Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.
Chapter 31: Brooklyn and Manhattan
Spot Conlon was even shorter and even more menacing than Davey had remembered him.
After following the harried Elmer back to the lodging house, Davey greeted the leader of the Brooklyn newsies with as much composure as he could muster, then invited Spot inside to sit down while they waited for Race to arrive. They made their way up the stairs to the bunk room, where Finch and Sniper (who were lounging about) quickly made themselves scarce once they caught sight of the well-built Brooklyn newsie.
Davey ushered Spot over to the table at the back of the bunk room, offering him a chair before sitting down himself.
An awkward silence descended.
Spot sat, silent and still, while Davey resisted the urge to fidget and make useless conversation. He didn't know exactly why the Brooklyn leader had decided to show up unannounced and unaccompanied, and Spot hadn't deigned to explain, but perhaps he would be more forthcoming when Race arrived.
Davey sent up a silent prayer for Specs to be swift and immediately successful in locating the gambler, for though the bespectacled newsie had set off on his errand as soon as Spot had arrived, there was no telling how long it would take for Race to actually be found.
Several minutes passed.
Spot barely moved a muscle, but Davey's anxious energy was growing, and he knew that if this continued it was likely that he'd end up blurting out something soon just to break the silence.
Thankfully, before he got to that point, the sound of Race's light footsteps was heard on the stairs, and soon after that he appeared in the doorway.
"Sorry to keep ya waitin' fellas," he apologized as he walked over. He spat in his palm and shook with Spot before settling himself into the remaining chair. "Didn't know you was gonna pay us a visit this afternoon, Spot," he remarked frankly. "What's eatin' ya?"
The casual mode of address surprised Davey. He'd assumed that Race was as intimidated by Spot as the rest of the Manhattan newsies; after all, the gambler hadn't volunteered to go to Brooklyn when Jack had been assigning destinations at Jacobi's. But clearly there was some kind of camaraderie between them, because Spot didn't balk at Race's rather blunt question.
He didn't answer the question, though, either.
"Last I checked, you ain't the one in charge here, Tony," he observed in a tone that was both affable and intimidating. "Where's Jacky-boy run off to?"
Davey and Race exchanged a glance.
"He's gotten caught up in a few things," Race answered vaguely. "But he's around."
"That ain't good enough," Spot answered, shaking his head with that same oddly intimidating agreeability. "I didn't come all the way here for you not to tell it to me straight."
He was testing them, Davey thought. He must have gotten wind of Jack's absence somehow and had come over to see for himself if the reports were true. Birds, he thought to himself, remembering what Spot had said to him and Jack when they'd gone to visit him in Brooklyn. All around the city, chirping in his ear. He wasn't sure exactly what kind of infrastructure was behind Spot's intelligence network, but he didn't doubt that it was extensive enough to have picked up on the truth: that Jack Kelly hadn't been seen with his boys since the first official day of the strike.
"I'll give you another chance," Spot pronounced, sitting back in his chair and still sounding amiable despite the threat underlying his words. "Where's Jack?"
Race hesitated.
"He's been staying at Irving Hall," Davey broke in reluctantly. Spot gave him a shrewd look, and he selected his next words carefully, knowing that he was walking a fine line but hoping that the voluntary disclosure would go a long way to establish some much-needed rapport with the Brooklyn leader. "Crutchie's arrest hit him hard, and he needed some time to think things through. He's still very much for the strike, though, and he'll be giving the opening address at the rally tomorrow evening."
Davey paused, watching Spot closely. At first, the Brooklyn leader's face seemed as impassive as ever…
Then Spot smiled.
It was a rather disconcerting smile.
"Well, looks like the Walkin' Mouth's got more than half a brain after all," he remarked aloud, as though the revelation surprised him. He settled more comfortably into his chair. "Honesty, that's what I like to see, though you might've been able to fool me earlier, Tony, if I didn't already know all your tells."
Race shrugged, not in the least discomfited, and Davey found himself wondering at the ambiguous blend of familiarity and wariness with which the two boys regarded each other. What kind of history did Race and Spot share? Why had Spot referred to Race by his given name? How did he know the gambler's tells? And, despite this, why didn't Race seem to be afraid of Spot in the slightest? Davey didn't know the answers to any of these questions, and he couldn't even begin to puzzle them out.
