Chapter Text
They had first heard about the incident after a sunny autumn day that left the newsies with full pockets and smiling faces. The warmer it was, the more likely it was for customers to stop for longer than a few seconds, if they stopped at all, to maybe ask for some additional things.
The direction of the nearest pub or train station, interesting sights to visit while in the area or tips for the outcome of a boxing match or race.
Additionally, the papers also sold out faster meaning most newsies had more time to relax or just more newspapers to sell in the same amount of time as always.
Racetrack and Specs had just come back to the lodging house after a thrilling poker game with some other newsies from Midtown and were counting their respective winnings – Race’s much higher than Specs’ – when Jack and Davey also entered the Lodging House.
“Hey, Cowboy, did ya beat yer selling record today?” asked Kid Blink from his spot on an old chair in the corner of the room.
The newsies, competitive as they are, kept track of many records.
The most obvious being most papes sold in one day – Jack had managed to sell 250 papers on one fateful day, more than any of the others even wanted to carry around and he was still immensely proud of that fact
Most money made in a day (without gambling) – Dutchy had helped some wealthy Dutch tourists from getting mugged and then gave them directions back to their hotel and since none of the other newsies present at this occurrence knew how to speak Dutch he got the credit for both of those things and also the reward (he did share it with Blink, Mush and Bumlets, who had helped with preventing the mugging, but the credit was his alone)
Most additional tips from buyers (no, buyers who give you money for tips on the races don’t count, Race) – held by Mush almost nonstop since he was eleven due to being immensely charming around wealthy ladies
Fastest to sell 100 newspapers – Racetrack, on the way to Sheepshead and at the Races themselves, had sold out in just under an hour, the trolley had been very full and even though Race had not been paying the fee he somehow managed to pay attention to himself from only customers, without being noticed by a ticket inspector. The time had to be certified by some of the Brooklyn Newsies and Spot Conlon himself since no one had believed Race after he came back multiple hours later
Most fights won – held by Kid Blink due to being very fast at punching and very fast at assessing who wanted to punch him even with limited depth perception. Also, someone once tried to shove a pistol down his throat and he still won without lasting damage, so some people are generally very afraid of a fight with him
Fastest runner – surprisingly not Race but Skittery. Both were generally very fast, but Skittery had quite a bit of a height advantage as of late. Reminding Race of his lost record is not advised
Most money won in a single gamble – also surprisingly not Race, even though he participated in most gambles and won. Specs had once won five whole dollars off of a bet regarding Jack, flirting and a very disinterested Lady. Most newsies had had too much faith in their leader. Reminding Jack of this bet is not advised
There were many more, like “most successful pickpocketing’s in a row” (Snitch), “most bottles shot in a minute” (how Snipeshooter got his name) or “managed to get five free papes from the distribution gate because Oscar really can’t count properly” (Crutchie). The list was constantly updated with records written on some old newspapers they still had lying around and competition was immensely high.
Jack mentally counted the newspapers he sold today. “Well if we count forty percent of Davey’s and Les’ papes than maybe but I only took a hundred and fifty today. Didn’t think the day would get this good.”
“Nah, only papes you sell yerself, Cowboy.” Blink gestured to one of the other Newsies who sat in his corner, “Snoddy was set on beatin’ ya today but only got to two hundred papes!”
“Hey, it was two hundred and thirty-five!”
“Knapp daneben ist auch vorbei.“ Contributed Skittery. Snoddy hit him on the back of his head with a hat.
Even without any knowledge of German, most of the boys had heard this particular proverb often enough to understand him. In a house where almost a hundred boys, most speaking at least one other language beside English, were hanging out it was unavoidable to learn some new phrases.
Meanwhile, Race had finished counting his winnings with a big grin on his face. “If I finish early at Sheepshead tomorrow, I can bet on as many races as I want! Without losing too much! Grazie a Dio that the boys in Midtown are terrible at poker.”
Specs nodded, also pleased with his winnings. “They really are. You shouldn’t go there for a few weeks, though. They will remember losing that much to you.”
“I’ll just go to Brooklyn and Queens, didn’t manage to get there today anyways, I don’ want them to miss me, ya know?”
