Spot remained in Manhattan after the dance. The few newsies
who realized how unusual that was forebore to comment, preferring to keep
themselves unbruised. Clown emerged into the lobby of the lodging house in time
to witness pure obstinacy in brilliant action. "I’se fine, Kloppman. It’s
been a month awready."
"The calendar changes, and he decide’s he’s fine!" Kloppman
mumbled, though it was clear already that Crutchy was winning this argument.
Crutchy grinned. "Ya’s been grumblin’ about me takin’ up space fer da
las’ four weeks. Ya oughta be glad ta get me outta heah!"
Kloppman looked bemused to find his own insincere complaints turned against
him. Several of the newsies were snickering. "That," he said, at
last, "is rudeness not to be tolerated! Get out of here!" He turned
around, but not before a grin betrayed him. "Cracking jokes about all my
hard work . . ."
Laughing, the newsies headed out.
"Clown, yer gonna hafta find yerself a new partner taday," Jack
grinned. "Ya ain’t gonna be able ta get a piece a paper between dose
two!"
Spitfire turned around and glared at him, trying not to smile.
"Shaddup!"
"Aw, ain’t dey cute!"
Porter stuck out her tongue in return.
"Ya got anybody in mind?" Pounce asked, grinning. "I’se shoa
plenty a da boys’ll be glad ta offer," she added mischievously.
"Volunteers ta show Clown aroun’?" she called.
She elbowed her friend. "I’ve been here long enough to know what I’m
doing!"
"Jist woik on dat sense a direction an’ you’ll be set," Spot said
laconically. Clown turned and glared at him. He smirked back.
"Ya can come wit me!" Swifty offered quickly, then grinned
sheepishly at the outburst.
"I would be honored," she smiled at the boy. She glanced back at
Spot once, then, as he seemed disinclined to continue the argument, forgot
about him.
Swifty was younger than her. Not by much, of course, and not - considering
their respective heights - so it would be noticeable. Not that the fact had any
relevance to anything whatsoever. Spot picked up his papers and headed for the
orphanage.
His expression softened involuntarily. He’d visited Lynn several times since
first meeting her. She had that same brightness about her that her brother had
had. All smiles and innocence that Spot could not remember possessing. And she
still did not know that Gardener was dead. He cursed himself. To break into
that beautiful world and bring something as ugly as death into it?
There were uglier things for a child to learn . . .
Strange how he’d known her immediately. There was nothing to give her away.
Evan was a genetic throwback - so perfect a copy of his uncle Jon that gossips
wondered aloud whether Nancy had settled for second choice in the older of the
two brothers. Patrick shot down such speculations when he heard about them, but
whispers had a way of spreading.
Still, it was odd. Patrick had never described her. He did not carry so
much as a locket with her picture in it. Nancy had wiped her tracks cleaner
than Elizabeth when she walked out. All she had left was her son.
"Evan!" Jack elbowed him in the side. He glanced up at the two
women, and knew. They walked the street corners every night. Even at nine he’d
have been a fool not to realize what they were doing. But these two were
strangers to this street, and one of them was showing an unusual interest in a
pair of boys for one of her profession.
"Evan?" she repeated hesitantly. Her eyes held a trace of
hunger, a trace of loss, and a burden of years. She opened her mouth again, but
couldn’t seem to manage words. Evan stared back.
Her companion glanced at them briefly, and spoke gently. "Nancy, da
streets are clearin’! Ya wanna get off ‘em before sunrise?"
Her interruption, however soft, enabled Evan to look away. "Yer
bruisin’ me ribs ta show me a coupla whores?" he asked harshly. Jack gaped
at him.
Nancy looked back at him with wide, wounded eyes, then followed her
friend away.
And he’d known the moment he saw her . . .
Swifty smiled at her. "You sold in Central Park wit Spitfire, right?"
Clown nodded. "Well, I ain’t got a partickler spot, so anywhere you wanna
go?"
"I’m afraid I don’t know enough to say," she replied.
"Henry, den," he said after a moment’s thought. "Wit da
settlement house, folks is a liddle betta off dere. Enough ta spare a penny, at
least. An’ da kids’ll love watchin’ ya."
The orphanage was a welcome sight after that memory. And Lynn’s enthusiastic
greeting wiped that away completely. "Evan!" She threw her arms
around his neck.
"Heya, kid. How are ya?" She was five years old. How could he tell
her he’d practically killed her brother?
She studied the buckles of her shoes. "Father Mark’s mad at me."
"Is he?" He forced a stern expression. "An’ why is dat?"
"He don’t like me playing in the chapel - but I wasn’t too loud!"
she protested quickly. "And I asked Him, very nice, if He minded me
playing, and He didn’t say he did!"
He laughed, and tousled her hair. "I don’t t’ink He minds, kid.
Probably likes da company."
"You comin’ ta Tibby’s tanight?"
Clown looked at her partner in question. "Tibby’s?"
Swifty laughed. "If you ain’t nevah been ta Tibby’s, ya gotta come
tanight. I guess Spit’s always been in a hurry ta get back an’ see
Crutchy." He grinned. "Tibby’s is history! We planned most a da
strike from dere."
"Evan," Lynn said quietly. "Where’s Karl?"
A bell rang over their heads when they entered the restaurant. When no one
greeted them, Swifty looked around with a puzzled frown. Clown finally saw her
friends in an unusually quiet knot of people in the back. She pointed them out
to Swifty, who took one look, whooped loudly and dragged her over.
