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


Chapter 130: Hard Promises

The sharp ring of a trolley's bell sounded behind Race, and he dashed quickly across the tracks, not bothering to spare a glance for the oncoming street car as he wove his way into the crowd of people going to and fro on Lincoln Avenue. His trip across the Third Avenue Bridge had been vaguely troubling (if uneventful), so he'd become a bit distracted as he'd made his way onto the Bronx's turf, but regardless of his preoccupation, he should have paid closer attention to the traffic. A trolley wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to tangle with.

Adjusting his cap on his head, Race quickened his pace, bypassing a knot of slow-moving pedestrians and trotting down the street for a bit until he was unhindered by the crowd. The skies overhead were a dark, somber gray, but no rain had been predicted, so he'd chosen to go ahead with his plans to visit Sophie, trusting that the weather service's forecast would be right this time.

So far, his luck had held, but the foreboding weather was doing nothing to lift his mood.

Calico hadn't been at her usual spot, patrolling the Manhattan side of the crossing, and this was what had vaguely unsettled Race. He knew that she liked to stay out of sight, but she'd always revealed herself to him whenever he'd stopped by for a visit, and though it was certainly possible that she'd given him the slip (or had temporarily left her post to attend to something else), he'd sensed that she simply wasn't there. The sight of Knuckles, one of Gar's henchmen, hunkered down in plain sight near the bridge's entrance had only reinforced these suspicions, and Race had warily slipped by the burly newsie, not wanting to be seen or stopped.

The remainder of the crossing had been spent keeping his eyes peeled for any further sign of Gar's cronies. He wasn't afraid of them, not when his own cleverness had proved to be an effective deterrent against their bone-headed (if heavy-handed) antics before, but it was always best to be on guard while traversing unfamiliar (and in this case, probably unfriendly) territory. In the absence of Calico, whose presence would have provided a measure of immunity, it was even more imperative to be circumspect, for though Race could claim a number of friendly acquaintances in the Bronx, his relationships here were far less stalwart than in Brooklyn and Manhattan, and he knew that he couldn't count on anyone aside from Cal to have his back. This was largely due to the fact that he had no selling history with the Bronx, but also, he suspected, because the territory itself was internally disunified, a sprawling, inconsistently-run dominion where alliances and rules were constantly shifting, and where looking out for yourself was the only sure way to get ahead.

It had been this way - with one notable exception - for as long as he could remember.

As a Brooklyn boy, he'd initially held the slightly-disdainful attitude towards his northern neighbors that most of the boys in his lodging house had maintained. The Bronx contingent was the antithesis of Brooklyn's in many ways - an aimless, ragged army without a strong central leader - and though their companies rarely intermingled with the territories* of Manhattan and Queens standing between them, Brooklyn's vast intelligence network ensured that reports traveled down to the Poplar Street lodging house often enough, with birds bringing news of some squabble or disturbance that would then circulate amongst the Brooklyn newsies the way enticing smells wafted throughout the building whenever the cook was preparing a particularly tasty evening meal.

Race hadn't concerned himself with the reports at the time; then, he'd been only a young, no-account newsie, a fellow without rank or responsibility, and he'd had little interest in losing sleep over the troubles of a territory not his own. He'd purposefully befriended any agreeable newsies he came across, regardless of where they hailed from, but it was always man-to-man, not with a particular eye to turf lines.

Several of his bunkmates, however, had taken a more proactive approach and had enlisted as birds, and it was from them that Race had regularly caught snatches of what was going on outside of Brooklyn's purview and had occasionally found himself drawn into such matters, despite his personal indifference.

This was actually what had led him to meeting Calico.

It had been a chilly day, and Race had been selling with Eggy, then a newly-promoted bird who had been assigned his first solo mission: to investigate the rumor of a new distribution center being constructed on the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge. It wasn't a difficult or a dangerous task, but Race had accompanied his bunkmate anyway, more out of boredom than anything else, and he and Eggy had sold their papers together as they'd made their way south towards their destination.

Once they'd crossed the bridge, Eggy had continued on alone, determined to fulfill the specifics of his orders (which had stipulated that only one newsie was to undertake the task of investigating). Manhattan hadn't been (and still wasn't) particularly fastidious about enforcing turf lines, but Brooklyn protocol dictated that the utmost discretion be exercised any time you were on another leader's territory, and Eggy, easygoing in demeanor but by-the-book in application, had been intent upon getting in and out without being detected.

