Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.
Chapter 85: Suspect
A/N: With gratitude to CowPowder.
"You sure you got everything, Dave?" Race asked as Davey closed up his satchel. "Wouldn't want you to forget anything important like your clothes hangers or what not."
The other newsie only rolled his eyes in response, so Race took the liberty of chuckling appreciatively at his own joke. "We sure is gonna miss havin' you stay with us," he declared, clapping Davey on the back. "It was one helluva a week - don't think I can remember the last time we pulled so many successful pranks on the same fella!"
"I'm actually surprised that you didn't send me off with one," Davey remarked dryly as he got to his feet. "I've been waiting for it all morning."
"Well, we thought we oughta give you a prank-free day as a little partin' gift," Race answered generously. "It was a unanimous decision, right fellas?"
The newsies chorused their agreement.
"Plus, we figured you gotta walk all the way back to the tenement to drop your bag off before you head to the distribution center, so we didn't want to hold you up," Romeo added helpfully.
"Well, that was thoughtful of you." Davey slung the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. "And I appreciate it - it's definitely going to be a busy morning." He reached down to pick up Bella II who had been snuffling around his bed, holding her in his arms and giving her an affectionate pat before he looked around the bunk room where the newsies had gathered to see him off (despite the fact that he would be rejoining them within the hour). "Thanks everyone for your hospitality," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "You definitely made my week here a fun and memorable one. I'm sure I'll never forget it."
He's laying it on a little thick, Race thought. He would have expected a slightly sarcastic farewell (or at least a less cheerful-sounding one), especially considering the fact that Davey generally wasn't a morning person, but maybe he'd actually enjoyed his time at the lodging house more than he'd let on. Or maybe he was just in a better mood because of Bella II. He'd definitely gotten attached to the pet skunk, and - to Race's surprise - had managed to make it through the entire week without startling her.
"Anyway, I'll be going now," Davey said, stepping towards the door, "but I'll see you all at the circulation gate. Oh," he turned around, "and I'd better leave Bella II with you, Race, before I accidentally walk off with her." He handed the skunk over, Race receiving the bundle of black and white fur with a grin.
"See ya soon, Dave," he said as the rest of the newsies added their farewells. "Don't let anyone prank you on your way out!"
"Oh, I won't," Davey promised over his shoulder as he headed towards the door.
The newsies began to turn back to their morning preparations, and Race had just set Bella II down, when he heard the sound of a loud sneeze reverberate throughout the lodging house.
Almost instantaneously, the putrid smell of skunk spray reached his nostrils, and he could hear shouts of dismay all around him as the rest of the boys pinched their noses and began frantically trying to wave the odor away, some of them nearly tripping over themselves in an effort to open the windows while others simply stared in disbelief at Bella II who was waddling away to hide under one of the bunk beds.
"Dear me, what is that unpleasant aroma?" came Davey's voice from the doorway. Everyone turned to look in his direction, and Race could have sworn that the expression on the other newsie's face was almost mischievous, as odd as that seemed. "I guess the warning about not letting anyone prank me on the way out was a little misdirected," Davey mused as he set something small and cylindrical down on the ledge by the door. "At any rate, I'd better get going. See you at the circulation gate, fellas!" He flashed a grin in the newsies' direction, then disappeared down the stairs.
Henry, still pinching his nose, walked over to pick up the object that Davey had left behind. "Just like I thought," he muttered. "It's a pepper shaker from the dinin' hall. I saw him lookin' at it last night over dinner, but didn't think anything of it. That bummer must've used a pinch of the stuff to make himself sneeze."
Race growled. That son of a -
"Hey, you haf'ta admit...it was a pretty good partin' shot," Buttons offered meekly. "He fooled all of us - we didn't think he had it in him."
"That's for sure," Specs muttered ruefully. "And we's gonna be stinkin' to high heaven the next few days for that mistake!"
"It'll go away." Mush reached over to open another window. "Remember the last time Bella II sprayed? When Finchy accidentally nicked her with his slingshot?"
"How could we forget?" Jojo shook his head. "The whole lodgin' house smelled like rotten eggs for a week!"