"If it ain’t da Sun’s ace war correspondent!" he shouted.
"Heya, Denton!"
Spot was caught without an answer at first. "He, ah-" He swore under
his breath. How had it first been explained to him? He couldn’t remember
needing an explanation, for goodness’ sake! "He’s gone. He had ta - he
wanted me ta make shoa . . ." He faltered. Lynn looked back at him
solemnly. "Do ya rememba yer parents?"
She nodded slowly, then shook her head. "Not very good." She
hesitated. "Father Mark told me they’re with Him."
He closed his eyes and opened them again. "Well, Karl’s wit dem now,
understand?"
Once again, she nodded, then shook her head. "Evan?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"I miss him."
"Denton covered da strike," Jack explained after an introduction that
passed completely over Clown’s head. "Best reporter da Sun’s got an’ da
only one dat evah gave a d*mn about us." He grinned.
"I’m honored, Jack," the neatly suited man laughed. "I can
think of a few who would disagree, but I’m honored." More newsies had
followed Clown and Swifty to the restaurant and the thinly-held silence had been
broken. "So how about dinner while you throw some names my way?"
The group overflowed into several tables, but the waiters seemed
astonishingly unconcerned. Puzzled for a moment, Jack nodded. "Dis,"
he waved in Porter’s direction, "is Spitfire. She moved from Brooklyn a
liddle afta da strike."
"She’s also half of our latest couple," Blink teased, as Spitfire
tried to disappear under a table.
Pie shook his head. "Naw, latest couple is Snoddy an’ Kirstin."
Denton nodded at Clown. "And you’re Kirstin?"
She laughed along with the others. "Naw, dis is Clown," Jack
corrected. "But dat reminds me, Snoddy, when are ya plannin’ ta bring yer
goilfriend ta Tibby’s?"
Clown sat back and enjoyed as a flustered Snoddy tried to stammer out an answer
and a disclaimer at the same time.
Spot was sitting on his bunk when the group returned late in the evening.
"Spot!" Mush greeted. "Guess who was in Tibby’s taday?"
He couldn’t help smirking. "Denton." It wasn’t difficult to find
out when one read the newspapers as well as selling them.
"Yeah," Mush replied, only taken aback for a moment in his
enthusiasm. Blink laughed at his friend.
"So wha’d he say about Africa?" he asked, more for the fun of
seeing Mush’s expression than out of real curiosity.
"It was hot," Jack answered with a grin, joining him. "Hot
an’ dangerous. Said he loved it." Spot smirked. "Ya missed a good
meal," he chided.
"I told ‘er," he replied quietly.
"I’m sorry."
"Doesn’t he have anywhere else to go?" Clown murmured to Pounce,
shooting the Brooklyn leader a curious look. "I would think that the
much-touted leader of the Brooklyn newsies would at least spend some time
there."
"I ain’t complainin’," Pounce grinned. "Maybe he’s
found somet’ing more interestin’ heah."
Clouds overheard them. "Wonder what dat would be?" she asked
raising an eyebrow.
"Or who?" Clown glared at both of them. "What?" Pounce
protested mischievously. "Did I say a name?"
"You didn’t have to," Lacey grumbled. She frowned. "It isn’t
just me, then."
"It’s Spot’s business," Pounce replied. "I could ask him, but
I don’t t’ink I’d get much of an answer. Maybe he broke up wit his goil."
She shrugged, then grinned. "Which wouldn’t be all dat bad."
She dodged a blow from her best friend. "Anyway, ya’s got more important
t’ings ta worry about."
Lacey raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"
"Such as how ya’s gonna beat t’ree kings," Pounce answered laying
down her cards.
That unpleasant conversation turned out to be the last Spot had with Lynn
before returning to Brooklyn. When next he appeared at the door of Saint
Catherine’s, a concerned Mother Anne told him that the girl was too sick for
visitors. It was ridiculous to think that her illness had anything to do with
learning about her brother’s death, of course. Children got sick all the time.
But somehow that didn’t keep a cold knot from settling in his stomach when he
headed for Tibby’s that afternoon.
"Wonderful!" Clown muttered sarcastically. At Pounce’s questioning
glance, she nodded at Spot’s stormy expression. "His highness is having a
bad day."
Overhearing, Spot glared at her. "I ain’t in da mood, Clown."
She pursed her lips. "Poor boy. I’ve finally figured it out," she
added thoughtfully. "I was wondering how you managed to lead Brooklyn
without ever spending time there."
In seconds, Spot was leaning over the table. "I’m givin’ ya one
warnin’, Clown."
"What, again?" she sighed.
"Not heah." Jack inserted himself between the two with glares for
each. Clown was rather surprised he bothered to interrupt.
Spot crossed his arms and favored his friend with an icy glare.
"Not heah," Jack repeated.
Abruptly, Spot turned around and left the restaurant. Jack followed him.
Several minutes after Spot stalked out of the restaurant, the bell clanged
alarmingly once again. A tall brunette Clown remembered vaguely from the dance
of a week ago burst in the door and nearly collided with a waiter. She swore,
then blushed. "Sorry. ‘Scuse me, sir."
Snitch stood to give her a seat, but she remained standing. "Somet’in
wrong, Owl?"
She shook her head, panting to catch her breath. "Spot ain’t heah, is
he?" From the way the girl’s shoulders had slumped after a brief survey of
the room, Clown guessed the question was rhetorical.
