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


Chapter 93: The Culprit

A/N: I know this chapter's an important one, so I'll try to keep this brief, but I realized last week that this story just turned two years old. Gracious readers, thank you so very much for following along with my scribbling for this long! Whether you've been here since Day 1 when I was still trying to get my feet wet, or whether you've joined in more recently, I'm humbled and grateful that you're still here and that you're still giving this a chance. Thank you.

Are we ready to catch a thief? :)


"Fifty papes for Albert," Wiesel ordered, sweeping the change into his hand and dropping it into the money box behind the circulation counter.

Oscar thumped a stack of papers down in front of the ginger-haired newsie and shoved it forward. "Beat it," he muttered, not in the mood to come up with anything more nasty to say in the moment.

"Aw, you sure you want me goin' so soon?" the insufferable boy drawled. "Pretty sure you's layin' eyes on the nicest-loookin' face you's gonna see all day."

"I said beat it!" Oscar growled.

Albert gave him an insolent wink, then sauntered off with his papers as the rest of the newsies chuckled.

"Stupid twits," Oscar muttered under his breath. He was in a particularly foul mood that morning; Morris had overslept and, in his haste to make up for lost time, had nearly set the apartment on fire trying to prepare his breakfast, a disaster that had only been prevented by Oscar's quick work to smother the flames before they got out of hand. Cleaning up the mess had cost them even more time, and Wiesel had docked them both two hours' pay for being late to the distribution center, even though it had been solely Morris' fault.

"Hey, 'mornin' Weasel," Kelly said cheerfully, stepping up to the window. "Ya miss me?"

Wiesel ignored the question. "How many papes?" he barked.

"The usual," Kelly answered, insolently flipping his coins to Wiesel one by one as the man clumsily struggled to catch them. "Hey there, look lively, Weasel!" Kelly snickered. "You dropped one."

Wiesel muttered irritably as he bent down to retrieve the coin that had fallen to the floor, and Oscar wordlessly set the large stack of papers in front of Kelly as the newsie leader moved forward to claim his allotment. His eyes immediately darted to the headlines for the day, and he moved off to the side, ignoring Oscar completely, his mind drawn elsewhere.

Higgins was next in line. Most mornings, he would have been the worst offender when it came to riling up the distribution center employees, but he'd been quiet as of late, which had pleased Oscar considerably. After Higgins moved through the line, laconically taking the stack of papers without so much as looking at anyone, Oscar relaxed a little. The rest of the newsies waiting to pay for their papers weren't prone to heckling, so he could let his guard down for the time being.

Idly observing the ragged queue, Oscar found himself running through his mental catalog of information as he often did whenever he had the opportunity to observe his rag-tag adversaries. He'd been keeping an even closer eye on the newsies ever since the strike, wary now of what they could accomplish, and he'd added several more pieces of intelligence to his collection, though so far he hadn't found an occasion to use much of it to his advantage.

He'd watched the two ex-scabs, in particular, with keen interest. Artie had surprisingly chosen to attach himself to Higgins, following the gambler around like a shadow, but he hadn't seemed to take up much with the rest of the newsies, though he seemed to be comfortable enough in their company. His manner was generally one of plucky optimism, but every once in a while Oscar caught a fleeting, haunted look on his face, though the younger boy hid it quickly with a smile whenever anyone else approached him.

By contrast, the dark-haired newsie, Tucker, was stoic and methodical: he spoke quietly, said little, always took the same number of papers, rain or shine, paid in exact change, and generally stood a little aloof from the rest of the group, though Oscar had noticed that he seemed to stick close to Elmer and Jojo, and occasionally could be seen conversing with the similarly pensive Jacobs whenever the two of them were next to each other in line.

Jacobs himself had been perplexing Oscar as of late; he hadn't done anything out of the ordinary (though his daily quota of papers seemed to fluctuate from time to time), but Oscar had caught him occasionally staring off into space, as though his mind was on something else entirely. It wasn't typical for Kelly's task-oriented lieutenant to be daydreaming, and if Oscar hadn't known better, he would have thought that Jacobs almost looked happy in those brief moments when his head seemed to be in the clouds instead of focused on the business at hand, but in any case, what mattered to Oscar was that whatever was causing the distraction had to be a weakness of some kind. Anything that took a fellow's mind off of his work could be exploited, and Oscar silently filed this observation away as he watched the newsie in question politely pay for his papers, procure his allotment, then head towards the street, the same musing, half-distracted look on his face even as his eyes began to scan the headlines for the day.

