Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.


Chapter 53: Bitter Rumination

Oscar Delancey pulled the gates of the distribution center shut with a clatter, wrapping the heavy chain twice around the central bars and clicking the padlock shut before slouching back to the counter behind the circulation window to gather his things.

It was time to head home for the day.

Pulitzer had apprised the distribution center of the recent changes in protocol, so Wiesel, Oscar, and Morris had been ready to process newspaper buybacks, but surprisingly, on that first day there were none. People were eager to buy the papers that had been in limited supply since the strike began, so the newsboys had sold everything, down to the last copy, and the distribution center was spared the necessity of having to recompense them for their surplus.

Small favors, Oscar though sourly as he shrugged on his coat. Once the buyback process was in full swing, he'd likely have to start staying late at the distribution center. He wouldn't put it past the upstart newsboys to take more papers than they could sell simply to make a nuisance of themselves, and of course Oscar would then be the one who would have to accommodate their insolence. Wiesel generally left for the day about an hour before closing, and Morris couldn't be counted on to return after his late afternoon break (which always occurred conveniently after their uncle departed, though Oscar had no desire to rat out his brother, as he often took advantage of Wiesel's long lunch breaks to do some shirking of his own, and Morris had loyally never said a word).

Making his way out of the distribution center through a back entrance, Oscar headed down the street. It was Wednesday - too early in the week (and too early in the evening) to be hitting a bar for some hard liquor - but he wanted to blow off steam somewhere, so he headed towards his favorite establishment, a little pub on Worth Street that was halfway between the distribution center and the apartment he shared with Morris and Wiesel.

Sidling into the pub, Oscar took his usual seat at the end of the bar and waited for his drink. He frequented the place often enough where he didn't have to give his order to the bartender, and he liked it that way.

His stomach growled. A year or two ago, he would have simply pulled out his pocketbook and ordered something to eat, but today he only had enough to pay for his drink, so he bitterly crushed the thought. Loosening his tie, he sullenly took in the other patrons of the establishment. There was another young man at the opposite end of the bar, dressed smartly in a well-tailored suit but already looking a little disheveled and well into his cups. At a card table in the corner, a group of older men were exchanging joking insults, beers at the ready, as they riled each other up and emptied their poker chips into the pot in preparation for the next hand.

Oscar's lips curved into a sneer of contempt. Gamblers. He couldn't stand their ilk. Pouring their hard-earned money away like so much dishwater down the drain in asinine defiance of life's harsh realities and their own responsibilities, grubbling like greedy children for dollars in a stupid game. He cracked his knuckles, feeling his ire grow. Idiots. Pathetic, worthless idiots who would lose everything at that card table, everything they'd worked for, laughing hysterically as they gambled themselves and their dependents into humiliating deprivation, all for the sake of one more blasted round of -

The bartender set his drink down, and Oscar curled his large hand around the glass, gripping it tightly in an effort to cool his anger. He was all riled up now, and the jocular sounds of the poker game in the corner grated on his nerves, so he finished his drink quickly, set his money down next to the empty glass, then slouched out of the bar without a word.

The sun was just beginning to set, and Oscar was about to head towards the apartment, irked that his brief stop at the pub had afforded no respite, but before he could start walking in that direction, he caught sight of a small group of the Lower Manhattan newsies making their way down the street in high spirits, Higgins leading the group and the rest of the boys half-dragging and half-pushing along a reluctant-looking Nineteen Papes.

"Look, I appreciate the invitation," Oscar heard him protesting, "but I probably should head back home if this is just going to be a party and not a debriefing meeting like I thought."

Higgins took off his cap and smacked the other newsie with it. "Ya mean to tell me Davey Jacobs is too straight-laced to take part in a little revelin' with his pals?" he demanded.

So, Oscar thought, Nineteen Papes had a name.

"I've got another job, Race, in case you've forgotten. My family's depending on me - "

"They's gonna be just fine," the gambler interrupted. "The work's always gonna be there. Take a break and live a little, Dave!" He caught sight of Oscar standing in the street and grinned, his attention momentarily diverted.