"He went back ta da lodgin’ house," Spitfire replied in concern.
"What happened?"
"Long story. You know Keet," she rolled her eyes at Porter with a
false smile. "I oughta tawk ta Spot, though."
Spitfire opened her mouth, but Owl had already gone. She met Crutchy’s eyes
and frowned. She did know Keet. He never slacked off and he never
exaggerated; if he had sent Owl running, Brooklyn had trouble.
"It’s Bats," Owl explained in two words. She had joined the Brooklyn
newsies long after Spot became their leader, but like everyone, she knew the
story of how he had done it. "It’s - Keet says ya betta see fer yaself. He
an’ Splitz is gettin’ in ovah deir heads. It ain’t deir faults." She
gestured a little helplessly.
"What ain’t deir faults?" Spot replied, quietly.
"Say it went downhill since ya left," she replied equally quietly.
"We’se all - ain’t nobody - but when Keet says he can’t handle it . .
."
He’s done ev’ryt’ing an’ den some, Spot completed silently. An’ what
makes ‘em t’ink I can? Da legend, he mocked himself. "Get back ta
Brooklyn," he told her. She nodded, certain he would follow. Of course, he
would follow. He would probably make it back to the lodging house before her .
. .
He didn’t think about what could be downhill from Gardener’s death.
"Spot, ya gotta go back ta Brooklyn," Jack said, after Owl had
left. He flicked his gaze from the empty doorway to his best friend’s face.
"Dey need ya dere."
"Do dey?"
"If ya’d been lissenin’ jus’ now, ‘stead a wallowin’ in self-pity like
ya been doin’ fer da past two weeks, den ya’d know! I know ya feel bad about
Gard’ner, Spot. But dere ain’t nothin’ ya can do now. Ya been ta see Lynn. Now,
ya owe ta him dat ya don’t let any a yer odder boys wind up da same way, cuz
den it will be yer fault!" Jack’s tirade managed to shock his best
friend out of self-pity into an equal rage.
"Where da ya get da right ta tell me what’s good fer Brooklyn?" He
jumped to his feet. "Ya ran out on it seven yeahs ago!"
"I got da right when you gave it up! Da woild goes on, Spot! I’se
sorry, too. I’se sorry we gotta live in a messed up woild where t’ings like dis
happen, but we gotta make da best a it. Da law a change, Spot! Ya can’t let it
beat ya! Yer da one taught me dat. Ten yeahs ago, ya rememba! Or do ya need a
lesson yaself!" It was clear just what form this ‘lesson’ was going to
take. Cowboy was up and ready for a fight.
Spot clenched his fists, then stopped unexpectedly and - even more
unexpectedly - smiled. Granted, the smile was a little strained around the
edges, and the eyes still wavered between blue and grey, but a chord had been
struck. "Maybe I do. Maybe I did. Jack-" he said tentatively.
The brown eyes cooled also and both pairs of fists lowered. "I
know." Forgiveness asked and given for an offense only those two
understood.
Spot strolled down the street, posture deceptively casual,
not daring to betray his growing anxiety by hurrying. Brandt Street would bring
him to the waterfront. Normally, Piper would have met him by now. He only hoped
the boy’s absence was due to caution rather than anything else. Gardener had
been found in an alley off this street.
The true shock, however, came when he emerged from the narrow street and
turned onto the docks. He couldn’t remember a time when those piers hadn’t been
overrun with newsies, swimming, racing, gambling, singing, arguing, and
carrying the banner. Even in winter, a few couples could be found there,
escaping the crowded lodging house for a few precious moments. They were
completely bare.
Boiling with fury, Spot opened the lodging house door. His eyes swept across
the lobby, taking in the poker game among Cards, Pea Shooter, Robin, Pickles
and Parker, Fist patiently instructing Piper and Brat in the art of craps, and
Keet and Splitz deep in serious conversation. It was those last two that held
Spot’s attention, although a part of him had breathed a deep sigh of relief
upon seeing Piper.
"Keet." Parakeet’s head was not the only one to snap toward the
door at the sound of Spot’s voice. Several heads quickly bent over their
previous occupations upon seeing their leader’s hard expression. In one sharp
gesture, Spot pointed at the boy, over his shoulder at the staircase, then
turned on his heel, leaving Keet to follow and Splitz to feel very relieved
that he hadn’t been left in charge this time.
Once he reached the bunk room, Spot turned and leaned against one of the
bunks near the door. A single glare sent everyone in the room out of earshot as
Keet joined him. The younger boy was clearly nervous. Responsibility for the
crisis lay heavily on his shoulders - he was only fifteen, after all. Spot knew
that his own attitude did not inspire confidence, but while Parakeet was
probably the person he trusted most outside of Manhattan, he had no intention
of relieving the boy’s fears until certain questions were answered. He cocked
his head back expectantly. "What happened heah?"
Ragged locks of blond hair puffed away from Keet’s face as he gave a short
nervous sigh. "Coupla days afta ya left, I started noticin’ ev’ybody -
jist kinda nervy. I mean, we’d all been on edge since we found Gard’ner,
but-" He stopped and hurried on nervously. "But den Friday, Bats jist
up an’ says it."
"Says what?"