Race had obligingly hunkered down to wait for his bunkmate's return, absently counting the money that he'd made that morning, but only a few minutes into the endeavor, his hiatus had been interrupted by a trio of thugs who, it seemed, had taken an interest in his earnings and had sized him up as easy prey.

Race had tried to ease his way out of things with his usual snarky banter, inwardly cursing Eggy for being too far away by that time to help (for the other Brooklyn newsie was a whiz with his slingshot), but three against one had been simply bum odds, and his aggressors had ignored his attempts at levity and had closed in, making escape impossible.

Race had resigned himself to fighting a losing battle, not expecting to find any aid on unfamiliar turf, but to his surprise, just as the first fists were thrown, an unexpected party had joined the fray: a tall, dark-haired girl with a brightly-colored ribbon fluttering in her hair.

She'd thrown herself into the melee with the ease of one who had fought in her share of skirmishes, and Race had nearly dropped his own hands to gawk, but a near-knockout punch from one of his foes had quickly brought him to his senses, and he'd swiftly resumed his fighting stance, maneuvering so that he was close enough to watch his ally's back, but no so close that he would inhibit her movement.

The girl's fighting style was unfamiliar to him; there was an efficiency in her strikes that looked both raw and oddly graceful, as though she was a half-grown bird that had left its nest but hadn't yet learned how to soar through the sky. Race was no stranger to brawling himself, but he couldn't recall seeing anyone fight that way before - not that he cared over much about technique in general.

It hadn't taken long for them to repel the would-be thieves, and once the last of them had fled the scene, they'd been left alone to drop their fists and calm their ragged breathing. The girl hadn't said anything at first, but she'd cocked her head, sizing Race up with an appraising eye, seeming to care little for the social conventions which would have deemed such behavior improper for a first-time acquaintance.

Race had returned her stare without flinching, but before long, his natural affability had gotten the better of him, and he'd cracked a grin, introducing himself and telling the girl that he was obliged to her for her impeccable timing. Upon noticing the bag of papers that she'd dropped to come to his aid, he'd extended the customary newsie spit-shake, and it was then that he'd seen the first hint of a smile cross her face.

She hadn't stayed long to chat (if you could call her silent and mostly one-sided perusal chatting); Race had casually tried to draw her into conversation, asking her if she sold with the Manhattan newsies, but all he'd gotten in answer had been a mirthless laugh, the kind of laugh that people gave when they were forgoing a sarcastic reply. The girl apparently had no great love for the aforementioned territory, but the whys are wherefores had been left undisclosed, and by the time she'd left, disappearing almost as quickly as she had come, Race had only managed to learn her name: Calico.

Once Eggy had returned from his mission and they'd started back towards Brooklyn, Race had taken the opportunity to mention the unexpected encounter, wondering if Eggy - or any of the birds he regularly interfaced with - knew anything about the unusual newsie who had come to his aid. He knew that it was a long shot, but if there was any way of finding out more about Calico, it would be through Brooklyn's well-honed and far-reaching intelligence network.

Eggy, it turned out, hadn't had any dealings with Calico himself, but he'd said that her description sounded familiar, and that it was possible another bird might have run across her and mentioned it in a debriefing meeting.

It hadn't been much to go off of, but Race had decided to ask around anyway, and eventually his persistence had been rewarded, and Eggy's memory had been proven right:

The bird that had run across Calico had been Spot Conlon.

Spot, at that time, had been nothing more than a casual acquaintance to Race. They'd regularly exchanged nods in passing, but the Brooklyn detachment was large enough where close camaraderie wasn't a given, and their personalities hadn't predisposed them to friendship, Spot's seemingly-stoic intensity being an incongruent match for Race's easygoing tendencies. They'd become newsboys at roughly the same time, but their paths had taken vastly different trajectories from that point on. Spot had immediately enlisted as a bird, joining the group of focused (and mostly older) boys who devoted themselves to the task of information-gathering. He'd applied himself to the role with zeal and had risen in the ranks, quickly joining the most elite circle of birds who carried out after-hours surveillance, and this had earned him the commendation of their leader O'Dark, as well as the esteem of the entire lodging house.

