After he left, Fawkes and Jack loitered in the booth for a little while. "Ah, well, we best be on our way to Brooklyn," he sighed and slid out.
Fawkes didn't move, "I don't know what you were thinking earlier, but you know full well that I can't go to Brooklyn."
"You went yesterday with Race," he pointed out.
"Through there," she corrected.
"And the difference is..?" Jack wanted to know.
"I did not make contact with any of the newsies there, and if I thought an encounter was likely I took certain lengths to make sure such an interaction was avoided."
"Listen," Jack said, taking a seat again. "Brooklyn don't like nobody that ain't from there, and even then..." he trailed off.
Fawkes nodded. She'd lived there. She knew what he meant.
"They only like me once in a blue moon," he continued. "I want you with me because you know Brooklyn. If we have to make a hasty escape, for whatever reason, you'll get us out safely. That, and you're not a bad fighter. You fought Spot for your turf and he hasn't tracked you down yet."
"Only because I haven't stayed in one spot long enough to give him a chance," Fawkes replied.
"C'mon Fox," he told her, "you owe me."
When Fawkes glared, he shrugged, "I didn't want to, but you left me no choice."
Grudgingly, she stood.
The walk to Brooklyn was painful, but uneventful.
Jack tracked Spot down to the waterfront.
Fawkes kept her head down, her eyes trained on Cowboy's feet in front of her. "Well if it ain't Jack Sprat, it's been awhile since we chewed the fat—your wife looks pretty lean."
Cowboy shrugged, "Look at you-riverfront property. Living the life of luxury."
"I do what I can," Spot Conlon tucked his cane into a loop on his pants and approached, spitting into his hand and offering it out to Jack.
Jack spit on his own hand and shook.
"Who've you got hiding back there? Seems a bit meek for a bodyguard," Spot was looking over Jack's shoulder at Fawkes.
Jack pulled her forward, "This is an old friend of mine. Name's Fox."
Spot spit into his hand again and said, "We've met."
Fawkes followed his example and met his outstretched hand. Her cool eyes met his.
Jack was talking behind her, "Is there anyone in New York you don't know?"
"Teddy Roosevelt," she replied with a weak shrug.
Jack grinned.
"I'm guessing this isn't a social call," Spot preempted.
"You'd be right," Jack nodded.
Spot nodded as well and pulled out his sling shot, "I've been hearing things about you lot, was wondering if I'd be graced with your presence."
"What sort of things?" Fawkes wanted to know, worried that Snyder might have made another visit and knew their new aliases.
"That Jacky-boy's newsies are playing like they're going on strike." Spot's first shot went astray when she spoke, but his second one hit its mark.
"They're right," Jack agreed.
"Well sell it to me," Spot said.
"We aren't playing," Fawkes spoke up. "We are on strike."
Spot lowered his slingshot and she knew she had his full attention. She couldn't decide how she felt about that. She was supposed to be here as an exit strategy only.
Fawkes looked to Jack for help, but he just nodded at her to continue.
"We ain't exactly big numbers. We're talking to all the newsies, because the more kids we get on our side, the more likely we are to make a difference and actually get them big wigs to listen to us. Plus, the more of you who join us, the less of you we'll have to cross as scabs," she added coolly.
Jack elbowed her.
She took the hint. "Here's how it is. Life is hard all over, but twice as rough in Brooklyn. I know. I've lived here before. I got out. You survive on pennies a day, on a good day. Everybody looks down on you. But it doesn't have to be like that. We all stand together against those big newspaper men, and people will take notice. They might even respect us. But there's no way of knowing that unless we try.
"To get people's attention, we need as many newsies as possible to stand with us. We already got a journalist on our side, so it's entirely likely you'll get your name in a pape, if not your picture. The other newsies in other buroughs are talking to you because they know that Brooklyn's got a reputation. If you're with us, they'll join up too, because they know we'll come out on top when it comes to fists."
"So we're the muscle?" Spot said, crossing his arms.
"You can be whatever you want to be," Fawkes replied. "It's a known fact that Brooklyn's a tough crew. That's what they remember. It'd be a privilege and an honor to stand up with you boys again."
"I'm not joining up so my boys can be the first line of defense in your war on money. Your boys need to be able to stand on their own against whatever goons get thrown at you. They're gonna need it if you kids are serious about this."
"Your loss," Fawkes responded. "Figured you might want to stand for something. Make a name for yourself."
"I don't need to make a name for myself," Spot replied. "Everybody already knows who I am."
"Fair enough," Fawkes nodded. "C'mon Jack."