"He’s sayin’ how dis happenin’ - Gard’ner, I mean - was, well it
wouldn’t’a happened if he’d won dat fight. An’ he’s tawkin’ ‘bout how ya
wasn’t back yet an-" Spot’s eyes burned. The fight Keet referred to had
won him the leadership of Brooklyn. Bats had never forgotten the insult of
losing to a boy half his size and three years younger. "-An’ wond’rin
aloud if maybe Brooklyn din’t need a change a leaders." Keet’s brown eyes
pleaded with him not to kill the messenger.
"Ya coulda had Owl tell me dis." Spot commented, well aware that
it would have been easy to shrug off the responsibility.
The barest hint of a smile showed on Keet’s face. "What’ve I got
against Owl?" he replied.
Spot didn’t smile, but he didn’t take offense, either. In a way, he
appreciated the joke. "I ain’t gonna soak ya. Although-" His lips
tightened, and he glared through his friend. "-If Bats wants a
fight, he’s got it."
Keet cleared his throat, still a little nervous. "Dere’s a few agreed
wit ‘im. Splitz an’ me told ‘em dey could leave or fight. Well, dey left, but
dey’s comin’ back. Packer went out sellin’ yestidy - came back wit a broken
arm. I ain’t let da liddle guys outta me sight since den."
Spot clenched a fist, reminding himself sternly that Parakeet was not
the one to blame for the situation. If anyone is, it’s me.
"Good." He nodded quickly, once he was sure he wouldn’t lose his
temper just then. Keet’s expression lightened considerably at that single word.
"Now . . ."
Clown noticed something different almost as soon as she returned to the lodging
house that evening. Halfway through a poker game, she realized what it was.
"Where’s the Lord of the Earth gone to? Off sulking?"
Jack threw her an irritated look. "Spot went back ta Brooklyn." He
called Spitfire over and began whispering to her.
Clown returned to the game, surprised. She had difficulty imagining the
lodging house without Spot to annoy. Not that she missed him, by any means.
"Clown, ya gonna play or not?" Race asked.
She started. "Um, call."
The girls were climbing into bed when the yelp came from the boys’ bunkroom.
The sound was followed by a crash. Trading glances, they ran across the hall to
find that someone had lit a lamp and Jack was ransacking his bed, furiously. He
finally produced a small, green frog from the thin sheets. A ripple of stifled
laughter ran around the room. Clown could barely keep from laughing at the look
on Cowboy’s face.
Jack glared around the room, picked up the visitor and headed purposefully
for the door. "Aw, don’t hoit it!" came a voice from behind Clown.
"It took me ferevah ta find one!" Lacey turned, along with the rest
of the room, to look a Spitfire. The girl flashed a brief nervous grin before
bolting for the girls’ room with Jack on her heels.
"Spitfire!"
By the time, Clown and the rest of the stampeding newsies joined them, Jack
had cornered Porter in front of the open window. The girl attempted a winning
smile. "C’mon, Frankie . . ." She backed up nervously - and fell
right out the window onto the fire escape. There was a surprised yelp, a
muffled curse, and then Jack slammed the window shut.
"It wasn’t dat bad," Spitfire grumbled the next morning, flipping
through the newspaper.
"Aw, yer jist tired cuz ya din’t get any sleep," Jack teased.
"Shaddup," she muttered. "Ya din’t hafta ta lock it."
Crutchy grinned and patted her on the back in consolation. "You,
too," she grumbled, then yawned.
"So Jack," David sat down next to them, grinning. "Does Sarah
know about your ‘friend’? Because as a responsible brother, I can’t-"
"Now you shut up!" Jack groaned.
"Leave ‘im alone," Racetrack chided. "Don’t’cha know dey had
a fight?"
Blink nodded and stage whispered, "Lover’s quarrel."
"Am I gonna heah about dat d*mn frog fer da rest a me life?!" Jack
complained.
Race grinned, "I ain’t hoid nothin’ funnier, yet!"
Jack rolled his eyes and stood up. "Well, I’se sellin’ now. Dave, ya
comin’?"
Dave grinned. "I’ll get Les. Just don’t forget to bring your
girlfriend." He was answered by a loud, exaggerated sigh.
Clown studied her newspaper and ignored them all until she heard Racetrack
ask loudly, "What’s wrong wit Clown? She’s - quiet!" he added
as if it were a deadly disease.
"Spot’s gone," Blink replied equally loudly. "She ain’t got
nobody ta fight wit no more."
Race sympathized. "Poor Clown, what’s she gonna do now?"
"Either of you can take his place," Clown replied with a glare
over her shoulder.
"Race, am I wrong or was dat a invitation?" Kid Blink exclaimed.
"Sounds like it ta me." The two ran around in front of her and
bowed deeply. "We’se yer humble servants, my lady."
Clown batted at them with her newspaper, but against her will she had to
laugh at Racetrack’s expression. "You both ought to-" She gave up. "Get
out of here! It’s time to sell."
"An’ dere ain’t been nothin’ outta Bats in ovah a week." He made it a
statement, not a question.
"No woid," Splitz agreed darkly. Bats had gotten his point across
in more effective ways. Piano, like Packer, was now sporting a broken arm and
though he declared cheerfully that it would help him sell papers, no one was
fooled. Taps had vanished from the lodging house, but Blackie reported seeing
him in the group that sent him back with a black eye and several cracked ribs.