Race, for his part, had spent the majority of his free time bumming around and playing cards with his more like-minded comrades once they were done selling papes for the day. If Spot had been the most respected (and perhaps feared) newsie at the lodging house, Race had been the most well-liked, the fellow who could always be counted on to lighten the mood or to drum up some amusement when spirits were flagging and the newsies needed a bit of diversion. O'Dark ran a tight ship when it came to daytime operations, but he was permissive of most types of fun once the newsies were off the clock; as long as their shenanigans didn't interfere with their ability to sell the next day (or cause any damage to the lodging house), their antics were indulged, and Race's flair for entertaining had thrived under this arrangement. He and O'Dark had never become close (the latter being a good five or six years older), but they'd understood each other, and Race's early years at the lodging house had been full of happy memories.

When he'd approached Spot to ask him about Calico, the latter's response had been rather cagey. He'd offered up some interesting information: that he'd initially observed her while returning from an assignment in the Bronx, and that she'd been picking a lady's purse, something not uncommon for a poor girl down on her luck, but unusual in that she'd been doing it while selling papers. Even more unusual, her diction hadn't sounded like one would expect a street urchin's to. Spot had tailed her for a bit, for he'd been heading back to Brooklyn in the same direction, and he'd found her crossing the territory line into Manhattan, where she'd sold the last of her papes in seeming ignorance (or defiance) of the newsie protocol which prohibited hawking headlines on turf that was not your own.

The girl had then made a beeline for a block of businesses nearby, and, upon reaching them, had hunkered down behind a parked wagon, watching the passers by for almost a quarter of an hour until she'd apparently seen all that she'd needed to see and had abruptly risen to turn back in the direction of the Bronx. Spot had let her go, but when he'd returned to his own lodging house, he'd made it a point to mention her unusual behavior to O'Dark and the rest of the birds at their debriefing meeting (though it seemed that only Eggy had retained that particular tidbit of information).

All told, it had been a substantial disclosure, but Race had sensed that Spot wasn't telling him everything. It had irritated him a little; by rights, he should have had access to all but the most classified information, for birds were meant to freely share the intelligence that they gleaned with anyone at the lodging house who asked for it (the rationale being that you never knew when such information might help a comrade out). Newsies outside of their ranks were treated with shrewdness, but the Poplar Street boys were much more coadjutant with each other, and Spot's choice not to elaborate on what he knew about Calico was a clear indication of his wariness of (or perhaps his mild disdain for) Race at the time.

In the end, it hadn't mattered; Race had run into Calico again several weeks later (or perhaps, more accurately, she'd found him, though he'd never been able to ascertain how or why), and from that second meeting, he'd learned another significant (if singular) piece of information about her: that she lived at the Grahame Street Lodging House for Girls and sold papers in the Bronx with the rest of the girl newsies. Her unusually refined manner of speaking had been on full display, the reticence of their first meeting nowhere to be found, and Race had hidden his astonishment under his usual show of affability, but inwardly, he'd wondered how a girl who seemed so well-educated had ended up on the streets - and why she'd taken an interest in striking up an acquaintance with him.

He still didn't know the answer to those questions several years (and many meetings) later. Calico had been coolly evasive whenever the subject of her pre-newsie life had been broached, but it was clear that she'd had some sort of familial ties in the past, even if those ties had since been severed. If the way that she'd agreed to take Sophie in simply because she was Race's sister was anything to go by, Cal knew what it meant to stick your neck out for your own flesh and blood, and Race could appreciate that, even if he still occasionally wondered what was behind her equivocation. She was an unusual girl in many ways - intense but aloof - and though their casual friendship had developed into a rapport that Race knew was genuine, Cal had always kept him at arm's length, as though she'd reached the extent of her affection and was capable of going no further.

The sharp snap of a driver's whip interrupted his thoughts, and Race instinctively moved closer to the middle of the walkway as a carriage rattled past. He still had several blocks to go before reaching his destination, and found it strange that he hadn't caught sight of any newsies yet. It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, too soon for all but the most skilled of them to be done selling their wares, and with a contingent as big as the Bronx's, he should have seen at least one or two of them by now. It was, perhaps, fortuitous that he hadn't (for he'd rather not tangle with any of Gar's henchmen if he could help it), but he wouldn't have minded running across some of the more friendly boys that he knew from the area.

