Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.
Visionary
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Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore.
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Racetrack Higgins was standing in the back entrance of the Newsboy's Lodging House on Duane Street when Spot Conlon found him there, smoking a cigar and staring thoughtfully up into the bright summer sky.
Clearing his throat, he joined the short Manhattan newsie along the edge of the street. Not quite meeting the other boy's face, he followed his gaze, nearly blinded by the sun. "I came as soon as I heard," he said out of the corner of his mouth. His voice was steady, cocky and sure. He could have been talking about anything at that moment. "I couldn't believe it when one of my birdies told me. Jack? Doin' himself in like that? I never would've thought I'd live to see the day."
Race nodded, keeping his head tilted back. "Skittery was the one who found him. Poor mook forgot his smokes in the bunkroom when he was out sellin' and couldn't spare the pennies to get some fresh tobacco. Walked all the way back to Duane Street and what did he find but Jack swinging there. His eyes were bulging out of his head, his tongue purple. Poor bastard hung himself with the same rope he wore around his waist. Kloppy had to give Skitts half a bottle of brandy to keep him from losin' it."
Spot Conlon, known as one of the most feared and respected newsies in all of New York, flinched at Race's callous description. Poor Skittery Daniels. He went in for a smoke and came out with a complex. "And he didn't tell no one what he was doin'? He just… he just went and jumped?"
"He wasn't the same the since the fire, Spot," Race said, his stubby finger absently shaking the cigar in his hand. It was a whole cigar, one he had held onto for a special occasion. He didn't feel right chewing on the ends of somebody else's thrown away cigar today. "Not since Davey and Sarah… ya know. He really liked those Jacobs kids and then for them to bite it like that? It hit him hard, and I thought he'd go runnin' off to that dream place o' his. Santa Fe, right? But he didn't. He stuck it out, pretendin' he was alright for the first coupla weeks. But then the dreams started…"
Spot nodded in turn. He knew about the dreams. Jack made his way into Brooklyn once, a couple of weeks back, convinced that Spot was dead. Even when he appeared on the docks, alive and scornful of Jack's drunken babbling, the older boy had refused to believe his own eyes. He ran away—and Spot hadn't stopped him.
"I'd heard that he went queer in the end. I wanted to stop by, maybe knock some sense into his head, but it wasn't really my place. Maybe if he was one of my guys but Jacky-Boy… he knew what he was doin', I thought."
"Queer ain't the word for it, Spot. He started to think he was seein' things, started to think that everyone around him was droppin' like flies. We tried… me, Crutchy, Blink… even ol' Mush… we tried, but it never helped him. Just got drunker and drunker until he stopped comin' 'round as much. And now this. Shit."
Tapping his fingers in agitation against the head of his cane, Spot found himself frowning. "I just… I guess I just can't believe it, Race. Jack Kelly, dead by his own hand. I'd say he was a coward but, hell, maybe it was for the best."
Racetrack shook his head, taking the moment to draw a long, remorseful drag off of his cigar. He wasn't morbid, and he wasn't fascinated by his old friend's death—but he wondered if there was something else any of them could have done. He sighed.
"Ya know," he said, a tinge of regret lacing his heavily-accented voice, "I should've figured somethin' was up when the poor bum stopped sleepin' at night."
fin.