Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.
Chapter 37: Trouble in the Theater
The clock on the back wall of the auditorium was moving far too quickly for Race's liking. Miss Medda was already halfway through the final number of her performance, but there was still no sign of Jack, whose opening speech was up next in the order of events for the night.
Davey had returned from his errand looking oddly distracted, but Race hadn't had time to question him, as the other boy had only stopped by to quickly say that all seemed to be well from the reports of the newsies stationed outside the theater, and that if Jack didn't somehow appear in the next few minutes, Race should skip over his part in the program and proceed to the next thing on the schedule. Race's well-meaning suggestion that Davey ought to just fill in for Jack was met with an uncharacteristically dark scowl and a shake of the head, and Davey had walked off quickly after that, leaving Race to wonder how someone who was so adept at wielding his words could be so adamantly opposed to using them. The newsies were in high spirits, and now would have been the perfect time to motivate them with some rousing remarks...but he wasn't here to question things. This was Davey's night, and if he thought that it would be best to simply move on to the next thing, so be it.
Checking the clock again, Race was about to get up to move into place so that he could easily walk onstage after the final number was finished, but before he could do so, he caught a glimpse of someone moving in the shadows backstage.
…Jack?
Race squinted, trying to make sure that he wasn't seeing things - but no, his eyes hadn't deceived him. It was definitely the newsie leader who was crouched there, staying well out of sight but just visible enough for Race to see him from his vantage point.
So, the son-of-a-gun had decided to show up after all. And not a moment too soon...
Race glanced around the auditorium, trying to find Davey, but before he could locate him, Miss Medda's number ended, and applause swelled throughout the theater. No time for an update, then - they would just have to wing it.
Making his way up to the stage, Race acknowledged the theater owner and her ensemble who received a standing ovation in appreciation for their performance. As they took their bows, Race nonchalantly moved off to the side so that he was standing just a few feet from where Jack was hiding. He cracked his knuckles, once, twice, then casually rolled his neck as if to release the tension. Then he scratched his head and settled his cap back into place before walking out to center-stage to address the crowd.
To anyone else, it would have looked like just a mindless display of impatience or perhaps nerves. But Jack would have known it for the sign that it was: a subtle warning to pay attention and to be ready. They'd used it before when they'd needed to secretly communicate without anyone else knowing, and Race was sure that Jack would pick up on the nod. It was the best that he could do by way of a tip-off.
Sure hope you's ready for your speech, Jacky-boy.
Pushing his concerns aside, Race slapped on a smile and addressed the crowd. "Well, now that Miss Medda's gotten us off on the right foot, we's gonna have a chance to hear from the man who started this whole thing, the newsie who led the strike against The World and gave us a reason to stand tall! We all is here tonight because of him, because he stood up to Pulitzer and told the old man we ain't backin' down until he does business with us, until he puts the pape prices back where they belong!"
Race paused for a moment as hearty applause broke out from the crowd. The only half-sincere words had rolled off of his tongue easily (strategically describing Jack's role in the strike was just like hawking a headline, after all, and Race was better at improving the truth than the average newsie), but still, they left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He continued.
"This newsie has been the face of the strike and the leader of the newsboy union, and I know we's all gettin' antsy to hear what he's gotta say, so let's welcome him up here! Ladies and gents, I give you Jack Kelly!"
The newsies began chanting Jack's name, shouting and clapping, and Race looked over to see the newsie leader hesitating in the wings. It was the first time that they'd made eye contact since the strike began, and Race was surprised to see that Jack - who never seemed to want for vigor - looked worn out and drawn, as though he hadn't slept for days.
A bit of sympathy inched its way in.
Stepping off to the side so that Jack could take his place, Race motioned the newsie leader over to center stage, repeating the gesture a little more impatiently when Jack continued to hang back.
Oh for cryin' out loud…
Race added his voice to the others shouting Jack's name, riling up the crowd and motioning for them to continue chanting until finally Jack pushed past whatever was hindering him and strode purposefully onto the stage.
The roar of the audience's welcome seemed to shake the rafters of Irving Hall, but instead of soaking it in, the newsie leader held up his hands, and the applause petered out as a hush descended upon the room.
"Fellas…" Jack began slowly, looking around the theater as though trying to get his bearings, "you all is here tonight because Pulitzer decided to raise the price of papes, makin' us pay ten cents more a hundred so he could rake in the profits. It was a rotten thing to do, so we took a stand and went on strike. And it was workin', for a while! We stopped the wagons, ripped up the papes, and kept the scabbers from deliverin' The World."
A smattering of applause broke out, and Jack once again held up his hands.
"But since then, we's been at a standstill," he continued. "We haven't backed down, but neither has Pulitzer. His circulation may be hurtin', but he's got thousands of dollars behind him, so a few weeks ain't gonna hurt him one bit. But what've we got, fellas? Huh? The shirts on our backs, and maybe enough change to get us through a few days. We's gonna be in a tight spot soon…and believe me, the old man knows it."
A murmur of dismay swept through the auditorium at his words.
Race frowned. What the…?
Something wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on what exactly was off about Jack, but the forced way he was delivering his speech made the words sound stiff and scripted, as though they'd been memorized, almost as though it was someone else speaking with Jack's voice. Race wasn't the kind to get unsettled easily, but he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and a nervous energy began to hum through him, the kind of feeling that you got when you knew that someone was watching you, but you had no idea where they were hidden.