"Pretty sure it ain't gonna be as bad this time," Mush said reassuringly. "She only sprayed a little, and we's openin' up the windows right away. It's already startin' to clear some."
Race thought that it was an overly-optimistic assessment, but didn't say so. He was still trying to get over the fact that he could have failed to see the signs that were now so clear to him in retrospect: Davey's uncommonly good mood, his casual hinting about the morning being a busy and memorable one, the fact that he'd sounded so sure about not being pranked on the way out...Race should have seen it coming, but he hadn't, and he and the newsies had learned a hard lesson that day: that it was never, ever a good idea to underestimate Davey Jacobs.
Jack, surprisingly, was not as upset about the smell as he could have been. Race secretly chalked it up to the fact that it had been Davey - mild-mannered, well behaved, seemingly innocent Davey - who'd been the instigator. Jack had responded with a hearty laugh when the newsies had told him the story, and he'd only remarked that he was glad he didn't have to worry about the smell up in his penthouse, which had incited another round of grumbling amongst the rest of the boys.
Crutchie, too, seemed to find the morning's events amusing, even going so far as to smirk at Race and assert that after everything that Davey had been through that week, he deserved to get the last word in. Race only scowled at him in reply and went to go wash up, wrinkling his nose at the strong odor of skunk that still lingered. The rest of the newsies had already finished getting ready for the day and were on their way to the distribution center with Jack, but Race - by virtue of being the closest to Bella II when she'd sprayed - was the only one who'd gotten hit, so he'd decided to take a bath before he went to sell his papers for the day, knowing that he wouldn't be able to get any customers to walk within a ten foot radius of him if he didn't do something to mitigate the smell. He'd given Specs some of his money and had asked the other newsie to purchase his papes for the morning, then took his time washing up, trying to get the stink out of his hair and clothing as much as he could.
After he'd completed his deodorizing attempts, Race hurried off to find Specs, who had promised to stay near his usual selling spot a few blocks away from the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. The other boy was exactly where he said he would be, and to Race's surprise, Artie was there too.
"Hey fellas," Race greeted them, clapping Specs on the back in appreciation. "Thanks for pickin' up my papes."
"Artie helped me carry them," the bespectacled newsie replied, inclining his head towards the younger boy as he handed over Race's allotment.
"That so?" Race grinned at Artie. "I'm obliged to you too." He slid the papers into his newsboy bag before remarking, "It's a nice day - I might head towards the Polo Grounds. Wouldn't mind stretchin' my legs."
"Can I come with you?" Artie asked eagerly.
"It ain't a short walk," Race warned him. "But if you's able to keep up and don't mind sellin' along the way, then you's welcome to join me." He gave Specs a little salute. "Good luck today, Specs," he said.
"You too, Racer, Artie," the other newsie replied. "I'll see you tonight back at the lodgin' house."
They parted ways, leaving Specs behind and heading north.
"Think there's gonna be a practice goin' on today at the Grounds?" Artie asked.
Race shrugged. "Probably not this early in the mornin', but if there is, it might make sellin' easier. We got any good headlines today?"
Artie shook his head. "Nothin' very excitin'."
"Then we's just gonna have some fun makin' them excitin'," Race declared. Despite the morning's ordeal with Bella II, his good humor was quickly returning, and he was happy to have a selling partner for the trip out to the Polo Grounds. More often than not, Race sold alone simply because it was easier, but he generally preferred to have company, and Artie was shaping up to be as agreeable of a companion as any of the other newsies - perhaps even better than some, Race thought wryly, thinking of Albert and Jojo and some of the boys who could be downright aggravating in the mornings.
"You ever get a chance to take in a game at the Grounds?" he asked conversationally.
Artie shook his head. "Nah. My pa loves baseball, though."
"Mine does too," Race said, surprising himself with the disclosure. He never talked about his family. Especially not his father.
"He ever take you to see a game?" Artie asked.
Race scoffed a laugh. "He never took me nowhere - walked around tryin' to pretend like I didn't exist. He wouldn'tve been caught dead takin' me to a game."
"He don't sound like a very nice fella."
Race shrugged. "He had a life before I came along. Havin' to take care of some kid he didn't want wasn't part of the plan." The words didn't sting the way they used to, but that didn't make them any easier to say.