The evening seemed to be very calm. Most of the older Newsies stayed in the common area of the lodging house, just relaxing and talking. Which was a lot more chaotic than what normal people would describe as “relaxing” but even Davey had gotten used to it by now.
Naturally, this meant that something terrible was bound to happen.
The terrible thing arrived with Boots only minutes before curfew. The boy looked increasingly pale and shaken, which Jack, being a mother hen, noticed immediately. He broke of the conversation with Pie Eater about a new storeowner one street over and crouched down in front of the boy.
“Hey kid, what got you so rattled? I’s thought you were meeting with a friend?”
The Newsie nodded shakily. „I-I met Mint just like I said I would… on the Bridge. She didn’t… show up for over an hour and- … Jack, Brooklyn is- Spot’s-…” Boots looked about ready to cry at this point so Jack swept him up into a hug, trying to calm him at least a little.
“Hey now, Boots, it can’t be that bad. What’s the King of Brooklyn done now?”
“He- Mint said- No one knows for sure but… Jack, someone challenged him, and he hasn’t been seen since! Mint says he’s dead!”
Now that got the attention of every Newsie in the room. Most had tried to not listen in, this was a vulnerable moment after all, but a statement about Spot Conlon being dead could hardly be ignored.
Cries of disbelief sounded through the room, only accentuated by David and Race looking like they were frozen solid upon hearing the news. They were friends with the Brooklyn leader, or at least as close to friends as one could get with Spot, like Boots which Spot had somehow taken enough of a liking to to let him visit his friend Mint who was a Brooklyn Newsgirl.
“Who would even try to-“
“Guys-“
“Okay, even if this was true, I wouldn’t hold it against Spot to just…resurrect himself. Somehow.”
“Come on-“
“We just managed to get friendly with Brooklyn, this would be terrible!”
“Just shut up for a second, will ya!” Jack managed to get everyone’s attention again, still holding onto Boots. “Rumours like these are often just as false as the headlines we’s hawkin’, come on. Especially if they are about Spot. I’se heard at least ten different versions of how he became King in the first place. We’ll go to Brooklyn tomorrow and see what’s up with these idiots, claiming Spot would just let himself get killed. Spot pro’lly spent his night out of the lodging house to meet a dame or whatever, don’t think too much into it, boys.”
Jack actually did believe what Boots was telling him. But he wouldn’t find out if Spot was really dead tonight: running over the bridge in the dark could be dangerous and he didn’t want to get soaked by whoever tried to overthrow Conlon. If he was lucky – which was seldom the case – Spot just retreated to tend to his wounds after an idiot – one of many over the years – tried to overthrow the King of Brooklyn for whatever shallow reason. If not… him and Spot didn’t always get along, he also hadn’t been completely forgiven for scabbing during the strike, but he was still favourable to most Brooklyn leaders before him.
Brass was just an asshole who took too much from his kids and Twig before that beat every newsie from another turf if he even stepped foot on “his” before negotiations could even be on the table. Spot was still scary, beating Brass, who was almost aged out, at just the age of twelve would do that to you, but he was fairer than most.
His kids were loyal due to fear but mostly due to him keeping everyone well-fed, warm in the winters and safe from Queens. It would be a shame if his reign would be cut short.
Spot would be nearing sixteen soon, Jack thought, but he couldn’t be sure. Not like most streetkids knew their birthdays anyways but at least two more years with Spot Conlon as King of Brooklyn would have been great. Maybe even more with his eternal baby-face.
Jack brought Boots, who had stopped crying but still looked beat to his bunk and motioned for the older boys to also get settled. They protested a lot less than usual. Especially those who had grown closer to the Boy-King were quieter. After he set down Boots with the other younger kids he got down to his own bunkroom where he could see Blink and Mush in the same bed, whispering, Race slowly twirling a cigar near his window-bunk and Crutchie sitting with Davey by Jack’s own bed.
David didn’t look too good, this was probably the first time – aside from the strike - where he had heard about one of his friends being seriously hurt, even if there was no evidence yet. Crutchie seemed to comfort him a little. The possible death would probably hurt him too, but he also had been in the refuge for all of Spot’s involvement in the strike and hadn’t met him too often since.