When they got back to Park Row, the other guys were already waiting.
"Where's Spot?" Racetrack wanted to know, looking behind Jack and Fawkes as they approached.
"I tried my best," Fawkes shrugged. "He just wouldn't see reason."
"She sold a pretty good argument," Jack admitted.
"Other newsies ain't gonna join up if Spot doesn't," Kid Blink said.
"He's probably just sore from you beating him up earlier this week," Racetrack patted her on the back.
Jack perked up at this information. "What do we need Spot for anyhow?" Jack wanted to know. "Fox cleaned his clock."
"Nobody knows about that but me and him. And you guys," Fawkes added with a shrug.
"Not anymore," Jack grinned and jumped up on the statue.
"No," Fawkes's voice was surprisingly strong, and it caught most of the boys by surprise.
Cowboy nodded and dismounted. "So what do you propose we do instead?" He wanted to know, leaning against the base of the statue.
Fawkes was saved from having to answer by the circulation bell ringing. "Anybody hear that?" She wanted to know.
Jack grinned and responded, "No!" He picked up on her cue, "What are we gonna do to those that don't hear so good?"
"Soak 'em!" She shouted back, and they led the charge through the gates.
No teenage boy, who'd lived his life on the streets like they did and got by by scraping, was going to turn down a little practice session.
They had quite a crew at their back, but there was still a sizable line that didn't get the memo about the strike.
The first few got wise real quick. One put down his papers, and the ones that followed didn't even buy them.
Then came the big guy. Fawkes knew right off he was gonna give them trouble. He'd even give Brooklyn boys some trouble. He stood at least a head higher than either her or Jack, and looked like he shoulda been working out on the docks.
He tried to sidle past. He avoided the space between Cowboy and Fawkes, who probably were the most troublesome looking of the bunch.
He tried between Kid Blink and Boots, on Kid's blind side. They pushed him back.
Then he tried between Race and Snipeshooter. To no avail.
He dropped his papers at Jack's feet, but came up with a sucker punch that had the Cowboy reeling back.
That was all it took. Fawkes took on the big guy, and shredded newspapers filled the air.
It was a free-for-all.
The brawling didn't last long and soon it was just the strikers causing mayhem-until they heard the tell-tale whistle of the cops responding to the scene.
Fawkes didn't need to be told twice. She lit out as soon as she heard the first whistle blast, when they were still some blocks away.
She didn't look back. She didn't stop running until she realized she was halfway to Brooklyn. She slowed down to a walk, but she kept going. She didn't have a destination in mind. She just needed to clear her head. This was happening a little too fast. They needed a strike. The newsies needed to be respected, but she wasn't a newsie. Not at heart. For her it was just a job. But she knew what it meant to the guys, she couldn't scab. It did mean she'd need another job.
She was kicking at the water, sitting at a dock on the East River when they found her.
"Fox! There you are!" Jack was breathless, but grinning ear-to-ear. "I can't believe how easily you wiped the floor with that big guy! He had to have been six and a half feet."
"At least," Race was nodding.
Fawkes just shrugged. "Brooklyn," was her response. "Knew a guy there with a similar build. Kind of grabby."
Jack ruffled her hair.
"What's wrong?" Race wanted to know, noticing she wasn't as gleeful as they were.
"Just thinking."
"About what?" Jack turned serious.
"The strike," She answered. "I feel for you guys. I really do. But selling papes isn't my life. "
"Are you scabbin?" Jack wanted to know.
"Quittin?" Race asked.
Here, Fawkes managed a grin, "What would you do if I did scab?"
"Run for cover," Race cringed.
"Consider the strike officially over," Jack sighed. "You aren't really?"
"Nah," Fawkes said. "I do need to pick up another job though."
"You'll still strike with us though, right? We're gonna need you," Jack told her. "Today we let them know we're serious."
Fawkes nodded, "I'll see what I can do."
"Factory?" Racetrack guessed.
"I was thinking the harbor," Fawkes shrugged. She let out a heavy breath, "What are you guys up to?"
"Since we have no income-" Jack started.
"We was hoping you'd help us swindle some folks out of their cash down at the races," Racetrack nudged her with a grin.
Fawkes thought about it and nodded. She'd never turn an opportunity to make money.
She started by helping Race choose better horses. He had a good eye for runners, but it's not just the horse who wins the race. Sometimes you have to look at jockey interaction. And always look at history.
They were on their fourth race. The final furlong. Fawkes had moved away from the boys. Race talked too much when he was nervous. It put Fawkes on edge.
Something wasn't right.