"What about your pa?" he asked, steering the conversation away from his past. It wasn't the newsie way to ask questions - especially not questions about family - but they'd broached the subject naturally, and Artie didn't seem like the type to hide things. Besides, Race didn't want to talk about his own father any more than he had to.
Artie smiled humorlessly. "My pa ain't the nicest fella either," he admitted. "He ain't like your pa, ignorin' us or livin' his own life..." He paused, and then added softly, "Sometimes we wish he would, though."
Race made a sound of acknowledgement. The statement begged a follow up question, but this was definitely getting into sensitive territory now, and he wasn't sure if Artie wanted to talk about it or not. When the younger newsie didn't change the subject, however, Race decided to press forward.
"It's just you and your folks?" he asked, purposefully tangenting a bit. "Any brothers or sisters?"
"One sister," Artie answered. "And my folks, yeah."
"What's your old man do for work?" Race asked, slowly circling back to the topic at hand.
This time it was Artie's turn to laugh. "That's just it - he don't work," he said scornfully. "Not unless you call gettin' liquored up at all hours of the day and then passin' out for a spell so he can wake up, demand more booze, and then do it all over again 'work.'"
It wasn't an uncommon story - fathers who drank away the rest of the family's hard-won earnings to support their addiction - and Race felt a rush of sympathy. His father could be overbearing and harsh (on the few occasions where he was even present at all), but he mostly ignored Race and didn't interfere with his life. As long as Race stayed out of his way and didn't ask for anything, his father returned the favor.
His mother, however, was a different story. And Race knew only too well the strain of being expected to support a washed-up parent when he could barely even support himself.
It was why he'd left Brooklyn. It was why he'd found a home with the Lower Manhattan newsies. It was why he didn't like to talk about family, and why he'd learned long ago how to fend for himself, because there sure as hell wasn't going to be anyone around to save him if he found himself down for the count.
"Guess a lot of us probably don't have it so good at home," Artie remarked.
Race made another sound of agreement. He actually didn't know most of the boys' stories, at least not the ones with difficult home lives. Those who had some stability were more apt to talk about their families, but for those who came from painful or abusive pasts, the lodging house was a safe place where they could escape those realities, and the unspoken agreement was that no one needed to explain himself or share anything he didn't want to when it came to the life they'd led before darkening the door of Number 9 Duane Street.
Now that Race thought about it, though, even the boys who had come from better situations didn't always have it easy. Henry had a loving family, but his father had died unexpectedly several years ago, leaving his wife and two sons to pick up the pieces. Elmer and Buttons both had homes to go back to, but they came from large families and, from what Race could tell from the offhand remarks they'd make, sometimes got overlooked or forgotten in the shuffle. Even Davey was carrying the heavy burden of supporting his family while his father was out of work.
Life was just hard, no matter where you came from. And that, Race maintained, was why you couldn't think too much about the past's ordeals or present's difficulties or the future's concerns. You had to live for the moment and find the fun when it came along. To do otherwise would be to invite despair, and Race had better things to do than to be miserable.
"Hey, I got an idea," he said cheerfully, deciding that they'd wallowed in seriousity long enough. "If we's able to move all our papes by the time we get to the Polo Grounds, we'll take the rest of the day off, buy ourselves some hotdogs for lunch, and see if we can sneak into the place to see if there's a practice goin' on. It ain't gonna be as excitin' as watchin' a real game, but since it ain't baseball season right now, it's the best we can do. We's doin' all the work of walkin' that far, we might as well enjoy it!"
Artie looked doubtful. "We's gonna be losin' a whole afternoon's worth of pay," he pointed out.
Race waved him off. "I'll cover your losses from what I make today. I got some extra dough back at the lodgin' house from my winnings at Sheepshead, so it ain't gonna set me back that much. We oughta have some fun." He grinned at Artie. "Whaddya say, huh? Since we ain't got fatha's who's gonna take us to the stadium, we might as well take ourselves!"
"Okay," Artie agreed, a smile stretching across his face. "Sounds like a plan to me."
Race clapped him on the back, and the two of them quickened their steps as they continued walking in the direction of the Polo Grounds, calling out the headlines as they went.
