One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter three: The fight

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

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Spot was getting just a little tired of the running. Jerking Race by his collar, he slammed the other into a small alley, pinning him to the wall, eyes a fiery blaze. They waited in silence as the mob passed them by, surprisingly enough.

"Higgins." He snapped, irritated now. "What. Did. You. Do!"

"Not here." Race pushed him aside and grabbed his wrist, "Ill tell you, just not here."

Spot wasn't moving and he shook off the other's hand. "Here's as good as dere. Tell me what you did NOW."

The Manhattan boy looked at him in silence, as if weighing his words. Finally he licked his lips, "You're not my leader, Spot. I don't have to tell ya nuttin."

Ice cold. Honest. Foolish.

The leader of Brooklyn snarled as he slammed the other back against the wall, so hard the latter's head slammed into the concrete. "You're in MY territory, boi."

"Its none of your business!" Race gave him a shove that sent him stumbling, "You've no right to order me around!"

"You've no right to be in my city, then."

It was spoken so soft Race had to pause and ask in a barely audible voice, "What?"

"Im kickin ya out. Get out of Brooklyn, Higgins. Now." Spot's eyes were solid and cold, every word laced with hate. "We don't house betrayers 'ere."

There was a soft span of complete and utter silence between the two before Race turned on his heel, and before he even knew what he was saying, only knowing it would destroy the fragile friendship they had managed to cling to, he snapped a sharp, "What are you gonna do, make me?"

Never before had Spot felt such anger, such hate. With a cry of rage he flew forward, not even having time to pull his cane before he was on the other, punching, tearing. He had no idea what he was doing, he only felt the desire to rip the other limb from limb.

Hurt him like he had been hurt.

Tear him apart as he had been torn.

Make him pay for the lonely nights of tears, the solitude, the utter hopelessness of not knowing whether or not his best friend was dead or alive. Not knowing whether he still cared.

Finally Racetrack had managed enough strength to fight back, and the two were locked in a duel, rolling across the ground, snarling like animals. Neither were aware of the onlookers, the small newsies who ran around spreading the news. There was nothing but each other.

Spot jerked back when one of Race's fists got lucky, slamming into his jaw with enough force for a crack to be heard. Race froze, horrified at what he had done, but that moment was enough for Spot to right hook him, sending him flying against the ground, into a light post.

"GET OUT, HIGGINS! NOW!"

Race got to his feet, holding his jaw. Blood dripped from a cut on his cheek and he stared at his red fingers a moment before a sigh ran through his body head to feet, and he met his ex-friend's stony gaze with one of his own.

"You don't have to worry, Conlon."

Not 'Spot'. Never 'Spot' again.

"Im goin." He turned without another word, limping his way past the crowd that had gathered, head held high. He had fought with the leader of Brooklyn, had fought with him, and nearly won. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

But if that was true, why did he feel so empty inside?

Spot watched him go without a change in expression. He wiped some blood from his lips and turned to head back to his boys when something on the ground caught his eye. A sharp look toward the onlookers had them scrambling to get away and when it was clear he leaned down and picked it up, wiping the dirt off of it.

Race's pocket watch.

He knew what he should have done, he should have pitched it into the river, or better yet...Sold it. Heh, there was an idea, sell it and lean back with the profits. It was a nice watch, real gold with a matching chain. The outside was carved, as was the pearl and silver inside.

But he couldn't do it.

He knew how much it meant to the other, had listened during the night when Race thought everyone was asleep, whispering as he held it. The only link to his past, the only clue he had to what he could no longer remember.

No matter how hard he tried, Spot couldn't work up the courage to do any of those things. So instead, he slipped it into his shirt pocket and stuffed his hands into his pant ones. It was starting to drizzle and he had to get back, get his boys inside.

No use worrying about Race. He would get out of Brooklyn, go back to Manhattan where he would be coddled over, set up in a bed and made a hero. A betrayer treated like a king.

Was there anything more sickening?

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It was pouring.

The rain was so thick he couldn't see ten feet in front of him. Sure, he knew Brooklyn like the back of his hand, but for Race, finding the bridge was like finding a needle in a haystack. One wrong turn and he could miss the crossing entirely and take a trip into the river.

He had long since transferred the voucher to a hidden pocket sewn into his shirt, held away from the rain. He had to keep that safe, had to. Even if he never exchanged it for the money, he had to keep it.

To remember.

Rubbing at his eyes he stumbled into a nearby alley, moving all the way to the back where a slight half-roof would keep the rain from getting to him. Mostly. Huddled in his wet clothes he crossed his arm and tried to stop shivering.

He couldn't go back to Manhattan. No doubt someone in the mob had recognized him, he was always there after all, and that would be the first place they'd look. Especially after word got around of the fight and Spot's order.

"Im kickin ya out. Get out of Brooklyn, Higgins. Now."

He bowed his head, rain water dripping off the end of his bangs, making them stick stubbornly to his forehead. To kick him out of Brooklyn...Who did Spot think he was!

The leader.

He wrapped his arms tighter and scooted all the way to the back, sitting down in a corner. He wasn't a Brooklyn newsie, Spot had no right to kick him out. He wasn't one of his men.

But he had been.

"Dang it." He hissed, reaching for his pocket-watch. He needed something familiar, something that would take his mind off Spot, something that would help him think.

His hand grasped nothing.

Sitting bolt upright, the Italian boy shivered for another reason than the cold. His watch...his watch...He must have dropped it during the fight...Moaning his grief he fell back, clutching at his hair. Anyone could have it, they would sell it, he would never see it again.

And it was all HIS fault.

"Conlon." He hissed, "You're gonna pay for this. Mark my words, you'll pay for this."

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Uh-oh...there we go! Angst and action! The plot picks up now.

Tell me what you think by using that little button on the bottom left that says 'submit review'. THANX!