Not all the injuries came from Bats’ gang. Cards, notoriously short tempered
under good circumstances, had developed a case of nerves and cabin fever and
taken it up with Legs one morning. The two had settled down around a card table
- the only place Cards held no grudges -- afterwards, but Red and Mack, both of
whom had far longer fuses than Legs or Cards, were on the verge of a fight
themselves.
He watched them through narrowed eyes. "Whadda you t’ink?"
"He’s gonna hafta say somet’ing sooner or later," Keet replied.
Splitz nodded. "Even Bats ain’t dim enough ta t’ink dis is gonna win
him Brooklyn."
All right, Clown admitted finally. So she did miss him. He made life
interesting. And, perhaps, she had gone a bit far in baiting him. That didn’t
mean - whatever the girls thought - that she liked him. It just meant - She
sighed in frustration and called to Swifty.
"Spot," Bookworm called, limping into the bunk
room. Spot’s eyes narrowed on his leg. "Ostrich saw somebody ovah by da
bridge. Said he thought it was ‘mportant."
Robin rolled her eyes. "Wit him, it’s always important." Her voice
changed. "What happened ta ya, Worm?"
The boy shrugged philosophically. "Da usual."
"I said no sellin’ alone," Spot said coldly to disguise his worry.
"I wasn’t," Worm replied, settling down on his bed. "Fists is
downstairs."
"Not anymore I ain’t," the girl’s voice had an odd tone to it.
When Spot turned to the doorway, he saw the reason. One side of her face was
swollen almost beyond recognition. She caught his expression. "It’s
nothin’."
Spot scowled. "It ain’t 'nothin’.'" He gazed around the room.
Packer’s broken arm was not keeping him from whipping Legs and Fish at poker -
although the person who could not beat Fish was a poor gambler indeed. When had
he lost control?
"Anyways, I gots a message for ya," Fists added. "It’s,
uh-" she pulled the dried remains of a violet out of her pocket and passed
it over without looking at him. "Bats said ta meet ‘im tamorra mornin’ on
Carter Avenue," she whispered roughly.
Spot stared at the flower without taking it. "I fought ‘em,
Spot." After a long frozen moment, he replied, "I’ll kill
‘im."
The bunkroom was silent. It was broken, at last, by the sound of shouting
from the lobby.
"D*mn!" Pickles swore. Cards’ voice could also be heard blistering
the whitewash on Mr. Greenbarrow’s clean walls.
If I gotta pull dat bum outta anudda fight right now . . . Spot
headed for the door, eyes narrowing dangerously. I ain’t got ta da time for
it.
"I told you to let me go!" He knew that voice all too well. He
ground his teeth, emerged into the lobby and grabbed Cards’ arm in mid-swing.
The blond giant looked mildly surprised to find himself slamming into the
wall a few seconds later. "Aw right, break it up!" Mr. Greenbarrow,
emerging from the kitchen, caught his eye. After a pause, he nodded and left
Spot to deal with the situation.
He glared around the lobby - at Cards who was barely held back from the
fight by his leader’s presence, at Pickles who had backed up looking somewhat
bewildered, at Ostrich who cursed and nursed a bloody nose Spot had definitely not
given him, at the newsies who had followed him downstairs, and lastly, at Clown
who glared back at him from the middle of it all.
"I should have known you were involved in this." She crossed her
arms.
"What’s goin’ on?" he cut her off, and directed the question at
Cards.
"She was hanging aroun’ da bridge. Only one a Bats’ gang’d be out alone
dese days-"
"Having these goons drag me here is low, even for you-" Clown was
furious. All that time spent arguing with her conscience and all the effort put
in to coming to apologize and -
One of the boys objected to being called a goon and started forward. Spot
took a handful of his shirt and jerked him back. "Ostrich, da on’y reason
I ain’t lettin’ her soak ya is cuz we’se gonna be fightin’ tamorra," he
snapped, looking straight at Clown, rather than at the boy. "Dat goes fer
all t’ree a youse - an’ fer dat matta it’s da on’y reason I ain’t soakin’ ya
meself."
Caught off guard for the moment, Clown couldn’t think of anything to say.
After several minutes of silence, Spot crossed his arms. "Aw right, scram,
all a youse!"
The lobby was suddenly empty. Clown, who had been wondering how three dozen
newsies could fit into so small a space was even more taken aback by the speed
with which they disappeared.
"Impressive," she said, dripping sarcasm. "I think
I’ve-"
"What da h*ll are you doin’ heah?" Spot came closer.
"Being dragged across town by your dear friends-"
"Brooklyn ain’t no place fer-"
"Forgive for intruding on your territory, oh High and Mighty One, but
I’m perfectly capable of finding my way around without those three for
escorts."
"You don’t even know how lucky ya is dey found ya before Bats
did!" Spot retorted. "Dis ain’t no place-"
Clown took tight hold of her temper and smiled her sweetest smile. "If
you can handle it, I don’t have anything to worry about."
Spot’s lips tightened in response. "Aw right," he replied, an edge
to his voice. "Ya’s heah now, ya’s stayin’ heah." He’d learned better
than to try and kick her out, at least, she thought smugly. "Since you
ain’t boddered ta find out what was gettin’ yerself into when ya decided ta
walk inta da middle of a territory fight-"
"I should have known," she mocked. "Can’t you boys play
nice?"
Spot’s eyes flashed. "Yer stayin’ heah, an’ yer stayin’ outta my
way." His tone was a warning, but Clown had never heeded warnings.