Almost as if on cue, he turned the corner and nearly collided with another newsie who was hurrying in the opposite direction, looking over his shoulder as though he was being followed.

"Woah there, Carps!" Race exclaimed, bracing himself and letting out a little "oof!" as the other boy plowed into him. "What's your hurry, huh? You look like you's on the lam from the cops or somethin'!"

"Aw, dash it, Racetrack, I didn't see ya there," Carps apologized. "I didn't hurt'cha, did I?"

"Nah," Race answered with a grin. "It's gonna take more than a beanpole like you to put me outta commission."

It was a facetious statement, for they were both of a similar build, and Race expected Carps to guffaw at the ironic jab, but instead, the typically good-humored newsie only gave him a slightly-terse smile in return. Now that they were standing still, Race could see that Carps was sporting several bruises on his face, and noticed that there was a bandage wrapped around his left hand.

"You, ah…run into some trouble?" Race asked, gesturing to the dressing.

Carps glanced down at it. "I guess you could say so." His laugh was uneasy. "It was my own fault, though: I was headin' full chisel around a turn and tangled with a carriage. Probably pretty easy to tell who won."

The attempt at levity didn't mask the poorly-delivered lie, and Race felt his uneasiness surface again, even as he made a perfunctory show of chuckling in return.

Why's that bummer makin' things up? he wondered. Carps, as far as he knew, wasn't the kind to dissemble, and brawling was a part of newsie life. A few battle wounds weren't anything to be ashamed of, even if you'd gotten the worst of it, for you could have been jumping in to help a brother in trouble or else been outnumbered, and it wasn't another fellow's place to judge if you were looking a little worse for wear…

"What are you doin' here, anyway?" Carps asked suddenly.

"Visitin' Cal." The lie rolled smoothly off of Race's tongue. "I was supposed to meet up with her near the Bridge, but she weren't at her usual spot. You know anything about that?"

It was a shrewd parry, but if the Bronx newsie was going to be evasive, Race would return the favor. It was nothing personal (he considered the other boy a friendly acquaintance, after all, and knew that Calico thought well of him), but it couldn't hurt to be too circumspect when it came to protecting Sophie's identity and her whereabouts. Better for Carps - and anyone he might report to - to think that Race was simply going about his usual routine, only showing up to rendezvous with a friend while remaining unaware of any unusual activity that might be taking place.

"She could've left her post to tail someone," Carps suggested in answer to Race's question. "There's been more visitors comin' in lately, and Gar's real keen on makin' sure any newsie not from here knows his place and doesn't try to pull a fast one."

"So I hear." Race didn't bother trying to keep the contempt out of his voice. "Guess that bummer don't have anything more important to do than sit around all day playin' looky-loo."

Carps didn't respond to the sarcastic indictment, but his gaze flickered up the street, and when Race turned to look over his shoulder, he saw that Skeet, one of Gar's henchmen, was lumbering in their direction, thought it didn't seem like he'd caught sight of them yet.

"I'd better be off." Carps spat in his palm, reaching out to give Race's hand a quick pump before Race even had time to complete his end of the gesture. "See you around, Racetrack."

"See you around, Carps," Race repeated.

But the other boy was already gone.

Quickly, Race slipped inside of the nearest establishment (which, in a stroke of poor luck, turned out to be a perfumery), intent upon escaping the approaching Skeet's notice. The saleslady gave him a suspicious look, but he flashed her his most charming smile, then made a show of examining the colorful bottles sitting atop the store's display case. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Skeet trudging by on the opposite side of the street, lead-footed as usual, but with a purposefulness that even his hulking gait couldn't hide. His newsboy bag, Race noted, still had several papers inside, but the burly newsie wasn't selling, which meant that he was headed somewhere - maybe the same place that the harried-looking Carps had been rushing off to.

By this time, Race could feel the saleslady's stare boring into his back, so he quickly set down the bottle that he'd been holding and exited the shop, tailing Skeet from a distance. He had to slow his own more efficient stride to make sure that he didn't get too close, but it gave him time to get his bearings, and as he followed his quarry first down one street and then another, he realized that they were heading in the direction of the Bronx newsies' lodging house.

