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


Chapter 92: A Visit to the Bronx

"Hey, pass the towel, wouldja?" Race motioned to Specs, who was standing next to the terry cloth draped haphazardly over the hook on the wall. Normally, Race would have just gone to get it himself, but he was still a little sore, and he knew he needed to save his strength for his first day back on the job.

Specs reached over and pulled the towel from its hook, tossing it in Race's direction. "You feelin' up to sellin' today, Racer?" he asked, looking a little concerned.

Race caught the cloth neatly and wiped his face with it. "Ready as I'm gonna be," he answered. Truth be told, it would have been nice to rest for another day, but he couldn't afford to skip work. He'd lost some of his reserve money during the confrontation on his way to Brooklyn, and he didn't want to have to pull out of the Newsie Fund if he didn't have to, especially not when the money was mysteriously disappearing.

Thinking that he ought to check in with Crutchie to see if there had been any new developments, Race loitered in the washroom, taking his time as he combed his hair and settled his cap on his head. He'd returned to Manhattan the afternoon before after spending three and a half days in Brooklyn recovering under the watchful eye of Spot and his boys. The trip back hadn't been an easy one, but Race had made it unassisted (though he knew that Spot's birds were always watching) and he'd put on a show of bravado when he'd climbed the stairs to the bunk room, surprising the Manhattan newsies with his reappearance. They'd crowded around him (careful not to exacerbate his injuries) eagerly expressing their excitement to have him back, and Race had felt unexpectedly moved at their enthusiasm.

The only one he hadn't seen yet was Davey.

Crutchie, as usual, was doing his check of the washroom before heading downstairs, scanning the space one last time to make sure the chaotic mess that the newsies generally left behind wasn't anything that would cause an accident later or get them into trouble with Kloppman. The rest of the boys were already thundering down the stairs, ready to head to the distribution center, and Race could hear Jack bellowing over the din, ordering Albert to bring back Specs' shoe if he knew what was healthy for him.

It was good to be back.

Sauntering over, Race gave Crutchie an affable clap on the back as the younger newsie nimbly bent down, using his crutch as an aid to swipe a razor that had fallen to the floor near the sink in the morning shuffle.

"You's always doin' the fellas a service checkin' around like this," Race said appreciatively as Crutchie set the razor carefully back onto the countertop. "Can't imagine how many cuts and bumps we'd have if it weren't for you." The Manhattan lodging house might lack the orderly cleanness of its Brooklyn counterpart, but the newsies made it work.

"Yeah, well, I'm mostly tryin' to save myself the trouble," Crutchie joked. He was the designated medic for the boys (with Race backing him up if the need arose), so the responsibility of tending to any injuries fell to him. "My ma always said that an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure."

"Ain't that the truth," Race sighed. He could still remember the incident that had started Crutchie's routine checks in the first place - Buttons taking a nasty fall when he'd slipped on a half-used bar of soap that someone had unintentionally left lying in the middle of the floor.

"Speakin' of which," Crutchie added, giving Race a shrewd look, "ain't it a little reckless to go runnin' off to Brooklyn in the middle of the night without tellin' anyone? You sure gave us all a scare - Jacky especially."

"I know, Crutch," Race muttered apologetically. "I wasn't thinkin'."

"No kiddin'."

"I was just upset, ya know?" Race fiddled with the buttons on his vest, his fingers antsy for the cigar that had been stolen off of him on his way to Brooklyn.

"Upset about the Newsie Fund?" Crutchie asked as they made their way out of the washroom and towards the stairs."

"Yeah." Race hadn't told anyone the details of what had happened in Brooklyn, and the newsies, true to form, hadn't pressed him, but he would be a little more forthright with Crutchie - especially since it pertained to the subject that Race was hoping to talk to him about.

They descended the stairs, Race shooting a grin in Kloppman's direction as he passed by the superintendent's desk, and then began walking down the street in the direction of the distribution center. The rest of the newsies were only a block or so ahead, but they were definitely out of earshot, so Race and Crutchie could talk undisturbed.

Slowing his pace down until Crutchie drew even with him, Race stuck his hands into his pockets. The emptiness inside of them was disconcerting.

"Since you brought it up," Crutchie broke the silence, "I was gonna tell you that I took out some of the money like I was plannin' to. Hid it up on the rooftop, since the fellas hardly ever go up there. I left about two dollars in as bait, but no one's taken any of it since we talked."

Race grunted in acknowledgement.