“Hey Dave, you okay?” Jack tried to insert himself into the conversation.
The boy looked startled for a moment before responding. “Not really? You are right, we can’t find anything out today anyways and it might be nothing but Spot is still a friend and I don’t feel right not doing anything… We wouldn’t even know about this without Boots! Shouldn’t Brooklyn send someone over in these cases? It is Union business after all. They are in it no matter who leads them. Or aren’t they? Will we have to make new negotiations? They have so many newsies, what would it mean for the Union if they just decided to ignore the rules of the Union? And-“
“Davey, don’t worry so much. All of that is very important but just as you said: we don’t know nothin’ yet. Maybe all that thinkin’ is for the cat or whatever Skittery would say. Ya hear? Let’s just sleep for now, we will now more tomorrow.”
David looked slightly reassured, if still shaken. He would still think too much, too long, too important thoughts but since he stayed in the lodging house for the night Jack could at least force him to sleep as he did with most of the other boys.
“Crutchie, you should also sleep. I’ll probably go over the bridge tomorrow with Race, so you’ll have to make sure everyone gets to the gate in time.”
“Sure thing, Jack. And,” he lowered his voice, “if what we’re hearing is true I can handle them for the whole day. Even if you can’t talk with the potential new leader yet, you and Race can take a few hours to process all this. This doesn’t happen every day after all. But tha’s all – as Davey would say – hypothetically speaking.”
The Manhatten Leader smiled tiredly. “Thanks, Crutch.”
Speaking of Racetrack… he was still standing next to his bunk, twirling the cigar, just like he had ten minutes prior. Jack just wanted to check up on him when a knock sounded from outside the window.
The quite conversations stilled. As far as everyone could see all Newsies were accounted for, even Davey was inside, so who could be knocking on the window in the dead of night? Was there a messenger from Brooklyn after all?
“Blink, Race: see who decided to grace us with his presence.”, Jack instructed. Race had escaped his stupor with the knock and waited a few seconds till Blink was also near his window by the fire-escape before he opened it. Race would know the most people while Blink could punch any offender the fastest, so Jack usually sent those two to check on unknown guests.
Racetrack still wasn’t feeling well but having something to do took his mind of certain events, so he put on his gambler-smile and stepped out onto the fire-escape with the one-eyed newsie behind him.
The smile fell the moment he made out a figure who braced himself on both the wall and a familiar looking pimp cane.
Before him on the metal ground stood the one and only Spot Conlon, alive but not looking well. Adjusting to the relative darkness outside, Race could see that parts of his usually off-white button down were almost as red as his fancy red suspenders and blood was running from his forehead down his face.
“Jack, get ova’ here!” he heard Blink yell, while still being frozen in his spot.
The King of Brooklyn looked up, his blue eyes narrowed in either annoyance or pain, Race couldn’t tell in his state, which spun him into action.
“Merda, Spot, I would ask what happened but since I just heard rumour you died not half an hour ago, I think I can piece it together.” He tried to get the arm Spot had on the wall over his shoulder to help the blond through the window.
“Sorry to disappoint.” The response was gritted out. He sounded a lot quieter than usual which might have been pain or blood loss.
Meanwhile, Manhattans leader had also arrived at the infamous window. “Never thought I’d say it but I’m really glad to see ya, Spot.”
“If you want to finish me off, Jackie-boy, do it now, I don’t think I would be much of a fight at this point”
“Don’t plan on doin’ so. Why’d you come here? Did ya walk all over the bridge with those wounds?”
Now in more light, Race could see that Spot’s pants were also bloody as well as his cane. The shirt around his abdomen seemed to house the heaviest wound though.
“This wasn’t my first choice, but I wasn’t sure which of my safe places were still safe and I figured no one would try to stab me again here.”
“You got stabbed?” Race interrupted, worry evident. That was probably the huge amount of blood on his shirt.
The blond shrugged his shoulders dismissively as much as he could do so with one arm still over Racer’s shoulder. “Not that big of a deal, the otha’ guy’s off worse. And no, I didn’t walk ova’ the bridge. Someone rowed me over; the bridge would have been too obvious. And long”