It wasn't a lot to leverage, Oscar thought to himself, but it was certainly something to watch for. His animosity towards Jacobs wasn't particularly strong compared to the burning rancor that he felt towards Kelly or Higgins, but there was still a score to settle when it came to who'd bested whom - Oscar hadn't forgotten the fact that Jacobs had been behind the first walk out on the distribution center, feeding Kelly the words that had gotten the strike started, and that he'd followed it up by leading a second walk out, right at the time when the newsies were nearly at their breaking point and Oscar was almost sure that they'd been beaten.

The memory was a bitter one, and Oscar's lip curled into a sneer as he watched Jacobs disappear down the street. He was sure that the other boy had no inkling of the resentment that Oscar still harbored, but that was where Oscar held the advantage: his opponents might grow careless and forget, but he never did.

Some said that life was too short to hold grudges, but Oscar always maintained that the opposite was true - life was short and full of galling disappointments, and all a man had was his pride, so protecting that pride was of the utmost importance.

Furthermore, experience had told him that the balance of power always seemed to shift in his favor the longer he let his indignation simmer...so he would bide his time and trust that eventually an opportunity to unleash that indignation would present itself.


Predictably, the headlines were mostly snoozers, but Race had been selling papes far too long for that to derail his day. It just meant that he had to try a little harder to spin the stories, something that he occasionally enjoyed the challenge of, for unlike Jack - who was skilled at improving the truth but took no real pleasure in it - Race liked seeing how far he could stretch a headline and how quickly he could make someone fall for his fabrications. It was a game of sorts that he played against himself and against the gullible passers by.

(He also didn't mind running on the rare occasions when a customer took issue with his creative liberties and sought retaliation).

This morning, though, he wished that the headlines weren't quite so boring; he had a more important job to do, and having to work harder to sell his papes would only set him back, though at least working with a bad headline meant that the playing field was leveled - if Race was struggling to move his papes, the rest of the boys would be, too, so as long as he disposed of his allotment first, he'd still be in good shape.

Keeping a brisk pace, Race headed down Worth Street, trying not to go too far so that he wouldn't have to waste time walking back to the lodging house. He ended up finding a good spot near Broadway and Franklin; it was only a block away from where Davey normally sold, and Race felt a little bad for encroaching on the other newsie's territory, but he shrugged the thought off easily enough - what he was doing was for the best, and if all went according to plan, by the end of the day he would have proven that Davey was innocent when it came to the theft of the Newsie Fund, so poaching a few of Davey's potential customers could easily be forgiven.

Race remained at the corner until the flow of interested buyers diminished, then set off down the street, making a few more sales before he found his next selling spot. Despite the fact that his wares were far from riveting, his tongue was quick and luck was on his side, and he managed to sell his morning allotment well before noon, which meant that he'd likely have ample time to make it back to the lodging house before the other newsies showed up.

He and Crutchie had agreed that Race would stake out the place for the afternoon. They'd played up the act they'd fabricated the night before, Race arriving back at the lodging house late, boasting about his big win at the track, and Crutchie "reminding" the gambler of the large amount of money that he owed to the Newsie Fund, which Race promised he'd pay off the next morning (feigning a reluctance to let the cash go and saying that he wanted to at least spend a few hours pretending he was a rich man before having to give away his hard-earned dough). In the morning, the two of them had purposefully lingered behind once the rest of the newsies left for the distribution center, and Crutchie had put the remaining money that he'd previously hidden on the rooftop back into the box.

They were fairly certain that someone would make a move to take the additional cash right away before it could be used for its intended purpose. In fact, the success of their ruse hinged entirely on this assumption that the pilferer would waste no time..but Race had a feeling that this confidence wasn't misplaced; someone who was ruthless enough to steal from his own brothers wouldn't think twice about lifting the money as soon as it became available, as long as he thought that he wouldn't get caught.

Taking a series of side streets, Race quickly made his way back to the lodging house, stealing a glance over his shoulder before he entered Number Nine Duane Street to make sure that no one was watching as he stealthily slipped inside.

Show time, he thought as he shut the door behind him. He was going to put an end to this mystery, even if he had to spend all afternoon holed up at the lodging house to do it.