"Of course, your Majesty," she gave him an exaggerated curtsy,
"This is your territory, and I’ll be getting home-"
"Ain’t you listened to a woid I’se said?!" Spot snapped, stepping
between her and the door. "I ain’t lettin’ me own boys out dere-" He
nodded over his shoulder. "-tanight, an’ I ain’t shoa as h*ll ain’t
lettin’you-"
Clown stiffened. "Who said you’d be ‘letting’ me do anything?" she
replied.
"Yeah, ‘lettin’ you.’ If you wanna go runnin’ inta Bats, ya’s stupider
den I t’ought. You ain’t gettin’ yaself soaked on my territory."
There was honest concern there, a part of Clown realized. She stared back
for several moments, then smirked. "Well, I shouldn’t bruise you in front
of your boys, should I?" She clapped in mock excitement. "I get to
see the Great Spot Conlon in action!"
He glared at her. "Tamorra we’se gonna be fightin’. Yer stayin’ heah
wit da kids an’ outta it. Keet’ll take ya back ta Manhattan aftawords."
She began to regret agreeing to stay. "I can take care of myself,"
she said tightly. "And if you think I’m going to wait here like some
little-"
"I’se poifectly aware a dat," Spot retorted. "Ya’s a damn
good fighta an’-"
"-high class chit that doesn’t know right from left and needs
somebody’s protection-"
"-Will ya get it t’rough yer thick head dat it ain’t you I’se
tryin’ ta protect!" Spot exploded. Clown stopped, a little surprised, but
he continued. "Ya’s a good fighta - maybe even betta den me-"
That started her up again. "Thank you for the compliment your high and
mightiness-"
"- But Pipa’ ain’t, an’ I ain’t buryin’ anudda one a me boys if I can
help it!" The pain was clear on his face for the first time. Clown
couldn’t help but see it. She opened her mouth in surprise, closed it, then
opened it again involuntarily to speak.
"Burying?" she asked quietly.
Spot read the expression on her face even before she spoke. He couldn’t believe
he’d blurted that out like that. To Clown of all people.
He turned away, seeing the shock turn to question, then to sympathy in her
eyes. "Keet!" he called. He didn’t want to have the discussion that
was certain to follow if he let it. He didn’t want to hear the accusation that
would follow if he explained - "What kind of a leader are
you?"
The blond boy emerged from the thin air he’d disappeared to earlier.
"Spot?"
Spot glanced back at Clown. "Clown’s gonna be stayin’ heah wit Brat an’
Pipa. Dat means Pickles can go wit da rest a us. An’ tell Cards dat if he lifts
a finga ‘fore I say so, he’ll lose it."
She surrendered, following the Brooklyn leader up the stairs to the bunkroom.
Somehow he knew she wouldn’t challenge him now. She did try to speak to him,
but he had an uncanny knack for being urgently needed across the room whenever
she approached. Clearly, he didn’t intend to elaborate on the confession.
"Heah, hold dis." Clown turned, startled at the voice at her
elbow. A brown-haired, red-vested girl handed her a worn white sheet and
climbed on one of the beds. "Hand me a corner." Slightly bemused,
Clown did so. "T’anks. Now give da odder end ta Splitz, over dere."
She gestured across the room. ‘Splitz,’ a brown-haired giant of a boy smiled at
her and took the other end of the sheet. Between them, the newsies hung up a
curtain from wall to wall, dividing the single bunkroom in half.
"We ain’t got separate rooms fer goils an’ boys like youse do in
Manhattan," the girl explained, jumping down. "Da name’s Robin."
Clown took the offered hand. "Clown."
"I know." Robin gave a shadowed smile. "Can you shoot a
sling-shot?" Clown shook her head. "Den Pea’ll show ya-"
"Naw, Clown’s stayin’ heah wit da kids," yet another voice put in.
When Lacey turned, she recognized the blond-haired Keet. He smiled at her a
little self-conciously. "We ain’t been properly innerduced, yet-"
"Dis is Parakeet," Robin interrupted briskly. "Ya can trust
anyt’ing he says unless he’s tawkin’ about hisself, cuz he’s too modest fer his
own good."
Keet blushed. "Spot said ya’s watchin’ Brat an’ Pipa’ tamorra," he
said, ignoring Robin. "Ya met ‘em yet?"
Clown shook her head.
"Den I’ll innerduce ya. Splitz!" he called, "Spot wanted ta
see ya. He’s downstairs"
The giant nodded and headed for the door.
Eventually, the landlord climbed the stairs and declared lights out. Clown felt
slightly smug. Spot would have to give her a moment now.
"Clown," Spot himself interrupted her thoughts. As soon as he’d
caught her attention, he opened a door to what Clown had assumed was a closet.
It was a closet in size, at least. Through the open door, she glimpsed a narrow
cot, a foggy mirror and an upturned crate on which rested a candle and a folded
blue shirt. Not a single window or bit of decoration interrupted the
white-washed walls. Spare, but private.
Spot returned to shove a thin blanket into her arms, bruskly. "Take da
loft," he gestured upwards and Clown followed his gaze to a trapdoor in
the ceiling. "Ain’t no odder beds free," he added, before vanishing
back into his own room.
November fifth dawned crisp and bright, an odd setting for a fight. The newsies
boasted cheerfully, but Clown sensed something beneath their confidence. It lay
in the sidelong glances they gave their leader, and in the way their eyes
searched the lodging house whenever they lost track of their younger members.