Sure enough, a block and a half later, the Blake Street establishment came into view, and just as Race suspected, Carps was standing outside the back entrance, whittling away at a wooden stick. Skeet lumbered up, and he and Carps exchanged words, the latter stashing his carving implements away in his newsboy bag, and the former pulling open the door to the lodging house, motioning for the other boy to enter and giving Carps a none-too-gentle shove when he failed to do so quickly enough.

Race waited for a minute or two after they'd disappeared from sight to see if any other Bronx newsies would show up, but when none did, he turned around and headed back the way he'd come. His detour had already cost him time, and if he wanted to make it back to Manhattan before it got too late, he needed to keep moving.

It probably ain't anything to lose sleep over, he told himself as he left the lodging house behind. But even as he continued down the street, his uneasiness grew. There had been an edginess in Carps' demeanor that he had never observed before, and though Skeet's brutish behavior wasn't unusual by contrast, there had been something slightly sinister about it. There was no reason to be pushing around one of your own bunkmates, especially when he was injured, and the fact that Skeet had taken the liberty to do so made Race wonder if this type of domineering behavior was sanctioned (and perhaps modeled) by the head of the lodging house himself.

I gotta talk to Cal, he thought.

It had been roughly two weeks since they'd last spoken, and their most recent conversation had been brief, Race preoccupied with moving Sophie into her new home, and Calico engaged in the task of reigning in her girls as they'd enthusiastically greeted the newest member of their company. It had been a jovial (if slightly chaotic) reception, and Sophie had noticeably perked up at the sight of the welcome banner and toothsome assortment of treats that had been set out for the occasion. The girls of the Grahame Lodging House were an energetic but kindly bunch from what Race could tell, and by the time he'd left that night to return to his own territory, he'd felt confident enough that his sister would have no trouble fitting in with them under Calico's watchcare.

Privately, he'd been hesitant to send Sophie off to a territory where the beginnings of a turf war could be brewing, but there hadn't been many other options at that point, and in the end, he'd reasoned that Sophie was still safer in the Bronx than back in Brooklyn, so he'd gone ahead with the plan. He trusted Calico, and knew that she'd do her best to keep Sophie out of danger, but you were always playing with fire when a narcissistic hothead like Gar was in charge. The boor was far from intelligent - at least in Race's estimation - but that didn't mean that he couldn't still pose a threat, especially when backed by the muscle of his equally small-minded henchmen.

For now, things were in an uneasy state of stasis. According to Calico, Gar had temporarily refrained from acting on his plans to stir up trouble with Queens, but he'd continued to advance the narrative that the southern territory was getting out of hand and needed to be taught respect. More and more newsies, inflamed with his calls to "brotherhood and unity," had rallied to his side, and the cry to move on Queens was now being heard from voices beyond the newsie leader's inner circle. The Bronx was no small territory, and it would take some time for him to amass enough manpower to pose a real threat, but in the meantime, his backing continued to grow, and this had Calico noticeably worried, even if she hadn't said so.

The one thing that didn't make sense to Race was how Gar was managing to draw such support so quickly, but there hadn't been time to ponder the matter in the hustle and bustle of getting Sophie settled, and in the end, the question had slipped his mind until now.

Another thing to ask Cal about.

Race continued to mull over the situation as he wound his way through the streets, making his way past rows of shops and down a small alleyway that led to the Grahame Lodging House for Girls. He'd been there several times before to visit Calico (though she'd always met him outside, and they'd usually take their conversations elsewhere for the sake of privacy), but it hadn't been until Sophie had settled there that he'd actually set foot inside and seen what the place was like.

The two-story abode was a simply-furnished but well-kept, overseen by a matronly woman and her elderly mother who served as the housekeeper and cook. From what Race could tell, the lodging house wasn't full to capacity, but it felt lived-in enough, and the occupants regularly assisted with the upkeep of the property as a way of offsetting the costs of their room and board. It seemed to be a good arrangement, and Race had been pleasantly surprised by how modest the fees were, for he knew that Sophie would be able to pay her own way and still have a slight surplus once she got the hang of hawking headlines. He'd left some money behind with her, just in case, but it felt relieving to know that she'd likely be able to set it aside rather than spend it. With the way things were going, it was probably a good idea to have an emergency fund squirreled away at all times.