Kloppman wasn't at his desk in the receiving area - he was probably off attending to something or other, not expecting the boys to be back yet. In retrospect, this was part of the problem, Race mused as he made his way up the stairs to the bunk room - the lodging house was almost always open, so if you happened to come by when Kloppman was out, you had unhindered access to the newsies' living quarters (and, by extension, the Newsie Fund), and since all of the boys finished selling at different times, there was nothing to stop them from coming back at all hours of the day when they knew that the bunk room would be unattended. Kloppman himself probably wouldn't have batted an eye, even if he had been on duty - it wasn't unusual for a newsie to stop in for a brief rest or to come pick up something he'd forgotten, so a plausible excuse wouldn't be that difficult to come by.

Race found the bunk room unoccupied, and he quickly made his way over to the place where the cash box was hidden under the floorboards. A quick examination satisfied him that no one had tampered with it yet, and he carefully set it back in its place, then looked around to find a convenient hiding spot where he'd be able to keep an eye on it unobserved.

He ended up hiding behind the rows of cubbies in the washroom where the newsies kept their toiletries and other miscellaneous belongings. It wasn't the most comfortable spot, but it provided adequate cover, and if he peeked out just a bit, he had a clear view of both the cabinet where the key was hidden and the side of the bunk room where the money box was kept. Thankfully, there was a slight cross-breeze blowing in from several of the windows that Kloppman opened to air out the lodging house during the day, so the room was warm, but not unbearably stuffy.

Settling into position, Race waited.

The minutes passed. Sounds he rarely paid attention to suddenly seemed amplified: the gentle murmur of the pedestrians passing by on the street below, the creak of the fire escape outside the washroom window, the slow drip drip drip of the leaky faucet on the sink nearest the wall…

They were simple, ordinary noises, but Race had never taken note of them before, because the chaos and din of a lodging house full of boys had a way of drowning out those small and unobtrusive things. What else had he missed, he wondered? What other things had been there all along, hiding in plain sight but completely lost in the hubbub and the shuffle?

The fact that one of the newsies - a brother whom he'd joked and jostled with, someone he'd come to trust and whose company he enjoyed - had been playing him all along was foremost in his mind at the moment. And while Race was grimly determined to catch the culprit, a part of him was dreading the confrontation, because he knew that the moment he confirmed the thief's identity, the trust between them would be broken - perhaps irrevocably.

But it had to be done.

Stifling a sigh, Race fidgeted, shifting positions in an effort not to let his legs cramp up. He wished that he'd had the foresight to grab a deck of cards so that he'd at least have something to entertain himself, but he didn't want to risk moving from his spot now - judging from the angle of the sunlight streaming in through the washroom window, it was nearly mid-afternoon, and if the pilferer was planning to come by to steal the money, he'd have to do it soon before the other newsies finished selling for the day.

No sooner had he finished thinking this, when he heard the sound of voices coming up the stairs. Race tensed. He'd never considered the possibility that the culprit could have an accomplice, and he felt his pulse quickening as the speakers drew near.

"...and then I told that coot, 'If you's so high and mighty, how 'bout goin' up against someone your own size instead?'"

Finch, Race thought, recognizing the other newsie's distinctive voice. But who was with him?

"And that's when he shoved ya?" asked the less-familiar speaker.

"Yup," Finch confirmed. "It could've gotten bad from there, but I told him we oughta settle things the civilized way, with a shoot-out."

"And that's why you's wantin' me to come with you, huh?"

"Can't go up against that bummer and his posse without my right-hand man." Race could hear Finch rustling around, but he didn't hear the tell-tale sound of the floorboards being lifted, so he stayed where he was.

"Well, my palms is rubbed a little raw - we've been busy at the laundry this week - but I'm pretty sure I can still nick a couple of bottles at fifty feet."

The detail about the laundry gave it away - Sniper was the other speaker. Race wasn't as familiar with his voice, since the other boy said little in general and didn't live at the lodging house, but he was sure of the newsie's identity now. It sounded like the two sharp-shooters were on their way to settle a score with a couple of bullies, which wouldn't be an uncommon occurrence - Finch didn't lord his skill with a slingshot over anyone, but he wasn't afraid to use it whenever some braggart needed to be taken down a peg. It didn't make sense, though, why they'd need the money from the Newsie Fund to -

"Aha!" Finch exclaimed triumphantly. "Knew I kept an extra 'shooter around here."

Race risked peeking out from behind his hiding spot and saw that the other newsie was offering a slingshot to Sniper, who took the forked weapon with a grin, testing it out in his hands and launching an invisible projectile towards the corner of the room.

"This'll do fine," he declared, sounding pleased. "Almost feels as good as the one I lost."

"You's welcome to borrow it 'till you can get another," Finch offered. "It's the least I can do when you's backin' me up like this."

"Hah! You know I don't like those toughs any more than you do."