It was already well into the evening by the time they arrived back at the lodging house. As it turned out, there had been a practice game going on that day, and Race had managed to find a side gate that was only partially secured, so they'd squeezed through after selling the last of their papes around half past noon and had spent the rest of the afternoon eating their lunches, taking in the game, and exploring the rest of the Polo Grounds. Since there were no spectators, the place was nearly deserted except for the players themselves (who could care less if a couple of kids were sneaking around), and Race and Artie had enjoyed the rare opportunity to get close to the field, something they would never have been able to do if they'd snuck in on an actual game day.
One of the training staff, an older gentleman whose thinning hair and spectacles reminded Race of Kloppman, had caught sight of the boys as they'd peeked out from behind the rows of seats, and he'd winked at them before tossing them one of the used baseballs that had been retired from the game on the field. Race had let Artie keep it, and at that moment, he'd known that the spontaneous decision to take the afternoon off had been worth it as he'd watched the younger boy's face light up.
When the afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen and the sun was dipping low in the sky, they'd squeezed back through the gate and had begun the long walk back to Lower Manhattan. The trip had passed by pleasantly enough, and Race had decided to splurge again on the way back for a couple of meat pies, which he and Artie had nibbled on as they'd walked. Their makeshift dinner, as well as the other expenses of the day, depleted much of Race's earnings, and he knew that it would set him back a bit, but he had no regrets. Saving up was the wise thing to do, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd eschewed it in favor of blowing every nickel as it came.
Sometimes, you just had to live for the moment.
As soon as they'd arrived back at the lodging house, the newsies had crowded around, wanting to know where they'd been, and Race had indulgently let Artie do most of the storytelling, dropping down on his bunk bed and grinning as he listened to the younger boy recount the details of their half day off.
Race had just pulled his cigar out of his pocket, thinking that an evening smoke would be just the ticket to finish off an already grand day, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw Crutchie behind him, crouched over a bit so as not to make himself conspicuous.
"Can I talk to ya for a minute, Race?" he asked quietly.
Race immediately stuck his cigar back into his pocket, nodding. The note of concern in Crutchie's voice warned him that something was wrong, but clearly the other newsie was trying not to make it too obvious, so Race followed his lead and got up nonchalantly, stretching a bit before following Crutchie out of the room. None of the other newsies seemed to notice their departure.
As soon as they'd stepped into the hallway outside of the bunk room, Crutchie shot a glance over his shoulder, then, seemingly satisfied that they wouldn't be overheard, beckoned Race closer.
"I don't want the fellas to get wind of this," he said, his voice unusually terse, "but remember a while back how I was tellin' you about the numbers in the Newsie Fund not addin' up?"
Race nodded. They'd chalked it up to just a miscalculation at the time.
"Well, I've been keepin' a closer eye on it the last few weeks, just to be safe," Crutchie confided. "And I'm pretty sure someone's been liftin' the money little by little."
It was an unwelcome disclosure, and Race grimaced. "How much are we missin'?" he asked.
"If we's countin' all the way back to the strike, almost nine dollars," Crutchie answered. "But like I said, it's been comin' out in bits, a few cents here, a few cents there. But somethin' didn't feel right this mornin', so I hung back to check real quick after the rest of the fellas had left for sellin', and I found we was short a whole 'nother five dollars. And that's when I knew it wasn't just us imaginin' things. I ain't sure what to do about it, but I don't wanna just leave the rest of the money there for the takin'."
"Right," Race muttered. "Have you told Jacky?"
"I don't wanna worry him," Crutchie answered. "He's been workin' on that illustration for Katherine's article, and it's upset him a little, havin' to remember The Refuge. He don't show it when he's with the rest of the fellas, but he's had some rough nights. I don't wanna give him another thing to think about if we don't haf'ta. Thought if you and me could figure it out first, it'd save him some worry."
Race nodded, his mind working feverishly. Who could possibly be stealing the money from the Newsie Fund? All of the boys in the lodging house knew that the Fund existed, and several of them had seen the spot where the money box was kept under the floorboards, but as far as Race knew, only he, Crutchie, and Jack knew where the key to unlock the box was kept. He supposed that someone could have seen any one of them pulling it out from the little hidden compartment in the medicine cabinet, but they'd tried to be careful to make sure that they were alone whenever they did it, so that didn't seem likely, unless someone had purposefully hidden in the washroom and concealed their presence for the purpose of sussing out the key's location.