"Dear me, what have we here?" he drawled, setting his cap back on his head. "You lost, Oscar? Or just lonely?"

"Shut it, Higgins," Oscar growled.

"Got a better idea," the newsie jibed. "Why don'tcha put an egg in your shoe...and beat it?" A few of the newsies snickered, pounding Higgins on the back as though he'd said something particularly clever. With an insolent smirk, the gambler gave Oscar a mocking two-fingered salute, then he and the rest of his posse continued down the street, back to the business of overriding the half-hearted remonstrations of their protesting accomplice.

Oscar cracked his knuckles, scowling darkly as he watched them go. He sorely wished that Morris was with him; the two of them might have been able to give the small group of newsies a hard time, but one against five was simply bad odds, and he wasn't foolish enough to go up against the scrappy ruffians when he was so obviously outnumbered.

He wouldn't forget Higgins' insult, though. The buffoon had it coming, and deferred action today simply meant additional time for resentment to age into a more potent impetus for retaliation when a later opportunity presented itself.

He'd learned Jacobs' name, too, which was a timely development. Oscar hadn't forgotten how the dark-haired boy had bested him in the staredown at the circulation window the week prior, and while Higgins was a far more deserving target for retribution, it couldn't hurt to add this little bit of information to the mental ledger.

Oscar turned down the street and made his way in the opposite direction, away from the boisterous, friendly sounds of the newsies as they headed off to celebrate. They could enjoy their little short-lived victory. Once they woke up the next morning, they'd realize that life was no different from the same dull, dreary monotony that had made up their days before the strike. Nothing had changed - they were still street scum, scrabbling and striving to eke out a miserable living, and making-merry today was only turning a blind eye to the harsh reality of tomorrow and going into it a dollar or two poorer than you would have if you'd simply gone home in the first place. Oscar might not have a drink or a dinner out to look forward to, but he had his revenge to plot. That would be a satisfying enough diversion for the evening.

If a fella knocks you down, you get up and knock him down harder - so hard that he don't get back up, you got that? The bitter admonishment rang in Oscar's ears, and he could almost see his father's surly face and smell the stink of the alcohol on his breath when he'd come home late at night, angry and sullen after taking another loss at the card table. If there was one thing the worthless scumbag had taught his sons, it was how to hold - and settle - a grudge. You hit back harder than you were hit, paid back an insult tenfold, and never forgot an offense. It was how you kept your pride intact.

Ironically, the man had eventually come to grievous injury at the hands of his own sons, boys to whom he'd taught only too well the art of retribution and the principle of an eye for an eye (and then some). Sure, roughing up the striking trolley employees had been honest work for Oscar and Morris - but it had also been a chance for them to repay their father, the man whose selfish, ill-advised choices had landed their family in trouble and had paved the way to a life of hired thuggery in the first place. (Not that either of them was complaining about their side-job, though - it paid well, better than working for their Uncle Wiesel, and it was a good way to blow off some steam while making a little extra cash).

Oscar supposed that there was some poetic justice in getting to repay his father for all of the suffering he'd put his family through, but though attacking the striking trolley workers had cooled his anger temporarily, it had given him no relief. Morris was the kind to vent his anger and then forget, but Oscar would brood, and he never forgot - his father had taught him too well.

If the boor had applied his shrewdness to his business concerns rather than to his cards or his cups, his family would have been in a far different place right now, and Oscar would not have been slouching through the grimy streets of Manhattan alone, on his way back to Wiesel's tiny, dingy apartment. It was all his father's fault, and Oscar would never forgive him for it.

That was the past, Oscar reminded himself, his eyes narrowing and his mouth settling into a grim line. He couldn't change it. But he could make sure that those insolent newsies - beginning with Higgins - learned not to cross him so impudently in the future. They were giddy now, drunk on fame and on the paltry success of their little strike effort, but Oscar would bide his time, and once the exuberance wore off, the newsies would find out the hard way that he was not a Delancey to be trifled with.