Clown watched from her perch on Robin’s bunk as the newises - girls and boys
- prepared to leave.
"Whaddaya we waitin’ for?" Cards asked loudly. "Let’s get
‘em!" Spot shot him a look, and he subsided.
"Wheah’s Kevin’?" the Brooklyn leader scanned the bunkroom.
"Heah, Spot!" answered a boy Clown placed at ten or so. He held up
a slingshot and grinned.
Spot’s eyes rested briefly on the weapon. "Brat?"
Clown barely heard this reply, but she located the brown-eyed four year old
in Splitz’ shadow. Sandpiper was already at Spot’s side - from which, she
learned, he rarely strayed. "You t’ree is stayin’ heah, right." He
looked meaningfully at Kevin once more.
The boy frowned. "I can-"
"Ya’s stayin’ heah." Kevin glowered, but knew not to argue. His
older friends looked at Spot, expectantly. "Right. C’mon."
Kevin sulked when the boys had left, but Piper seemed determined to show Clown
everything about the lodging house. He began with the bunk he shared with
Parakeet, "He gots da top bunk, cuz he’s olda’ . . . an’ dat’s da
washroom, an’ up in da attic, next ta da loft, we keeps da stuff we don’t want
nobody knowin’ about-"
"Da way you tell ev’rybody ev’ryt’ing it ain’t gonna stay secret too
long!" Kevin exclaimed, watching them.
"She’s a newsie," Piper retorted. "Dere’s a secret-"
Kevin snorted. "-door under dat bed, too. In case da bulls comes
aroun’," the boy continued. He grabbed Clown’s arm and dragged her toward
the stairs. Brat trailed after them. "It goes down t’rough da walls an’
out under Mr. Greenbarrow’s room heah. An’ heah’s da kitchen, but we don’t eat
heah much," he concluded, coming to a stop in the middle of the room.
Brat, despite his name, was less talkative than Piper. After fifteen minutes
of staring at Clown, he pulled his hands from his mouth and asked, "Ya was
really in da circus?"
She smiled. "Yep."
"Did ya do tricks?" he asked.
"A lot. Want me to teach you?"
He nodded shyly. "Robin does tricks," he confided. "She can
walk on ‘er hands."
Clown grinned. "Like this?" She placed her hands on the floor and
raised her feet into the air. Brat grinned back. She took a few steps, then
moved her weight and flipped back to a standing position. The boys clapped.
Still grinning, she flipped backwards again. She landed safely, but sent a pan
clanging off the counter in her wake.
She winced and shared a guilty grin with the boys. "Maybe we should do
this upstairs where there’s more room."
There was more space in the bunkroom, but Clown forgot about gymnastic
lessons when she entered. There was more space than she would have liked,
particularly in the corner where Kevin had been pouting a few minutes earlier.
"Kevin’s gonna be in trouble." Piper surveyed the empty room,
apparently taking some satisfaction in the prospect. Clown glanced down at him.
"I ain’t buryin’ anudda one a me boys!" Spot declared. "Lacey
. . ." her father wondered.
"I’ll have to go after him," she said aloud. "Do you know
where Spot’s going?"
"A coise!" Piper exclaimed, rather indignantly. "He’s meetin’
Bats on Carter Avenue. I can show ya-"
"Just tell me where it is."
Contrary to popular belief, Clown had an excellent head for directions. She
didn’t doubt Kevin was heading for the fight or that she could find him using
Piper’s directions, but she hated leaving the younger boys alone. On the other
hand, taking them into a fight as vicious as she suspected this one would be
could only end in disaster.
"Is there one of those hiding places that no one else would know
about?" she asked Piper unoptimistically.
The boy shook his head. "Spot knows ev’ryt’ing."
Does he? she thought wryly. "No one besides Spot, then?"
"Ya mean dat Bats don’t know about?" he replied. Clown was
startled at how easily he followed her thoughts, but she nodded. "Maybe,
but prob’ly not. I don’t know ‘bout any."
So much for that. All three tensed at a noise from below. Before she could
stop him, Piper ran down the stairs. Less than a minute later, he returned.
"It’s jist Mista Greenbarrow."
"So ya t’ink ya gots a betta chance at beatin’ me dis time?" Spot
asked. He would much rather dispense with words and tear into the older boy.
"Don’tyou?" Bats replied.
Clown sent up a prayer of fervent thanks for the landlord’s return as she ran.
She spotted Kevin just as she came to the end of Sandpiper’s directions. The
newsies looked as thought they’d been through a brawl already - Robin’s nose
was bleeding profusely and Cards had a black eye to match the one she’d given
him. - but no one was fighting when she reached the group. Kevin looked rather
dismayed at the fact.
All attention was fixed on Spot and a taller, darker-haired boy she assumed
was Bats. She grabbed Kevin’s collar and located Keet. The blond boy showed no
surprise at seeing them, but that may have had more to do with what Bats was
saying than anything else.
"Seems ta me a leader protects his boys. You ain’t been doin’ much a
dat lately."
At her side, Keet drew breath angrily, a pair of red spots appearing in his
cheeks. He stiffened, but his reaction was nothing compared to his leader’s.
Spot leaped on the other boy like a spring wound farther than had ever been
intended for it. If Bats was startled by Spot’s ferocity, he didn’t show it.
