dey're gonna get stronger, Finch, and quick. Blue and Scraps are gonna take his side 'fore dey take ours."

Some of the boys in the room nodded. They were all fully aware of the situation. Some of them were quickly coming to the conclusion that they were on the wrong side of the fence. None of them could proclaim to be the brightest thinkers, but all of them knew right from wrong.

"Den we hit dem now, 'fore dey do."

"Or ya could talk wit' dem. Dey jus' want Queens outta Brooklyn territory. It is Brooklyn's, Finch, it is ours." Marcus said quietly.

Two or three of the boys closest to Marcus nodded their agreement.

"Youse mean: mine." Finch said, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Marcus swallowed hard. He was not in shape to fight anyone at the moment, least of all, Finch. He wasn't particularly scared of him, but Finch had other people backing him too, besides the boys in the room.

"Course, Finch. So what do we do?"

Finch nodded, satisfied.

"What do we know 'bout dem?"

The brown haired boy piped up at once.

"Dey go ta dis bar on Fulton street all tha time. Turns out dere's a goirl dat sings dere. She and Soap are close. Think we could use her ta-"

"No." Finch said quickly.

As he scanned the faces of his boys he realized what he had said and how it made him look. Half of them wore satisfied expressions, the other half wore raised eyebrows.

"Dis is between men. Leave her outta it." He said firmly.

One of his boys opened his mouth to argue, but Finch cut him off.

"For now." He added, a bit of menacing promise in his voice that he did not intend to make good on.

"We could talk ta Queens." Another of the boys suggested softly.

Finch balked at the mention of Queens. In fact, the whole room went silent.

"No. Dis is Brooklyn business. We'll take care a dis."

He turned his back to the boys. He did not want them to see the tiny glint of fear that lit his eyes when he thought about Queens and their leader. The truth was, they were all puppets, including himself. Queens was pulling the strings and Finch did not like to think about what would happen to them if things in Brooklyn got out of control.

"Find out where dey stay. Dis'll be ova before tha weeks out."