Pulling off his cap as he jogged up the front steps of the establishment, Race tried to shake all thoughts of Gar and the Bronx from his mind, not wanting his visit with Sophie to be spoiled by an overabundance of seriosity. The superintendent was sitting at her desk in the entryway, and he gave her a polite hello, introducing himself and asking if he might see his sister. There was a strict "No Boys in the Girls' Quarters" rule, but the woman said that she would check to see if Sophie was back from selling and available for a visit.

Race took a seat in one of the lobby armchairs to wait.

He had just settled himself when he heard the sound of the front door opening, and a newsgirl entered, her empty canvas bag at her side. She was wearing a drab, oversized coat and had her hair partially hidden under a kerchief, but upon catching sight of her face, Race recognized her as Rina, Calico's second-in-command.

"Hello," she greeted him politely. "You're Sophie's brother, aren't you?"

He grinned. "Yeah, that's me. Figured I'd stop by to see how she's gettin' along."

Rina gave him a small smile in return. "She'll be glad to see you. She seems like she's adjusting well, and she's great at selling papers, but she's had a few rough nights this past week."

"Bad dreams?"

The girl nodded. "She woke up crying once."

"Cal give her a talkin'-to to settle her down?"

Rina dropped her gaze. "I'm sure she would have if she'd been there."

"Whaddya mean?" Race didn't bother hiding his astonishment. He knew that Cal occasionally skipped out at night when she really needed to get away, but it seemed out of character for her to leave her girls to fend for themselves, especially with a new recruit at the lodging house.

"Gar's re-assigned her to Pelham Bay Park," Rina answered. "It's a good few hours of walking from here, so she doesn't get back until late in the evening, when the younger girls have already gone to bed."

So that was why Calico hadn't been at her usual selling spot.

Race scowled. On first inspection, it seemed like a dimwitted move on Gar's part: Calico's stealth and shrewdness made her a natural fit for the important task of keeping watch over the Third Avenue Bridge, a frequently-traveled entrance to the Bronx, and Pelham Bay Park, by contrast, was a sprawling ramble of trails and footpaths with some private residences here and there, a place for leisure and retreat, hardly a location necessitating special oversight or worthy of Cal's experience and acumen…

…but if Gar had meant for the reassignment to be a thinly-disguised punishment (or a demotion), then it was certainly an effective - and covert - way of handing it down.

"Any idea why the change up?" Race wondered aloud, hoping that Rina might provide some insight. "It don't make much sense to move Cal from the Bridge, not when she's been patrollin' it for such a long time and knows the place like the back of her hand."

The girl shook her head. "She only said it was what Gar had asked her to do." The explanation was carefully neutral, but her fingers fiddled with the strap of her bag, and Race recognized the nervous tell for what it was.

"You know that there's more to it though…don'tcha?" he asked quietly. "Even if nobody's sayin' so, you can tell that somethin' ain't right."

Rina glanced at him sharply, and he gave her a knowing look, but before he could follow up on his question, footsteps were heard coming down the hallway, and Sophie appeared, her face immediately lighting up as she caught sight of Race.

"Tony!"

Race opened his arms, and she launched herself into them, nearly bowling him over in her enthusiasm.

"I thought it would be another week or two before you came!" Sophie exclaimed, pulling back to look at him as though she was still absorbing his presence.

"No such luck," Race jibed. "You ain't gettin' rid of me so easy." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rina slipping away down the hall and inwardly cursed the lost opportunity to question her further, but he hid his annoyance, grinning at Sophie instead.

"How've you been, Soph? You likin' your new home?"

His sister nodded. "Everyone's real nice, and there ain't too many of us, so there's lots of space. The older ones - Rina and Fern - keep everyone in line, but they ain't heavy-handed about it, and the littlest ones is real cute things. I taught a few of 'em how to play marbles yesterday, and they was havin' a grand ol' time, but I had to watch 'em real close to make sure they didn't lose any of our shooters. The food's good, too, and we can even get second helpin's."