In the end, Race and the newsies basically resorted to dragging Davey along to Jacobi's by force. It probably hadn't been very considerate of them to ignore his objections - he did have a family depending on him, and unlike most of them, he still had work he could do even after he'd sold his last edition of The World - but Race was in a celebratory mood, and he'd wanted everyone to be at the gathering. Davey had insisted that Les go home, as the younger boy would be going back to school the following day and needed his rest, but he'd hesitated for just a moment after they'd escorted his brother back to the tenement, and that split second of indecision had been more than enough time for Race (and other boys he'd brought along for back up) to gang up on him.

They'd gotten him back down the stairs and to the street with a lot of arguing and a little manhandling, and by the time they were a few blocks away from Jacobi's, Davey was only putting up a half-hearted protest (four against one was simply bad odds, after all).

When they arrived, Race saw that almost everyone else was already there, gathered around their usual table with waters in hand (Albert, he noted, was celebrating big and had sprung for a seltzer).

The only one missing was Jack.

"Heya fellas," Race greeted the group as he and the rest of his little band found their seats around the table. "You all ready to do this celebratin' right?"

"You bet'cha!" Jojo declared.

"We was just waitin' for the rest of you to show up," Mush added, raising his glass of water in a casual toast. "Can't start the celebratin' without our fearless leaders!"

"Ya see, Davey?" Race jibed, elbowing the reluctant newsie in the arm. "Ain't you glad you came now?"

"You told me this was going to be a meeting," Davey accused for probably the tenth time that evening. "A meeting, as in 'a time for discussing important matters pertaining to the strike's conclusion,' not a misnomer for a party."

"Ain't my fault we got different understandin's of what a meetin's gotta entail," Race gave an indifferent shrug. "You shoulda asked."

"Besides, what's wrong with a party, Davey?" Elmer piped up, and Davey couldn't come up with a response to the innocent question, so he settled for leveling an unamused look in Race's direction before sitting silently back in his chair, unhappily resigned to an evening of unexpected festivity.

That bummer's gonna have to learn to loosen up a little, Race thought, not for the first time. "Hey, anyone know where Jacky's at?" he asked aloud, glancing at the clock by the cash register. It was already well past seven, the time they'd agreed to meet at the deli.

"Pretty sure he'll be along soon," Romeo spoke up. "He was gonna go catch a matinee with Katherine after he finished sellin' for the day - he's probably just wrappin' things up."

Race felt a flare of indignation. Still blowin' us off, huh Jacky?

"He'd probably be fine if we wanted to get things goin'," Crutchie suggested, and Race could tell that the other newsie had caught his fleeting look of annoyance. "It's gonna take Mr. Jacobi a while to get through all of our orders anyway - we might as well have the fellas start."

It was a valid point, but an obstinate part of Race didn't want to move things along. He wanted Jack to step in and take over again. He was tired of being the one to give the directions and make the decisions and smooth things over yet again. He was tired of covering for Jack for the hundredth time.

"That sounds like a good plan, Crutchie," Davey's quiet voice broke in, and Race looked over to see that the dark-haired boy had dropped his reluctant expression and was wearing a look of forced agreeability, clearly intent on assuaging Race's growing annoyance. "I'm sure most of us are ready to eat, so it couldn't hurt to start getting our food. Jack will probably be here by the time we've placed our orders."

Race pointedly ignored the imploring look that followed the hesitant suggestion. He refused to be the final word this time. "I ain't the one in charge around here," he said sullenly, folding his arms across his chest, "so if that's what you bummers wanna do, be my guest." When no one moved, he gestured towards the deli counter. "Go on. I ain't stoppin' you."

An uncomfortable silence followed his pronouncement. Some of the younger newsies looked at each other, unsure of what to do, while Crutchie gave Race a warning glance that said that this wasn't over. Davey looked conflicted, probably torn between wanting to step in and trying to adhere to his assertion that once the strike was over, he was a regular newsie like everyone else and wouldn't be giving the orders anymore.

Eventually, though, someone had to take charge.