"Well, they ain't gonna be throwin' their weight around after we's done showin' 'em that all their boastin' ain't' worth beans..."

The voices of the two newsies faded away as their footsteps retreated out of the bunk room and towards the stairs, and Race relaxed as the silence descended once again.

It had been a false alarm - neither Finch nor Sniper had gone anywhere near the cash box - but at least Race knew now that his hiding spot was a good one.

He settled back into position.

The minutes wore on.

He watched the dust motes floating in the sunbeams pouring through the washroom window.

He counted the cracks in the ceiling.

He tried to remember all of the words to Sophie's favorite songs, the ones he used to sing to her years ago when neither of them could sleep at night because their parents were arguing again and they both knew that the only way the blowup would end would be when their father left, slamming the door behind him.

He fiddled with the buttons on his vest, noticing that one of them was coming loose and reminding himself to ask Buttons to fix it the next time he got the chance.

He was fighting a losing battle against boredom and fatigue - he hadn't slept well the night before, feeling both antsy and troubled by the coming day's venture - and if he didn't keep his mind occupied, he knew that he'd probably end up nodding off right there on the floor of the washroom and would likely miss the thief altogether.

So he forced himself to stay awake.

He picked at the dirt under his fingernails.

He counted the cracks in the ceiling again.

He began pinching himself when he felt his head involuntarily drooping and his eyes sliding shut.

In a desperate bid for any kind of mental exercise that would keep him awake, he silently alphabetized all of the newsies' names and began to compose limericks for them in his head, starting with Albert. It was a slightly amusing pastime (for Race enjoyed a clever turn of phrase as well as chance to poke fun at his bunkmates as much as the next fellow), and he managed to make it all the way through Elmer before he found his mind wandering again and his eyelids getting heavy.

Maybe just a quick doze won't hurt, Race thought to himself. He was starting to suspect that maybe he'd been too optimistic, and that the culprit wouldn't be showing his face at the lodging house that day after all. Besides, he was a light sleeper, so surely if anyone came up the stairs, he'd hear them long before they noticed him…

The sound of a wooden plank being moved abruptly jerked Race out of his slumber, and he raised his head, wincing in pain as his stiff neck protested the sudden movement. He had fallen asleep leaning against the row of cubbies, for how long, he couldn't tell, but apparently it had been long enough for someone else to venture up to the bunk room. The scraping sound of the floorboards being moved and the dull thud of the money box being set down on the ground were unmistakable, and Race's pulse began to quicken again.

Unless it was Crutchie or Jack stopping by to check on things, whoever was out there was likely the culprit.

Race tensed, waiting for the telltale sound of footsteps drawing near the washroom as the thief came in search of the key, but instead he only heard the rasping sound of someone picking at the lock, and then a faint click as the shackle disengaged.

So, Calico had been right after all; the swindler didn't know about the key, and hadn't needed it to gain access to the money.

We gotta figure out a better system, Race thought to himself. But that was a problem for later. Right now, he needed to confront the interloper.

Easing himself into a crouching position and ignoring the pain in his stiff limbs, Race slowly peeked out from behind the cubbies. The thief was squatting on the ground, rifling quickly through the money box and putting the money into a small knapsack. His back was to Race, and it was impossible to determine his identity from that vantage point, but Race knew that he couldn't wait until the other newsie showed his face; he had to act fast if he wanted to catch the thief red-handed.

"Lookin' for somethin'?" he asked loudly, leaving his hiding place and striding forward. "Seems like you's pretty interested in goin' through a locked box that don't belong to you."

The pilferer turned around, and Race - despite the fact that he'd prepared himself for the possibility - took in a sharp breath as his suspicions were confirmed and the rest of the pieces fell into place.

"Maybe you oughta keep a closer watch on these things if they's so important to you, Racer," Artie sneered. "If you think this is the first time I've gotten my hands on this box, you's even stupider than I thought!"

"We know you's been liftin' the money," Race warned, trying not to let the sting of the unexpected insult show on his face.

"You knew it was me? Or you knew that the money was bein' lifted?" the other newsie challenged. "Seems to me like you was all ready to turn on another fella instead."

The implication was clear, and Race ground his teeth at the gloating smirk on the younger boy's face.

"It was so easy," Artie shook his head as though the thought amused him. "All I had to do was plant Davey's cap in the washroom, and you was completely convinced he was the one takin' the money. The naivest, most innocent newsie of all, and you was so quick to slap him with the blame, just like a true friend! I heard you talkin' to Crutchie about it, and saw how angry you was - thought for a second maybe you'd even go after the 'culprit' yourself!" He laughed mockingly. "It would've been rich to see that play out!"