"So," Spot said, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table, "I came here to talk about this rally you's gonna be hostin' tomorrow. I gave my word that Brooklyn would be at the next event, so we's gonna be there, but I got my concerns." He pinned Davey with a sharp look. "Security. How do you know the cops ain't gonna show up to haul us off to The Refuge?"
Davey resisted the nervous urge to reach up and adjust his necktie (he really ought to break himself of that habit, seeing as he hardly wore said article of clothing these days). He cleared his throat instead.
Breathe, he told himself. He knew the answer to this question. He'd thought this through.
"The theater is private property, so from a legal standpoint, it will be much harder for the police to disrupt the rally," he began. "We've also tried to keep the location under wraps - our boys were told not to speak of it on the streets and to ask the newsies from other neighborhoods to do the same when they went to invite them to the event. The only people who should know about the rally are those we've invited. I suppose that if an outsider looked closely, seeing all of the newsies heading to the same place could appear a little suspicious, but that's probably inevitable. We're hoping if people trickle in throughout the night, it won't be so noticeable. As an extra safety precaution, though, we'll have a few of our boys hidden down the street from Irving Hall to keep an eye on things - if they notice anything suspicious during the rally, they'll warn us right away."
Spot didn't seem impressed, but the answer must have satisfied him, because he immediately fired his next question. "And what about Jack? You's givin' the most important speech of the night to a newsie who ran on his boys the first time a goon came at him with a club." The pointed criticism in his voice was clear. "I ain't sure how I feel about that."
"Jack started the strike," Davey answered firmly, doing his best to match Spot's mettle. The Brooklyn leader was only looking out for his own; Davey would attempt to do the same. "He may not have been able to see things through the way we would have liked him to, but he's committed to the cause, and I have no doubt that he's loyal to us as well."
Davey met Spot's scrutinizing gaze. "I know things aren't looking the best right now," he conceded, "but I trust Jack. And he's going to give that opening speech."
He wasn't sure whom he'd surprised more with his resolute statement: Race, or himself. Spot was the only one who appeared to be unmoved. But the Brooklyn leader must have again been satisfied, for he proceeded to his next question.
"You seem to be pretty confident in this plan of yours, Mouth," he observed. "You got brains - and it shows. Got some guts, too." His stare once again bore into Davey, more searching and intense than before. "But my birds tell me that you ain't been hawkin' headlines for more than two days. With Jacky out of the picture, you's the one master-mindin' this strike, and you got everything ridin' on this rally of yours, but you's barely even a newsie yourself." He paused, his eyes narrowing in challenge. "How do I know you got what it takes to win?"
Race looked like he was about to say something, but Davey spoke up.
"You don't," he admitted frankly. "And you're right, I'm not really much of a newsie - I'd be pretty lost if Race wasn't here to keep me grounded." Davey gave the gambler an appreciative nod. "But even though I haven't been a newsie long," he continued, returning his attention to Spot, "I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of injustice and to have it threaten everything that's important to me. I know what it's like to be pushed to the breaking point. And I've got a family at home who's depending on my income, income that I lost when this strike began. The stakes are high for me, too."
He paused, thinking for a moment of his father.
"You may not know me well enough to know if you can trust me yet, Spot," Davey continued, feeling the conviction in his voice grow, "but I am not giving up on this strike. Whatever happens at the rally tomorrow night, I'm going to see it through to the end." He looked Spot in the eye, returning his stare for a moment before adding quietly, "I didn't come this far to lose."
Once again, Spot barely moved a muscle, his expression impenetrable as before, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Davey was mentally preparing himself for another stare-down (it seemed like years ago that he'd found himself locked in one with Katherine at the deli when all of this had just been beginning, and weeks since he and Oscar Delancey had been sizing each other up at the distribution center), but to his surprise, Spot deliberately looked over at Race, then back at Davey, and when he did, there was something a little less challenging in his eyes.
