One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter five: Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn

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.

(( Ha! I updated again for you guys!))

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Mush slammed onto the ground so hard a little moan slipped past his lips, looking up as Spot stood over him, cane held in one hand, the other clenched into a fist. He looked murderous, beyond angry, seething in rage.

There were many facets known as Spot Conlon. There was 'Spot' the lovable kid who joked around and played with his men, there was 'Spot Conlon' who was a little rougher, a little more shaven, and then there was 'Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn', a machine who killed any and all who bothered him, tore them apart mercilessly, never discriminating.

This was Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn.

There was only one thing for the Manhattan boy to do, and that was beg. To get on his knees and grovel. He knew it, the men around him knew it. Spot knew it. But he wasn't going to stoop that low. He wasn't a dog, so he wasn't going to act like one.

To the amazement of everyone there, Mush got back on his feet and faced the enraged youth. He spread his arms, head held high. "You need an outlet, Spot? Come on then." He couldn't help the fear that crossed his mind, but he locked it away.

He might get killed, but he'd go out like a fighter.

Some of the Brooklyn boys averted their eyes when Spot came at Mush, cane held back to strike. Talk big they would, but watch as their friend get splattered they would not. None of them were brave enough to go at Spot when he was like this, Shorty had already paid for it.

Ducking under the first blow, Mush slid backwards, dropping down on the docks as he spun, managing to trip the other before the cane slammed onto the ground next to his head. It made him pause a moment, realizing this was no mere fight.

This was an actual fight.

"Spot!" A sharp voice rang over the crowd, "SPOT!"

The cinnamon haired teen didn't even hear him, intent on trying to smash Mush's head like a watermelon, or at least inflict bodily harm. The newsies were parting quickly, some of them because they feared for Mush, the others because what was heading toward them was truly frightening.

Red looked like some demon, sweeping across the ground with his eyes ablaze, crimson hair sparking in the sun. He had on a pair of dark pants, with a shirt thrown on, but unbuttoned so that it swept away from his chest as he stormed toward the brawl.

No one there could ever recall a time when he had looked more angry.

"MATTHEW CHRISTOPHER CONLON!" He yelled, literally picking the other up by his collar, dangling their leader off the ground, eyes locked. "STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!"

Mush scrambled to his feet, melting into the crowd of Brooklyn newsies. He didn't want to be in the middle of THAT, that was for sure. He wasn't a sissy, he had proved that, but those two were in a whole different league. He expected Spot to calm, to slowly come back to himself.

He never expected him to hit Red.

The elder's head snapped back, blood blossoming from his split lip. His eyes wide he dropped Spot back to the ground, his fingertips touching the cut gingerly. They came away crimson and he stared hard at his leader.

Spot was looking horrified at his hands, as if he had never seen them before. "Im...sorry...Red..I-I..."

The sound of a slap echoed across the water and Spot staggered, holding his brightly red cheek in alarm. A punch he could have handled, a kick he could have dealt with. But a slap? A slap was more personal, more degrading.

It brought him off his high pedestal in a heartbeat.

"Come on, Mush." He motioned to the Manhattan newsie, drawing him from the crowd. "I'll listen to you."

Spot gulped as Red turned his back, and without a glance back or a word, left him standing there. Lost, confused, and so very, very alone.

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Race coughed as he pulled himself to his feet. He felt like he was walking on a cloud, his mind was foggy and he could barely feel the ground under his feet. What a perfect time for him to get sick.

Then again, he had stayed out all night in the pouring rain.

Not like he had had a choice in that though.

He was still in a state of suspended shock over the events that had led him this far; the race, the mob, his fight with Spot...He truly regretted that, truly regretted provoking him, truly regretted pushing the younger to a frenzy to which there was no good end.

He had known what would happen, had known it deep down in the back of his mind. He knew he would have to pay the price, but to get kicked out of Brooklyn...He would've liked it better if Spot had just killed him.

Brooklyn was his home. Even if he lived in Manhattan, Brooklyn was where his heart had and always would lay.

Where Mr. Higgins lay.

Where Racetrack lay.

How could he just leave all that behind? How could he stand on the edge of Manhattan and look over, the Sheepshead in clear view...and not go there? Not walk the track as he had done as a child, spend time with the horses?

How could he lose the only thing that kept him living?

The sound of the betting, the smell of the freshly turned dirt, the sight of the horses giving it their all as they partook in the greatest sport down to man. He had wanted to grow up and ride across the finish line, to sit on the back of Racetrack, at least once.

He had wanted so much.

And got none of it.

Race was so preoccupied in his thoughts he didn't realize he had walked out of the alley until the sunlight hit him hard on his face, blinding him. He staggered backwards, trying to see, when a voice came from behind him.

"Racetrack Higgins."

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"I see." Red sighed as he tapped the newspaper against the side of his leg. "If I said I understood it'd be a lie. I have yet to find out what happened between Spot and Race the other night."

Mush looked up from where he was sitting, "All I know is Shorty said Spot came home torn up, and Race didn't come home at all!" It was clear what he thought had happened.

The ex-leader shook his head, "No, no. If Spot had killed him he would have just told us when he came back. You forget, he's straightforward about all that stuff."

The youth mumbled under his breath, "What am I supposed to think then? Jack is worried sick, we all are. The last place Race needs to be is in Brooklyn, what with you all out for him, and that mob still searching, he has no where to hide!"

Red shook his head then, "I don't think he's still here. That would be suicide, you're right. Race isn't that stupid."

But he didn't sound so sure.

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Race spun, eyes widened as a hand shot out and clasped over his mouth, dragging him back into the darkness, an arm around his chest keeping him from fighting back. He did anyway, striking out as he tried to snap at the hand.

He wasn't going down like this- HE WASN'T.

He swung his arms, hitting the other in the face with his elbow by pure luck. Aha! Serves them right, he smirked a little as he tried to tear free. He was still a Brooklyn boy, he had learned to fight on the streets.

"Ow!" His captor cried, "RACE, ITS ME!"

Race slowed, his mind recognizing the voice finally. He let himself get dragged and then spun on his heel, "What are YOU doing here!"

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booyah! I liked some of this chapter. . now, since I updated twice for you guys, I want reviews! Use the nifty button on the bottom left that says 'submit review' and you don't have to have an account either!