Race nodded, relieved at the favorable report. He was surprised that his sister hadn't mentioned Calico at all, but given what Rina had told him, maybe he shouldn't have been. The newsie leader's reassignment to Pelham Bay Park, and the long hours that she would have had to keep because of it, meant that Sophie had probably seen her little, and though that was disappointing in more ways than one, the fact that the other girls had stepped up in her absence brought a measure of reassurance. It was always better to have more than one newsie capable of overseeing the lodging house, anyway, for you never knew when your leader might suddenly become unavailable for one reason or another.

"How've you been sleepin'?" he asked, already knowing the answer from Rina's disclosure, but wanting to hear it from Sophie herself.

"Well enough," came the predictably-optimistic answer. "I still get nightmares sometimes, but at least they's only dreams. And the one time it was really bad, Fern sang to me until I felt sleepy again. Made me remember when you used to do that for me, too, back when we lived on Gold Street."

The memory was bittersweet, for it felt like a lifetime ago, and yet, somehow it seemed like only yesterday.

"Anyway, how've you been, Tony?" Sophie's voice broke into Race's thoughts. "You stayin' out of trouble?"

"Never," he smirked. "Trouble's my middle name - you oughta know that by now."

"I guess it is better soundin' than 'Seamus'," she teased.

"Ain't that the truth," Race sighed. All of the men in their branch of the Higgins clan shared a common middle name, but he was none too fond of it (traditions like that meant nothing when your family ties were practically non-existent, anyway). "If Pa had stuck around longer, I might've talked him into changin' it'," he added jokingly. "He always groused when Ma would call him ''Shamey,' so I bet he would've chucked the handle, just to spite her."

"And named you and himself 'Mickey'** instead, after his favorite baseball player," Sophie grinned. "Not sure that'd give you more respectability, though. 'Anthony Mickey' don't roll off the tongue too well."

"Still's better than 'Seamus,'" Race lamented.

The subject of their parents, spontaneously broached, could have easily led to a more terse discussion, and a part of him regretted mentioning them at all, but thankfully, Sophie seemed disinclined to continue the conversation in that vein.

"At least you got a sweet-soundin' nickname to make up for it," she consoled him. "I ain't come across a newsie yet who's got a handle as good as 'Racetrack.'"

"Can't disagree with you there," Race grinned in return. Some of his Brooklyn cronies still referred to him by his birth name, which he'd entered the newsboy profession with and had kept for several months, but once his penchant for playing the ponies had become known, his new moniker had emerged, and since then he'd all but left his birth name behind. His Manhattan bunkmates had only ever known him as Racetrack, and that suited him just fine, for there were things from his former life that he'd just as soon let fade into obscurity, even if he knew that he'd never be completely free of their hold.

"Speakin' of newsies, how are all your friends doin'?" Sophie asked, as though reading his thoughts.

"Not too bad," Race replied. "Everyone's sellin' pretty well, and Jack's gonna be proposin' to his gal soon, so that'll be excitin'. We ain't never had an engagement before, as far as I can tell."

"And how's Bella?"

"Smart and sprightly as ever," Race grinned. "She'll be goin' into matin' season soon, which means she's gonna start stinkin' to high heaven on account of the smell that she gives off when she don't want the male skunks gettin' too close, but that ain't nothin' new. She's always been real saucy when it comes to the fellas, but we's hopin' that eventually she'll settle down and have a little Bella of her own."

"I guess it's that time of the year," Sophie mused. "Everyone's proposin' or getting paired off, even the skunks." She smiled. "I know it ain't likely anything has changed these past two weeks, but how 'bout Davey and Sadie? They coupled up yet?"

Race snorted, amused and pleased at her curiosity, for it was another thing that they shared, a good-natured (if slightly-nosy) penchant for indirectly meddling in other people's business. "The two of them's about as coupled up as they could be when one of 'em's a hard-boiled fella who can't spit the words out," he reported.

"Well, tomorrow's Valentine's Day, ain't it?" Sophie grinned. "Maybe that'll loosen his tongue a little."

"Maybe," Race agreed, indulging her optimism despite his personal doubts. "We's actually got a get-together tomorrow at the lodgin' house - Romeo, one of the fellas, is a real sap when it comes to Valentine's Day, so he makes everybody celebrate with him. Ain't sure if Dave's comin' to it or not, but if he does, I'm sure someone'll give him grief for holdin' back once they find out he's gone and lost his head over Beck."