"There's somethin' else," Crutchie broke in reluctantly. "Another reason why I didn't wanna tell Jack. And why I almost didn't tell you."
"What's that?" Race demanded, his alarm increasing.
"Well...when I went to get the key this mornin' - while you was busy takin' your bath - I found somethin' else in the washroom on the floor by the cabinet where we hide the key." Crutchie's eyes met Race's, and he looked almost apologetic. "It was a cap, one I didn't recognize at first, 'cause it don't belong to any of the boys who stay here. I took it along with me to the distribution center after I checked on the Fund, thinkin' maybe one of the boys had swiped himself a new topper. But when I got there, I realized who it belonged to, 'cause there was only one boy at the gate who didn't have his cap on him..."
Crutchie trailed off, clearly hesitant to reveal the owner's identity, but comprehension was already dawning upon Race, and he completed the thought himself.
"It was Davey's...weren't it?"
Crutchie nodded. "He said he didn't realize he'd left it behind 'til he got home. Seemed surprised, and gave some excuse about how Bella II must've gotten it out of his bag, but I dunno, Race...I wish you could've been there to see him - you read folks better than I do, and you know Davey the best. I couldn't tell if he was lyin' or not."
It was on the tip of Race's tongue to reflexively say that Davey didn't lie, but as he checked the statement, he realized that, in fact, he had very little to substantiate that claim. Davey had been vocal enough about his aversion to improving the truth, and thus far he'd seemed to be an upstanding kind of guy; Race's sense - and Jack's, too - had always been that the newsie in question was trustworthy, sincere, and dependable, and Race had never run across anything in the last several months to disprove that initial assessment.
But if the prank from earlier that morning had driven any point home, it was that none of them knew Davey Jacobs as well as they thought they did. And now Race was beginning to doubt himself.
"Racer...did you tell Davey where the key to the money box was kept?" Crutchie asked quietly.
Race nodded. "I almost forgot - it was durin' the strike, and we was havin' to make some tough decisions when the money was runnin' low and some of the fellas needed help with their lodgin' house fees. I didn't actually tell Dave where the key was kept...but he was sittin' right there at the table in the bunk room when I went to get it. Wouldn't take a genius to figure it out where it was hidden." He shook his head. "I should've been more careful - wasn't thinkin' at the time, just figured I could trust him, because he was the only one I had left helpin' me at that point."
As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished that he could take them back. "Sorry, Crutch," he muttered. "I know it weren't your fault." He let out a breath of frustration. "Guess I just don't wanna believe Dave could do somethin' like that."
"We don't know for sure that he did," Crutchie contended, but Race could tell that the other newsie was conflicted too. "Other than the fact that those five dollars disappeared the same day that he left, and the fact that he knew where the key was, there's no reason why it'd be him over anyone else. He don't need the money any more than the rest of the fellas do."
The last statement, meant to be reassuring, brought another troubling realization to Race's mind.
"Maybe that ain't true," he said, feeling even worse than before. "He was just tellin' me earlier this week that he's been stressed out 'cause of his family's situation. Didn't give me too many details, but clearly said he's worried about the money. Maybe…" he shook his head, not wanting to complete the thought. "Maybe he just got desperate and figured he'd take advantage of bein' here to line his pockets a bit, make things a little easier at home. Probably figured we wouldn't suspect him." The words came out bitter, and Race could feel his ire growing. It would have been upsetting to find out that any of the boys had been stealing from the Newsie Fund, but for it to be Davey - Davey who presented as guileless and morally upright, who seemed to take pride in honesty, who had always championed the ideals of justice and of doing what was right - it was absolutely galling.
Race felt his hands curling into fists. If it was true, and Davey had been pulling the wool over their eyes this entire time, he was going to give the other newsie the soaking of his life for playing them false.
"Anyway," Crutchie said uneasily, disrupting Race's rapidly growing anger, "I figure we'd better take some of the money out to keep it safe, maybe hide it somewhere else out of the way."