Race's anger flared. "You lousy, lyin', son-of-a- "

"And while we's talkin' about my accomplishments," Artie cut in boastfully, "how do you think old man Pulitzer knew that you and Davey was the ones runnin' the strike while Jack was off playin' hooky? You all thought it was Katherine's doin', didn'tcha? But guess what? She didn't sell you out. I did. And Weasel paid me a pretty penny for the information, too." He shook his head, scoffing another laugh. "All this time, you had a scabber and a traitor right under your nose, and you was too blind to see it. I just had to flatter you a little, pretend I was so in awe of the great Racetrack Higgins, and you fell for it, hook line and sinker - didn't even suspect me for a moment, didja?"

"I know what you did in the Bronx," Race answered sharply.

The disclosure surprised Artie, and for a moment a flicker of dismay crossed his face, but almost immediately his bravado slid back into place, and he shrugged indifferently.

"So they toldja about me, huh?"

"They told me that you got kicked outta their lodgin' house for stealin' from the other boys."

"Yeah - once they finally caught me." Artie's grin was nasty. "Took them a little longer than you to figure it out, so I'll give you that - at least you ain't that slow."

"So this is all a game to you, is it?" Race asked bitterly. "Causin' as much trouble as you can for fun, then skippin' out when you's had enough?"

"Ain't no game," Artie spat, his tone suddenly darkening. "I'm survivin' just like the rest of you. My pa won't let me come home 'till I bring him the money he's demandin' for his drinkin' habit - said he'd kill me if I showed my face again without it. But thanks to your little Fund here, I'm on my way to bein' back in his good graces."

"That money ain't yours to take." Race stepped forward. "It belongs to the lodgin' house and to the fellas who need it."

Artie gave him a defiant look, his grip tightening around the knapsack where he'd deposited the cash. "Well, they's just gonna have to figure out a way to get along without it," he declared.

"If you think I'm gonna let you walk off with it, you've got another thing comin'!" Race snarled, lunging for the other boy. Artie was quick and managed to dodge out of the way, but Race caught the surprised look on his face, and he pressed his advantage, pivoting quickly and advancing on the younger newsie before he could reposition himself.

"I ain't gonna hold back from soakin' ya," he warned, stepping forward as Artie retreated. "You might as well give it up now - you got a solid wall behind ya, and if you think I'm bad, just wait till Jack and the rest of the boys find out. You's gonna be in hot water then."

A flicker of fear suddenly crossed Artie's face, and the sight made Race instinctively hesitate against his will. Anger at the sting of the younger newsie's betrayal burned hot inside him, and he was itching to give the double-crosser a thorough soaking...but something in that flinching, terrified look had stopped him in his tracks. It was the first time he'd seen the other boy show any kind of dismay, and with it came the reminder that, while Artie may have acted from self-interest, he was being goaded into it by the actions of an overbearing father...and Race was too familiar with the devastating consequences of family entanglement to remain completely untouched by the younger newsie's predicament.

Besides, he thought, Artie was young still - only a year or two older than Sophie, maybe. If Race could reason with him and get him to see the error of his ways, if he could offer a way out instead of the backlash of angry opposition, maybe the other boy would come around. Forbearance wasn't one of Race's strong points, but in the moment, by whatever strange twist of fate or sentiment, he found himself uncharacteristically desirous to extend an olive branch.

"Look," he said evenly, his eyes never leaving Artie's, "just give the money back, all right? We'll talk to Jacky, tell him you was the one takin' it, and explain why you felt like you had to do it. Once you pay back what'cha stole, we could take up a collection for ya. Some of the fellas would probably be willin' to help out. "

"After they find out I was swipin' their money?" Artie's defensiveness returned. "Ain't likely."

"We got some real generous folks livin' under this roof," Race insisted. "If you come clean - "

"I ain't got any interest in payin' back what's already gone," the younger newsie interrupted.

"Well, you's gonna have to," Race replied, not unkindly. "You can't just go stealin', Artie. There's other fellas who need that money, and like I said, I ain't gonna let you get away with it. I don't wanna have to throw fists, but if you ain't gonna listen to reason, I got no other choice." He took another step forward. "Come on," he coaxed. "Just give back the money. We'll work somethin' out. This don't have to end the way it did in the Bronx."

Artie's eyes narrowed, and Race saw him glance over his shoulder for just a minute, his gaze flickering to the open window just behind him.