"Jack and I did have an interestin' conversation with Davey, though," Crutchie continued. "Guess it weren't really much of a conversation, just a reaction. The Newsie Fund came up in conversation, and Davey seemed real uncomfortable with it. He kinda got all uneasy and left."

"Didja tell Jacky about everything goin' on?" Race wanted to know.

"Nah. But I could tell he thought somethin' was a little fishy too."

Race rolled his neck, trying to stretch away its stiffness as he pondered this new information. He'd spent all of the walk back from Brooklyn thinking about how he was going to approach the situation involving the missing funds, for Davey's visit had shaken up his suspicions considerably, and while Race was more than willing to consider the possibility that his friend was not the thief, this latest disclosure of Crutchie's was yet another piece of circumstantial evidence that seemed to point to Davey's culpability.

The problem was that no one else had the knowledge of where both the funds and the key were kept, as well as an immediate motive for lifting the money.

"I really don't wanna believe it's him," Crutchie said quietly, and Race could tell that the other boy was deeply troubled as well. "But this fund's my responsibility, Race. I haf'ta make sure it's protected so that it's there when the boys need it."

"I know, Crutchie," Race assured him. "You's doin' exactly what you's supposed to do - that's why we put you in charge of this thing in the first place." He sighed. "We gotta get to the bottom of this and find out who's responsible, whether that's Dave or someone else, or we's all gonna go crazy."

A thought crossed his mind.

"Hey, you said you kept aside a few dollars, right?" he asked.

Crutchie nodded. "Yeah."

"I might need 'em," Race disclosed as his plan began to take shape. "Not to spend - just as a decoy."

"You gonna try to lure out the thief?" Crutchie asked, catching on quickly.

"Yeah. I'll let it slip at the circulation gate that I'm headin' to Sheepshead today 'cause I'm feelin' lucky. I'll take some extra papes, too, anything that'll make it seem like I'll have cash to burn later on. Then tonight I'll come back braggin' about how I won big at the track, and you can conveniently bring somethin' up about how I owe the Fund for an earlier expense - a pretty hefty one. I'll make it seem like I'm gonna pay it off tomorrow mornin', and then we'll wait and see if anyone comes to collect."

"Could work," Crutchie acknowledged. "There's just one problem though. You said we's gonna put on this show tonight at the lodgin' house. That means one really important person ain't gonna be there."

Race gave him a meaningful look, and comprehension dawned upon Crutchie's face.

"You's aimin' to clear his name," he said softly. "You's doin' this to try to prove that it weren't him after all."

Race shrugged. "Either way, it's gonna tell us somethin'. If the money disappears, we know the fella responsible is someone livin' with the rest of us. If it don't move, then we got another piece of evidence pointin' to Davey."

"That's smart thinkin'," Crutchie agreed. "Long as we can make sure the money don't get snatched from under our noses."

"We gotta take a few risks to get to the bottom of this," Race said determinedly. "I'll pay it off outta my own pocket if we lose it." He didn't have the reserve funds to cover it now, but he was confident that eventually he would. He gave Crutchie a half-smile. "So what do you say, huh? You ready to catch a thief?"


The ruse at the circulation gate went off without a hitch; no one batted an eye at Race's assertion that he was planning to go gamble at Sheepshead that day after he finished selling, and even though he could tell that Jack didn't approve of the idea, the newsie leader didn't say anything, so Race was left to his own devices. Artie looked like he wanted to tag along, but Race purposefully avoided him, and thankfully the younger newsie didn't press him.

In another stroke of luck, Davey arrived late that morning and missed the entire act altogether, which would only make his innocence or guilt more clear if the scheme went off as planned. Race caught the other newsie's eye as he got in line for his papers and gave him a little nod, which Davey politely returned, but he seemed just as reluctant as Race to strike up a conversation, which was probably for the best.

Weasel was working the circulation window that morning (Oscar and Morris, surprisingly, were nowhere in sight), but Race didn't have it in him to hound the portly man, so he simply paid for his papes - taking several extra as he'd planned - then struck out on his own, heading in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge. As soon as he was several blocks away from the distribution center and out of sight, he abruptly changed course, heading north and making his way down several side streets until he was sure that he'd mitigated any chance of being spotted. In order for his subterfuge to work, he needed to disappear for the day - if not to Brooklyn where he was ostensibly headed, then to somewhere else where the rest of his Manhattan cronies wouldn't see him.