Sophie chuckled. "Poor Davey. He's a nice fella and don't deserve a lick of it, but it sure would be amusin' to see the newsies pile it on."

"It's all in good fun," Race assured her. "We's just as merciless to Jack about his gal - the only difference is he takes it better. He's got a way of charmin' the ladies, and he knows it, so the teasin' don't fluster him up the same as it does Davey."

"Well, I dunno that any extra charm's gonna be necessary to win Sadie over," Sophie opined. "She seems real taken with him, like an apple all ready to fall into his hand if he'd only just shake the branch a little."

"Or a lot," Race couldn't help snorting again. His sister frowned at the contradiction, and he shrugged, deciding he might as well be frank now that his involuntary reaction had given him away. "I ain't tryin' to cross you, Soph. I know you's wantin' to see the two of 'em together, and I ain't sayin' it's a bad idea, 'cause it ain't…but I don't think it's a sure deal, either. Sometimes gals like Beck ain't interested in goin' for guys like Davey - they's just bein' friendly, that's all. I don't want'cha to be disappointed if it turns out that she ain't sweet on him like he is on her."

Sophie smiled. "Well, that's real nice of you to look out for me, Tony, but I don't think I'll be disappointed. Pretty sure I ain't misreadin' what I saw while I was stayin' in Mahnattan." Her smile widened, and she added gaily, "How 'bout a friendly little bet to keep things fun? If Davey and Sadie pair off, you owe me lunch at Jacobi's, but if they go their separate ways, then I'll buy you a meal at The Butter Bowl. It's this little place down the street from the distribution center, and it's got the best pork pie I've ever eaten - the girls took me there last week, and I know you'd love it."

"You're on!" Race grinned, spitting in his hand and holding it out to seal the deal.

His sister copied the gesture, grasping his hand and shaking it with a look of mirth in her eyes, and as she did so, Race felt an unfamiliar moisture threatening at the corners of his own. It was the first time that they'd engaged in this newsie ritual together, and something about it - and the many twists and turns that it had taken for them to get here - made him feel suddenly teary-eyed.

Stow the waterworks, you sap, he told himself sternly. This ain't nothin' to get choked up about.

But even as he pushed aside the sentimentality, his gratitude lingered. Sophie was safe, and she was happy, and she had a place to call home, now, with good food to eat and a roof over her head and folks who were watching out for her. It was something that Race had been hoping for for a long time, and on some particularly dark nights had feared would never come to pass, but it was here, now, and he just had to drink in the moment.

He had promised Sophie before she left for the Bronx that everything was going to be okay - that even with a slew of unexpected changes and new developments on the horizon, it was all going to turn out fine - and as he stood there in the lobby of her new home, feeling the strength in her clasped hand and seeing the joy in her eyes, he found himself renewing that promise, silently vowing that he would do anything in his power to make sure that she stayed happy and safe and well-fed. Her peace and wellbeing had been hard-won, and they were far too valuable to lose now to carelessness or chance.

No matter how tough it gets, Soph, I'm gonna make sure you's all right.

It was the promise of an outwardly-sanguine, no-account newsie who only carried so much power on turf not his own, but it was also the promise of a brother, whose care transcended even the most strongly-enforced and jealously-guarded territory lines…

…and if there really was a storm beginning to brew over the Bronx, Race knew that he would find a way to shelter Sophie from its downpour, even if he had to hold back the clouds to do it.


A/N: For those of you who have a particular affinity for Race (I won't name names, but you know who you are ;)), I hope that this chapter was enjoyable, even if most of it was backstory.

Up next, we'll rejoin our pining protagonist as he reluctantly attends the aforementioned lodging house gathering centered around Valentine's Day (because around here we twist the knife like that :P), so if you'd like to see how that goes, please join me then. In the meantime, I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter - it always means a lot to hear from you. Thank you for sticking around!

Notes:

*The term "borough" was not adopted until 1898, when the different territories making up New York City were consolidated into the boroughs that we're familiar with today. For this reason, Race uses the words "territory" and "turf" during the parts of this chapter that deal with pre-1898 history.

**Michael "Mickey" Welch was a successful Major League Baseball pitcher who was born in Brooklyn and went on to play for the New York Giants during the early 1880's to 1890's.