"Davey, why don'tcha get the orders goin' and make sure the fellas all get somethin' to eat?" Crutchie suggested mildly. "Race and I are gonna have a little talk." He got to his feet, tucking his crutch under his arm, and then inclined his head in the direction of the door. "Come on, Race," he said. "Let's get some fresh air."

Race ground his teeth as he followed the other newsie out of the deli. This wasn't how he'd wanted the post-strike celebration to go, with everyone suddenly walking on eggshells and him having to explain to Crutchie why he was so out of sorts.

They walked silently down the street for a bit, coming to a stop at a bench in front of the chemist's shop a few doors down from Jacobi's. Crutchie eased himself onto the worn wooden planks, and Race noted with some concern that the movement was more awkward than usual, which probably meant that the other newsie was in pain.

"You feelin' all right, Crutch?" he muttered.

"Just a little stiff, that's all," the other boy grunted, settling himself on the bench. He propped his crutch up beside him. "What I wanna know is why you's actin' so bitter all of a sudden. It ain't like you, Race."

Race frowned. There were a number of answers to that question, all varying in degrees of honesty and disclosure.

"Just needin' to blow off some steam," he muttered vaguely. "The last few weeks haven't been a walk in the park, ya know?"

A less even-tempered boy than Crutchie Morris would have answered that statement with a sharp reminder that a two-week stay in The Refuge hadn't been a walk in the park either, but true to form, he didn't say anything about it, and only seemed to evaluate Race's statement for a moment before he spoke again.

"You an' Jack get into some kinda argument about the strike?" he asked bluntly.

"Guess you could say that," Race answered. As much as he wanted Jack to have to face up to his shortcomings with the rest of the newsies, the newsie sitting beside him on the bench was a different matter, and Race knew that he had to tread carefully. The friendship between Jack and Crutchie was something unique - separate and untouchable. The rest of the boys understood that, and no one ever tried to come between them. To tell Crutchie about Jack's disappearance after the brawl or about his deal with Pulitzer would have felt virtually treasonous, and Race, despite his bitterness, was far too loyal to cross that line.

"You didn't have it out the way you normally do?" Crutchie wanted to know. Everyone at the lodging house was used to Jack and Race's occasional spats and the predictable pattern in which they resolved themselves.

"We talked," Race grunted noncommittally, giving the other newsie a shrug.

Better stop pryin' if you know what's good for you, Crutchie.

The other boy clearly wasn't satisfied with the answer.

"Talked about what?" he demanded. "It's gotta be somethin' serious if it's still eatin' you."

"Just some differences of opinion 'bout how things shoulda been done." Race rolled his neck, trying to hide his agitation. He wasn't the kind to give evasive answers or to hold back, and the effort was wearing on him quickly.

"You and Jack always had differences of opinion," Crutchie pointed out. "But you always backed down and let him lead. What happened this time?"

"This time was just different, all right?" Race snapped.

Back off, you bummer...I don't wanna hurt'cha.

Crutchie gave him a slightly suspicious look. "You ain't tryin' to challenge Jack, are ya?" he pressed, sounding wary. "You ain't gunnin' for his position?"

Race stared at him in shock. "No! No, it ain't anythin' like that!" he exclaimed. Of all the ridiculous ideas! He could see how the other newsie could have drawn that conclusion, given the way the conversation was going - but still, for Crutchie to even think that Race would ever try to usurp Jack's place of authority -

"Then why couldn't you just let him do his job?" the other newsie broke in.

Race scowled. "I just couldn't!" he said sharply, his ire growing at the slight accusation and his inability to defend himself without compromising their leader. "Jack - " He stopped himself, biting back the words he'd been about to say, and clenched his fist instead.

"It was a complicated situation, Crutchie," he said, forcing the words out. "It ain't as straightforward as it sounds."

Crutchie's eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch. "Everyone's been kinda quiet about the last two weeks," he muttered, sounding suddenly upset. "What happened, Race?" His voice wavered a little. "What was really goin' on while I was in The Refuge?"