He didn't want to make the journey across the Brooklyn Bridge at the moment; memories of the last time he'd crossed over to Spot's territory were still too fresh, and even though Race knew that the likelihood of being soaked there again wasn't high, he'd prefer not to deal with it. Besides, there was no point in going; he didn't actually have any money to bet at Sheepshead, Sophie would be busy working at the factory, and Spot would probably insist on coming to check on Race if he found out from his birds that the latter had returned so quickly to Brooklyn turf.

I'll drop by the Bronx and see Calico, Race decided. It would be a long walk, but far out of the way enough where he wouldn't have to worry about being spotted, and it would give him something to do for the day, since he had to make sure he got back to the lodging house well after everyone else had already returned if his ruse was to be believed.

He sold his papers as he walked, stopping every once in a while to rest when his still-healing injuries began to pain him too much and milking the lingering effects of his now nicely-formed bruises to his advantage as he did so. He made several sympathy sales this way before he felt rested enough to continue walking, and by the time the Third Avenue Bridge came into view a few hours later, Race had sold all of his papers and was clear to cross over into the territory of Gar and company (he might have had immunity in Brooklyn to sell, thanks to his ongoing - if occasionally terse - friendship with Spot and his history with the borough, but he'd have no such privilege in the Bronx).

Passing through the park area that led to the Harlem River, Race was about to start up the path that would take him to the bridge when he felt the unexpected flick of a pebble glancing off of his empty canvas bag. He looked around for a moment but couldn't see anyone, and after a moment of fruitless searching, he was just about to turn and keep walking when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he sensed someone's presence behind him.

Race whirled around, his hands already clenching into fists.

"Geez, Cal!" he exclaimed, his heart pounding as he recognized the other newsie who had snuck up on him. "How 'bout a little warnin' before you scare a fella like that?"

Calico tucked the slingshot she'd used to get his attention back into her bag. "You're usually not the type that's prone to jitters, Racetrack."

Race unclenched his fists. "Yeah, well, I got jumped a few days ago. Ain't exactly feelin' the best right now, ya know?"

Calico inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the statement. "Were you expecting it?" she asked. "Did you know them?"

"Knew them," Race answered vaguely, "but wasn't really expectin' it. Anyway," he abruptly changed the subject, "what're you doin' here? Ain't your territory on the other side of the bridge?"

"The border's my responsibility to patrol," the girl explained, "and I cover everything up to this park. Sometimes selling's not too bad here when the weather's nice and people are picnicking."

"Ah, so you ain't above sellin' on Manhattan's turf!" Race teased. "If I'm rememberin' correctly, your pals almost soaked a buddy of mine for doin' the same thing on your territory."

"Thimble should have known better," Calico answered without missing a beat. "Gar wouldn't have held Skeet and Knuckles back."

"Sure he wouldn't," Race agreed, scoffing. "But that's 'cause he don't have the brains to tell the difference between an honest mistake and a real offense."

"A mistake's a mistake. You Manhattan boys are too soft."

"Maybe, but you like us anyway," Race grinned, elbowing her in the arm. "I know you, Cal - you ain't the kind to save a fella's skin for no reason. Why'd you help Davey out?"

"Because he was clearly in over his head."

"What happened to 'a mistake's a mistake'?"

"I'm not heartless, Racetrack."

"See, that's why I keep tellin' ya you oughta be the one runnin' this place instead of that lunkhead you've got in charge," Race scoffed. "He ain't got half the sense that you do, or half the heart for folks."

"Well, when someone makes you the king of the world, you can fix that for me," Calico replied a little sarcastically. It was a sensitive subject, and they both knew it, but Race took any opportunity he could get to remind her of her competence. Goodness knows that she didn't get much of it from her own borough - particularly not from the boys in charge.

"Anyway, I hope that Thimble learned his lesson," Calico continued. "He's rather odd. So smart, and yet so incredibly stupid, too. Someone should teach him how to use his head and not just his brain."

Race chuckled. "Yeah, I guess Davey's clueless about a lot of things, but at the end of the day, he ain't a bad guy." As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized, a little ruefully, that this was his honest, unfiltered opinion - not just his opinion, but his conviction. Despite the troubling events of the past week and the possibility that Davey was behind it all, deep down inside Race didn't believe it and hadn't wanted to believe it. He was still holding out hope that there had to be a loophole of some kind, something that would make all of the circumstantial evidence fall to pieces and would prove that Davey was, in fact, the kind of person that he presented himself to be. It was the reason why Race had come so far north in the first place, the reason why he was in the middle of executing a slightly complicated scheme to get to the bottom of the mystery.