"You's cornered," Race cautioned him. "There ain't no ledge outside that window - just a straight two story drop down to the street. Might as well give it up. "

The younger newsie hesitated for a moment, and Race felt a bit of hope grow inside him as the other boy slowly reached inside of the knapsack and withdrew the money he'd taken from the cash box.

"That's it," Race said encouragingly. "You just hand it over, and we'll sit down and talk about this."

Artie's expression hardened into a baleful look. "Dream on, Racer," he sneered. "It's either gonna be the money or me - you ain't gettin' both!" And before Race could react, Artie tossed the money out of the open window. "Go chase your precious Newsie Fund!" he taunted as he made a break for the washroom, no doubt planning to flee via the fire escape at the back of the building.

Cursing, Race dashed out of the bunk room and down the stairs towards the entrance of the lodging house. He knew that in doing so he was letting Artie get away, but he had to save the money - it was all that was left of the Fund.

Hurrying out of the lodging house and down the street to the spot beneath the window, Race breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that the money was still there, scattered on the ground. Thankfully, no one had picked it up yet, but there were a couple of interested-looking folks headed that way, so Race lost no time in scooping up the coins and tucking them into his pocket for safekeeping.

He quickly made his way around to the back of the lodging house, looking for any sign of Artie, but the alleyway running behind the building appeared to be deserted. Race made a circuit of the surrounding streets, jogging down several blocks as he kept his eyes peeled for any sight of the renegade newsie, but in his mind he already knew that it was a futile endeavor. Artie was long gone, and Race had no idea where he was headed to or how he would ever find him again.

After a fruitless half-hour's search, Race returned to the lodging house in defeat, entering through the front door and giving an indifferent nod to Kloppman, who had returned to his desk. He climbed the steps to the bunk room, then slowly walked over to where the cash box was sitting. Kneeling down, he quietly pulled the money from his pocket and placed it inside. The silver certificates, gold ring, and pair of dice were still there, hidden in the bottom compartment, and he was grateful that at least Artie hadn't gotten his hands on them. Clicking the lock back into place, Race carefully set the box in its spot underneath the floorboards, then covered it up with the wooden plank.

Easy come, easy go, he thought ruefully as he sat back on his heels.

Rising from the floor, he walked over to Artie's bunk bed, ducking down to examine the area that had belonged to the younger boy. Everything seemed to be gone - the other newsie had most likely planned to make his escape after he'd cleaned out the Fund, and must have already packed his things into the knapsack he'd been carrying before Race had confronted him.

Catching sight of something just barely visible under the bed, Race knelt down to examine it further, reaching out until his fingers brushed against something hard and round, made of leather and stitching.

So...apparently Artie hadn't taken everything.

Race's hand closed around the object, and as he pulled it out, an unexpected sadness settled upon him as he recognized the baseball that he'd given to Artie at the Polo Grounds.

Racetrack Higgins, he thought to himself, there ain't no way around it. You got played, and you only got yourself to blame.

Sitting down on the bed, he examined the baseball in his hands. He expected his anger to surge up, hot and angry and bitter as it normally did. Artie had double-crossed him, had taken all of the kindness and hospitality that Race had shown him and had thrown it back in his face. The younger boy had stolen, lied, and cheated the lodging house out of its hard-earned and desperately-needed cash. He'd sold sensitive information to Weasel just to line his own pockets. He'd let Katherine take the blame for Pulitzer's inside information, and had tried to frame Davey for the theft of the Newsie Fund. Everything he'd done was despicable, and he'd been unremorseful up until the end, scorning even Race's eleventh hour attempts to reconcile and to offer help.

Race should have been angry. He should have been furious. He would have expected himself to hurl the baseball out of the nearest open window in a burst of rage, to let lose a string of colorful curses, to vow revenge and to immediately set about the business of making sure that Artie wouldn't be able to show his face again in any lodging house from Richmond to the Bronx...

But the ire didn't come. And instead, Race sat there quietly, cradling the baseball in his hands, revenge the furthest thing from his mind.

He was angry - he felt the simmering heat of it in his gut - but something else was there, too. Something he couldn't quite identify. Something more nuanced, more melancholy...and maybe more painful than pure indignation.

Footsteps suddenly sounded on the stairway, and before Race could manage to hide the baseball and slap a smile on his face, Jack bounded into the room.

"Hey, Racer!" he said, coming over and dropping down unceremoniously onto the bunk bed next to Race. "You all right? I just got back, and Kloppman told me you was up here. Ain't like you to be quittin' so early in the day." He gave Race a concerned once-over. "You feelin' all right?"