The theater was eerily still, every newsie hanging on Jack's next words, and Race almost missed the nearly-imperceptible movement of Davey making his way up to the front row of the theater. He slid into an empty seat next to Spot, his eyes trained on the stage, his expression tense and worried. Race caught his eye for just a moment, and Davey gave him a bewildered look. He, too, sensed that something was wrong, but had no idea what was happening or how to stop it.
They'd planned for a possible attack from Pulitzer and his goons. They hadn't planned on something like this.
Jack continued speaking.
"Let me ask ya somethin'," he said, his gaze once again sweeping the auditorium. "How long do ya think we can keep this up, huh? How many days can you go without workin'?"
Race saw Davey get to his feet at that. He wasn't sure exactly what the other newsie was planning to do, but it was clear that someone needed to step in soon. Jack caught the movement too, and Race watched as he turned towards Davey, fixing his attention fully on the dark-haired boy as though he was speaking to him and him alone.
"We gotta be realistic," Jack said, the stiffness in his voice softening perceptibly, and if Race didn't know better, he would have thought that there was a note of pleading in it. "We gotta think about survivin,' ya know? This ain't no game, goin' on strike. We's up against someone we got no chance of beatin', and he don't care a lick if we starve, so it ain't…" he faltered, pausing for a moment, then continued, "...it ain't the time for big words and big ideas. It's time to stop runnin' our mouths and actually start makin' some sense."
Race winced. On the surface, Jack's statement wasn't all that strong. But to Davey, who had put so many of his words into the strike's conception and had slowly come to be its most vocal supporter, to Davey who had agonized over every decision and its potential implications, the implicit criticism had probably hurt a lot more.
Jack turned towards the rest of the crowd, and Race caught just a glimpse of the stunned look on Davey's face before Jack's upraised arms blocked his view.
"So here's what I say, fellas," the newsie leader continued, the edge back in his tone. "I say that we give up the strike, disband the union, and go back to work. I've spoken to Pulitzer myself, and he's agreed that if we return peacefully, he will not raise his prices again for the next - "
"What are you sayin,' Kelly?" Spot interjected angrily, surging to his feet.
"I'm sayin' we take Pulitzer up on his offer and go back to work," Jack replied as the Brooklyn leader walked closer to the stage, quiet and menacing. "He's givin' us a chance to lock in the prices for the next two years, and he's even volunteered to put it in writin' for us - "
Spot cursed loudly, unwilling to hear any more, and the theater erupted into chaos. The Brooklyn leader took a step towards the stage, his expression dark and furious, and almost as quickly, Davey was in front of him, holding Spot back and saying something that Race couldn't hear over the din. The Brooklyn leader could still yell, though, and he hurled a blistering insult at Jack which Race was sure the other boy couldn't have failed to catch.
He hoped Jack had heard it.
Race was about to walk over to Jack himself and give him a piece of his mind, but Jack was already being shoved roughly into the wings by a handful of newsies who had managed to make it up to the stage. He suddenly stopped short, and Race watched in disbelief as a portly, well-dressed man emerged from the shadows, a smirk on his face and a stack of bills in his hand. He slapped the money into Jack's chest, then abruptly stumbled back as Jack took the money and shoved him hard into the darkness.
Race almost couldn't believe what he had just seen.
"You're a sellout, Jack!"
"You dirty traitor!"
"I'll soak ya, you bum!"
But he couldn't have imagined it - not when the rest of the newsies had clearly seen the same thing.
Race glimpsed a flash of red, and suddenly Spot was barreling past, his eyes trained on Jack who was still standing off on the side of the stage with the stack of bills in his hand. But before the Brooklyn leader could reach his target, Les Jacobs somehow made it over to Jack, and Race felt disbelief hit him again as the younger boy innocently tapped Jack on the shoulder, then flinched back with a cry of dismay as Jack turned on him with an upraised arm, looking as though he was about to strike.
Les fled the scene, and Race watched as Jack turned and ran in the opposite direction, into the backstage labyrinth of Irving Hall. He undoubtedly knew his way around better than the rest of them and knew that they wouldn't be able to follow him once he'd gotten his money and made his escape.
He had been playing them all along.
Race ground his teeth in frustration, looking around the theater for Davey, but he couldn't locate him in the crowd. The Manhattan boys were milling about in confusion, some looking bewildered, others gesturing wildly. Calico and a few of her newsies had made it to the stage, and the Bronx leader was speaking animatedly with Spot, whose Brooklyn boys were the only ones who hadn't broken formation in the midst of the chaos. All around the auditorium, newsies were pouring out of their seats, into the aisles and towards the exits, and Race knew that if the theater emptied and everyone disbursed, the Manhattan contingent could say goodbye to any hope of gaining support for the strike.
Things were completely unraveling.
The gambler shook his head, gritting his teeth in determination. He refused to be licked. Not by Pulitzer. Not by his lackeys. Not by Jack.
Especially not by Jack.
"Spot! Cal!" Race snapped, catching the attention of the newsie leaders. "Stop them from leavin' - this ain't over yet." Spot nodded, and he and Calico sprang into action, following the command as Race turned on his heel to hurry backstage, trusting that his allies would be able to regain order.
He had another job to do.