"Speakin' of Davey," he said aloud, "we got a little situation goin' on right now. Maybe you can give me your two cents on it, Cal, if you got a minute." They occasionally compared notes on the happenings in their respective boroughs; as lieutenants under leaders whom they didn't always agree with (though Race got along with Jack far better than Calico did with Gar), it was helpful to have an impartial outside party to offer additional perspective when needed.

Briefly, Race filled the other newsie in on the situation. When he finished his summary, Calico pursed her lips, thinking for a moment.

"The evidence seems to clearly point in one direction," she said finally. "But it isn't strong enough for a definitive conclusion. It's almost as though Thimble's your primary suspect simply because no one else appears to have an overt motive. That's not enough to prove he's the culprit."

"Exactly," Race muttered. "It's like we's suspectin' him by default, even though any of the other fellas could need the money too, we just don't know about it." He scratched his head, internally running through the situation again to make sure that he hadn't left anything out. "I guess the biggest strike against Dave is the fact that he's the only one besides Crutchie, Jack, and me who knows where the key to the box is kept. Even if one of the other fellas wanted the money, they wouldn't be able to get to it."

"Not necessarily," Calico demurred. "There's more than one way to open a moneybox. Do any of your boys own lock picks?"

Race couldn't believe he hadn't considered that possibility before. "Yeah...Albert's got a set," he said. He was pretty sure it was the only kit on the premises, but everyone knew where Albert kept it, so that widened the field considerably.

"That gives you at least another name to add to your list."

"Yeah...it does."

"When did the money start disappearing?"

"Right after the strike - that's when we noticed it, at least. Could've been happenin' during it, too, but that would've been the earliest, 'cause Crutchie's records lined up before that."

"And you're positive that he's trustworthy?"

Race nodded. The sky would have to fall before he - or anyone else in the lodging house - would suspect Crutchie of stealing from the fund that he so painstakingly oversaw.

"And you know for certain that it wasn't Kelly?" Calico pressed. "He has the same access to the money box as the rest of you."

"Nah, Jack's got enough dough of his own socked away, 'specially with his new job," Race said, quickly dismissing the possibility. He would have added that Jack would sleep on the streets and go hungry himself before he'd steal even a penny from his boys, but he knew that Calico didn't think much of the newsie leader, so he let the practical explanation stand alone.

"That's another reason why we suspect it might be Davey," Race added, reluctant to disclose the idea but wanting to present the facts. "The timin' just lines up - he was around a lot, helpin' me with the strike, and that's when the money started disappearin'. If any of the other fellas was responsible, they could've taken the money way before that."

"That's true," Calico agreed. She thought for a moment longer, then gave Race a little shrug. "I think that's the best I can do by way of explanation, Racetrack. I wish that I could help you more, but I don't know your boys well enough to conjecture any further. It's difficult to make intuitive judgements of character when you have no personal experience with the suspect or suspects in question."

At her words, something suddenly clicked in Race's mind, the barest hint of a memory suddenly coming sharply into focus.

He'd never thought about the possibility before, but...

"Maybe you do, Cal," he muttered, his mind racing. It was a stretch, the thought that was running through his head, but there was a chance that if the Bronx newsie or one of her cronies could provide the missing piece, everything else might finally fit together.

Race felt a knot of apprehension coil in his stomach as he considered the possibility (really, there was no good feasible outcome short of Bella II systematically pilfering the money; someone was culpable, and if it wasn't Davey, the other possibilities were similarly unpleasant - if perhaps a little less surprising).

"Lemme walk back over with you while we talk, Cal," he sighed, motioning towards the bridge. "I might need to ask some of your boys a few questions, too." He wasn't looking forward to the prospect, but it had to be done.

The other newsie looked at him curiously, but she nodded and led the way towards the river, Race reluctantly following half a step behind as a sense of uneasy foreboding began to grow within him.

He had a sneaking suspicion that by the time he left the Bronx that day to return to his own borough, he'd have a much better idea of who was stealing from the Newsie Fund.


A/N: Resolution of this plot point will come in the next installment, so please join me, and we'll finally find out the identity of the mysterious thief! In the meantime, I'd be curious to hear what you thought of Race's trip to the Bronx and Calico's take on the matter if you're willing to share! :) Thanks so much!