Race let out a quiet, humorless laugh, refusing to meet his eye. "Yeah. I'm fine, Jacky."

"You don't sound fine."

"Just got a case of chronic stupidity, that's all."

"Aw, come on!" Jack cuffed him lightly on the head. "I know you ain't the most serious of fellas, but that don't mean you ain't smart enough when you needs to be!"

Race said nothing, absently passing the baseball back and forth between his hands.

"Racer…" Jack prodded, "you's gettin' me worried. What happened, huh?"

When Race didn't answer for several moments, Jack let out a sigh. "All right...if you ain't gonna talk to me, I'm givin' you two options," he declared. "You can 'fess up to Crutchie when he gets back tonight, or I'm sicin' Davey on you tomorrow mornin' at the circulation gate. Take your pick of who you'd rather deal with if you ain't gonna deal with me."

Race grimaced. Neither of those options were preferable, especially not the latter. He supposed that having to tell Crutchie wouldn't be so terrible (and he'd have to have that conversation eventually), but he didn't really want to talk to anyone at the moment, and he knew that, while Jack might back off for a while, he'd want to hear the whole story in due time.

"Racer…" the newsie leader cajoled, "whatever stupid thing you think you did, we can fix it, all right? Ain't nothin' so bad that we can't make it right again." He gave Race a half-grin, shoving him lightly in the arm. "Remember the strike? Pretty sure whatever you did ain't half as bad as me runnin' on the boys and leavin' 'em with you and Davey."

The memory of the strike and its aftermath brought about a flood of emotions, and chief among them was remorse.

"I was too hard on you!" Race burst out suddenly, his voice cracking a little. "I'm sorry, Jacky. I shouldn't have been so hard on you. You did the best you could, and I treated you like you was a failure 'cause I was too stupid to see that bein' a leader ain't easy to do right. Sometimes you just make the wrong choices, even when all you's tryin' to do is do what's best, and you just did what you thought was best, but I held a grudge for so long 'cause I didn't get it! I couldn't see how hard you was tryin', and I - " he broke off, the words wavering unsteadily.

"Hey! Hey, it's all right," Jack soothed, and Race felt the older newsie's hand come to rest on his shoulder. "You don't haf'ta apologize to me for that, Racer," Jack shook his shoulder gently. "I let'cha down, and there ain't no other way around that. I don't blame you for bein' mad. You had to jump in when it weren't your job, but you did it anyway, 'cause you's a stand up kinda guy."

"Don't sing my praises too much, Jacky."

Jack gave him an incredulous look, pulling back a little. "Huh." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd see the day when Racetrack Higgins would pass on a compliment. You really is sick, ain'tcha? Maybe I oughta go downstairs and see if Kloppman can give you a dose of castor oil."

"No thanks," Race grumbled, knowing that he was being goaded into an answer but finding himself nearly ready to talk. It had probably been Jack's ready admission of culpability that had done it. Their past mistakes - Jack's disappearance and Race's bitterness - were finally out on the table now, so he might as well add one more misstep to the list.

"I messed up, Jacky," he confessed. "Real badly." In as few words as possible, he described the situation, beginning with Crutchie's discovery of the missing money and ending with Artie's betrayal and the near loss of the remaining funds. Jack listened quietly, not saying much until Race had finished telling the story.

"Guess we kinda forgot to vet the new boys," was his initial remark. "We's usually always comparin' notes on anyone fresh comin' in, but since they joined up in the middle of the strike, you was just tryin' to keep things goin', and me and Crutchie weren't there to help ya." He gave Race an apologetic look. "It weren't your fault you didn't catch him, Racer. Could've happened to any one of us."

"Nah, I should've known better," Race muttered. "I could've asked Dave to weigh in, or I could've circled back once you and Crutchie was here again. Guess the flattery just got to my head a little - it was kinda nice havin' someone look up to me for a change. Usually the younger ones is always followin' you around." He shook his head, disgusted at himself. "Even now, knowin' what he's done, I can't hate him, ya know? He's just a kid with a pa who's too tough on him, that's what I keep tellin' myself. But I oughta hate him, or at least hate what he did. We's missin' a big chunk of money from the Fund now, and it's 'cause I was too stupid to realize what was goin' on 'till it was almost too late." The guilt was heavy in his voice as he added, "I let a double-crosser into the lodgin' house. And I almost blamed the wrong fella for everything."

"Wouldn't be the first time a bummer's misled us about his character and tried to pin it on someone else."