"Why not take all of it?" Race wondered.
Crutchie smiled tersely. "So we can catch the thief. If he don't know that we's on to him, he's probably gonna come back for more. We'll plant the idea that the lodgin' house is gonna be left empty at a certain time, and then we'll wait and see who comes up to collect. If Kloppman weren't so forgetful and sleepy these days, I'd ask him to help out, but I don't wanna get him involved if we can solve this ourselves."
Race nodded grimly in agreement.
"We probably oughta wait a week or two at least," Crutchie suggested. "It ain't likely Dave - er, whoever's behind this - is gonna try again so soon. I'll take most of the money from the Fund out for safekeeping, but I'll leave a little bit in and check on it every few days. If anything else goes missin', I'll let'cha know."
"Yeah, sounds good," Race answered, glancing over Crutchie's shoulder at the bunk room where he could see a few curious faces peering out of the doorway in their direction. "We'd better get back to the bunk room before the fellas get suspicious," he said quietly, hoping none of the others had overheard. "But keep me posted, Crutch."
They returned to the bunk room and casually eased themselves back into the newsies' conversations, Race pasting on a smile to joke and laugh as usual, and Crutchie, for all appearances, being his typically buoyant self before he eventually said goodnight and headed up to the rooftop.
Race started getting ready for bed not long after that, saying that he was tired from the long walk that day, but even after he'd retired for the night, his mind continued to buzz. For some time he lay in bed thinking, listening to the sounds of the lodging house diminish as the rest of the newsies wound down for the day and eventually dropped off to sleep.
Soon, he was the only one left awake.
He lay there for the better part of two hours, staring at the slats of the bed above him, his arms behind his head and his shoulders relaxed but his mind unable to slow down.
He'd never been able to go to sleep angry, and he knew that tonight would be no exception, but he fought it, unwilling to concede a night of rest until he heard the bells in St. Peter's chime midnight.
Cursing under his breath, Race rolled out of bed and sat on the edge of his mattress, thinking.
He needed some fresh air. The bunk room still smelled of skunk, and Race didn't want any more reminders of Davey's stay at the lodging house, memories that had only hours ago been happy ones, but now had soured completely.
Making his decision, he got up and put on his vest, then placed his cap on top of his head. He made sure his cigar and matches were in his pocket, tucked a couple of dollars beside them, then knelt down beside the bunk opposite his to jostle the sleeping occupant.
"Hey...hey, Albert."
The ginger haired newsie cracked open a sleepy eye. "Mmmyeah?"
"I'm goin' to Brooklyn," Race told him. "Don't worry about me if I ain't back in the mornin' - might be gone 'till tomorrow afternoon. Tell Jacky for me, all right?"
"Yeah, sure, Brook...Bron...Brrr…" Albert mumbled before falling back asleep.
Race rose, not bothering to rouse the drowsy boy again. He tried to make it a habit of telling someone whenever he left in the middle of the night, but there were times when he'd snuck out without a word to anyone, and if Albert didn't remember the details this time, it wouldn't be the end of the world. Most of the newsies came and went from the lodging house as they pleased, and while Jack preferred to know where everyone was at any given time, Race, by virtue of being one of the older boys, was exempt from some of the newsie leader's oversight.
At any rate, Race thought, it didn't matter if anyone knew where he'd gone or not. He could look out for himself. He'd been doing it for years, and he sure hadn't forgotten how to do it now. If anything, the conversation that morning about his father, the recent theft from the Newsie Fund, and the likelihood that Davey was the culprit had underscored the fact that you couldn't count on anyone, parent or "friend" alike. Only a select few were worth trusting.
Turning away, Race made his way out of the bunk room, down the stairs, and out the door, then slipped into the shadows of the darkened streets, quickening his pace as he headed south in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge.
A/N: I know, I know, the last thing this story needs is another twist...sorry, gracious readers. If you don't hate me too much for introducing yet another thread (it's there for a reason, I promise!) please let me know your reactions to this installment - your feedback is greatly motivating and it makes me very happy. :) Thank you as always for following along with this - I appreciate each and every one of you!
(And for those of you who are primarily here for Davey/Sadie, they'll be back in the upcoming chapter. :))