"You'd better stand behind those words of yours, Mouth," the Brooklyn leader said, getting to his feet. Oddly enough, the underlying tone of his words was more agreeable than threatening this time. The discrepancy between the actual statement and the tenor of its delivery was an odd combination, but Davey supposed that it was just one of Spot's many methods of keeping the upper hand: juxtaposing ominous words with a friendly tone (or in some cases, doing the opposite) to keep enemies or uncertain allies guessing. The technique was unquestionably effective. But Davey felt slightly proud of himself. He'd kept his head and hadn't gotten rattled by Spot's questions. He'd adequately spoken to the concerns that had been raised and had stood up for himself when needed. And hopefully he'd managed to earn the Manhattan lodging house a little more respect in Spot's eyes.
"You headin' back?" Race asked, clearly more to make conversation than anything else, as everything in the Brooklyn leader's bearing said that he had completed his business, short as it had turned out to be.
Spot gave a curt nod in response. "I'll see you bummers tomorrow at the rally." He spat in his hand and shook first with Race and then with Davey. "Expect Brooklyn to be there, loud and clear." And without waiting for an answer, he turned and stalked calmly out of the bunk room and down the stairs.
"That son-of-a-gun wasn't expectin' you to show up," Race remarked quietly, giving Davey a little shove as they watched Spot leave. "You got some nerve, Dave."
Davey laughed. "Maybe. But I'd be happy not to ever have to repeat that experience again. Once Jack's back, I'm leaving all of the dealings with Brooklyn to him."
Race snorted. "Once Jack's back, we's leavin' all of the dealin's with anybody to him."
"Hopefully that day is coming soon," Davey agreed. He assumed that Jack would return to the lodging house after the rally; he'd be forced to rub shoulders with his boys at the event, and after hearing him speak in support of the strike at the very beginning, Davey had no doubt that the Manhattan newsies would welcome their leader back with open arms.
"Sure hope so," Race sighed, not sounding quite as optimistic. "If Jacky decides to take it on the lam again, though, I ain't responsible for what happens after that." He shook his head. "You's gonna get stuck leadin' the boys all by yourself, Davey, unless you's quick enough to ditch me with 'em first. Don't say I didn't warn ya."
"If you've been persistent enough to stay with things this long, Race, I doubt you'd ever make good on that threat," Davey answered, wanting to convey that he understood the tenacity the last few weeks had demanded of Race before proceeding to bandy as usual. "I do appreciate the warning, though, and I'll plan on making a quick retreat and sticking you with the boys if it really comes to that."
Race grinned. "You better stand behind those words of yours, Mouth," he parroted, comically exaggerating Spot's friendly-yet-sinister voice.
Davey snickered at the mimicry. After the intensity of the last few days, it felt good to laugh.
"I still can't believe Spot came all the way over from Brooklyn just to ask a few questions," he said. "That's a long walk for something so brief."
"Pretty sure the questions was partially a front," came Race's knowing reply. "He wanted to hear the answers, sure...but Spot's the kind who's always pickin' up on more than just the words a fella says, ya know? And he's real protective of his boys. Probably wanted to make sure we wasn't gonna be leadin' 'em into a trap set by Pulitzer's goons or wastin' their time with a poorly-planned rally." He grinned at Davey. "Seems like he underestimated you just a little."
"Well...don't speak too soon," Davey cautioned. "I haven't pulled it off yet."
Race shrugged. "Since we's on the subject of the rally," he said, getting down to business, "didja have anything else you wanted to talk about before tomorrow? I know you probably got a lot of things runnin' through that big brain of yours."
"Now's as good a time as any," Davey agreed, trying to temper his excitement at being able to finally share his plans with the other newsie. He was sure that Race wouldn't be particularly keen on hearing all of the details, but Davey's recent conversation with Sadie on the rooftop had reassured him that maybe not everyone was as opposed to his excited rambling as he'd assumed. Besides, as master of ceremonies, Race was going to have an important role at the rally, and apprising him of these details really was important.
"You might want to take a seat, Race," Davey said, his smile only half-apologetic. "I'm about to talk your ear off."
A/N: Thanks for reading! Virtual carrots for the plot bunnies and reviews for the writer are never required but are always appreciated ;).