"Yeah, but this time it was my fault," Race insisted. "I let everyone down."

Jack let out a half-scoff before shaking his head and remarking wryly, "Pretty sure you's the one who's the best at holdin' grudges around here, Race. The rest of the fellas won't think twice about forgivin' ya. I know they won't."

Race couldn't find the humor in it. It was true...but he still felt uneasy.

"What about the fella in charge?" he asked quietly, looking over at Jack. "Is he gonna be ready to throw fists? 'Cause I sure was the last time he messed up. And if he deserved it even a little then, I sure deserve it now."

Jack scoffed, and before Race could react, he was being pulled into a bone-crushing hug. "You's still my brother, Racer," Jack said fiercely. "And you's always gonna be. Ain't nothin' you can do that'll ever change that." He hugged Race tighter. "You got it?"

"Yeah...sure, Jacky," Race wheezed, trying to get some air. "But how 'bout givin' a fella a little room to breathe, huh?"

Jack chuckled, releasing his hold. "Sorry. Didn't know my own strength."

"You never do, ya lummox," Race groused. But he couldn't stop a grin from stretching across his face as the last of his worries over Jack's reaction melted away.

The past week had been full of apprehension and had ended in disappointment, but maybe now things would finally start to turn around. Jack seemed to be confident that everything would turn out all right in the end, and he was the leader of the lodging house for a reason. If he was willing to let it all blow over, then Race could forgive himself and put the past behind him, too.

The sting of Artie's betrayal wouldn't go away immediately, and the consequences of the renegade newsie's actions would take time to set to rights, but in time, hopefully things would return to normal - maybe better than normal, even, because Race now understood Jack in a way that he hadn't before. And in a small, redeeming way, maybe a little bit of good would emerge from this unfortunate situation.

Race had to believe that it would.


A/N: Poor Racetrack could use another hug; he's been through quite a bit in these last several days. I'd be very curious to hear your reactions to how this plot thread concluded! My perspective is limited because, as the writer, I knew how this was going to pan out from the beginning, but I'm much more interested in hearing how it came across to you, the readers.

And for those of you who like to retroactively dig for clues, here's a short list of hints that showed up in the story previous to Artie being revealed as the thief (including the chapter where you can find them):

- Artie came to live at the lodging house around the time that the money started disappearing, which Crutchie surmises/implies to be during the strike (Ch. 65 - Unaccounted For and Ch. 85 - Suspect).

- Artie listens in on multiple conversations between Race and Davey where Davey admits that he is concerned about his family's financial situation. This information is Artie's impetus for trying to frame Davey as the thief immediately after Davey's brief stay at the lodging house (Ch. 27 - Sheepshead and Stilts, Ch. 69 - A Simple Solution, and Ch. 83 - No. 9 Duane Street). Artie also suggests to Race on one occasion that Davey is acting "strange" and implies that he might be "hiding something" (Ch. 69 - A Simple Solution).

- Artie makes multiple mentions of his father telling him not to come home until he brings back money (Ch. 27 - Sheepshead and Stilts, Chapter 85 - Suspect, and most noticeably, in the scab-centric one shot in Interstices ("Rationale")).

- Kloppman mentions that Artie is late in paying his lodging house fees (Ch. 59 - High Times and Hijinks), implying that he is financially struggling. Oscar also notices that Artie seems to be particularly attached to Race, but that he holds himself slightly apart from the other newsies (Ch. 93 - The Culprit).

- Artie is shown to be adept at picking locks with a hairpin (Ch. 59 - High Times and Hijinks), meaning that he wouldn't need the key (or Albert's lock picks) to gain access to the money box.

- Artie goes out of his way to avoid interfacing with the Bronx newsies during the conclusion of the strike and is evasive about the details of his previous experiences selling in other boroughs (Ch. 50 - Victory). This "vague memory" is what prompts Race to do some investigating in the Bronx when he goes there to visit Calico (Chapter 92 - A Visit to the Bronx), and the result of this investigation is what leads him to suspect that Artie is the thief.

I don't think any one of these clues - or even the cumulative evidence that they provide - was necessarily enough to narrow down the list of suspects to Artie alone, but my goal was to retrospectively have the pieces fit together where the culprit's identity made sense, even if it wasn't a foregone conclusion at any point. (And, of course, the bigger picture here has to do with Race's character development and his reconciliation with Jack set within the context of Artie's betrayal). Anyway, thank you for allowing me to briefly play with a mystery subplot in SWW - I hope it was an enjoyable little detour! :)