The space around the two boys widened. The faces Clown recognized lit with
vindication for a moment, but the triumph lasted only a moment. The others -
Clown assumed they were Bats’ gang - were taken aback at first, but gathered
confidence as the fight progressed.
He was barely thinking. "I fought ‘em, Spot." An eight year old might
not be able to put up much of a fight, but he certainly could. "What
kind of a leader are you?" He ground his teeth. This kind.
Lacey thought she would be sick. It wasn’t the fighting. She’d seen plenty of
that. It was the look in Spot’s eyes. He managed to slam the other boy to the
ground. From Bats’ dazed expression, the fall had taken the fight out of him,
but Spot showed no sign of releasing him. He had his hands around Bats’ neck
and his eyes . . . In a minute, you’re going to look up at me and ask me
what you’ve done.
There was a murmuring among the newsies, but ultimately silence. Keet cleared
his throat and stepped forward, but Splitz grabbed him back. He’s going to
kill him. Clown’s knees threatened to give way. She had to forcibly remind
herself that she stood frozen on the streets of Brooklyn - not in a circus
trailer with the distant roar of a crowd in her ears. "Don’t-" Pea
Shooter jumped at the sound of her voice. "Don’t. You won. You don’t have
to-" her voice cracked.
"Spot-" Time unfroze. Clown’s voice shook with - surely not fear? Her
presence didn’t surprise him, but that did. It made no sense. The girl who all
of Brooklyn couldn’t impress, who never even flinched when -
She was afraid of him.
Clown, afraid of him.
For the first time his eyes focused on Bats’ face. Strange to find such guilessly
blue eyes in such a face. They almost reminded him of Gardener’s. . . . His
grip tightened with the knot in his chest. But - but -
His fingers loosened their hold. "You gots one day ta get yaself an’
yer sorry excuse fer a gang outta dis city," he warned harshly. "Ya
don’t want ta be found afta dat."
Clown heard the whispered words, saw the minute change in Spot’s bearing and
breathed a prayer of relief.
"Splitz," he continued without taking his eyes from Bats,
"make shoa nobody gets unhealthy ideas about sticking around."
Splitz’s shoulders squared in response.
Spot stood up, eyes lifting for the first time without seeming to see
anything. A path cleared before him, newsies melting aside like butter cut with
a hot knife.
Splitz appeared more than willing to take charge of the losers. Face grim,
he pulled Bats to his feet. The other newsies slowly stretched into life again.
Keet saw to Robin’s nose until she batted him away, then glanced at Clown and
down at Kevin. "Fer some reason I t'ought Spot told you ta stay at da
lodgin’ house," he asked the boy.
Kevin shook his head, subdued.
"Don’t worry." Clown patted his shoulder gently. "Back to the
lodging house?" she asked Keet. He nodded, already beginning to herd the
newsies away, lending a shoulder when necessary.
Kevin stuck close to Clown’s side as they walked back. Lacey’s mind had
already flown ahead of the group. She could only imagine what had gone through
Spot’s mind in those last few minutes. He must have been agonizing for weeks.
What could have happened to hurt him so deeply? "Buryin’ anudda one a
me boys . . ."
The door to the Brooklyn leader’s room was closed when Clown reached the
lodging house. As the bunkroom filled up, she noticed everyone’s eyes avoided
it. She found Keet and touched his sleeve. "Is he all right?" she
asked worried.
Keet glanced toward the door and away again. "Yeah." He sounded
much less certain, however. "Jist leave ‘im alone fer a bit."
Unconvinced, Clown strode toward the door. Keet’s eyes widened and he tried
to stop her. "Don’t-" He winced when she knocked on the door.
"Clown," he pleaded. He gave up as she knocked again. When there was
still no answer, she reached for the doorknob.
The door opened under her hand, and Spot stood in the doorway with a face
that meant death for whoever had interrupted him. "Keet-" Then
his eyes dropped to Lacey’s face. "What?" he asked tightly.
She pushed him back lightly, ignoring the question. He grabbed her arm
without the least gentleness. "I ain’t in da mood fer you right
now, Clown."
In reply, she pushed him again, closing the door behind herself. "Now
talk," she ordered softly. "I have the feeling you haven’t."
He could have pretended not to take her meaning. Under any other circumstances,
he probably would have, but this time . . . He dropped her arm turning away.
"Dere ain’t much ta say."
"Really?" He could almost see the lift of that skeptical eyebrow.
"That’s why you’re hiding out here?"
"I ain’t hidin’!" He whirled on her, more furious at the truth
than he could be at any lie. I came back from Manhattan, din’t I?
She stood as calm and composed as ever. "Then there’s no reason for you
not to talk to me."
He listed them. "Dis is my territory, my house, an’ my room. Ya
got no business heah-" To his fury, she pushed him back again. This time
he landed sitting on his cot. She sat next to him.
"Talk."
Talk. Was it Gardener’s face that stared up at him every time he
closed his eyes or Bats’? It didn’t seem to make much difference. Suddenly, it
didn’t seem to matter if he told her either. And why not? She’d saved him. She
of all people deserved to know what from. He began haltingly. "Bats - dere
was dis kid we called Gard’ner. About Grins’ age. Dat same kinda laugh all da
time. Somehow, he managed to make it t’rough eight yeahs in dis city witout
seein’ it. Witout seein’ da doit or da pain, or da whores or da drunks. He
wasn’t stupid. He knew ta avoid da bulls, an’ stay close ta da docks, ‘cept
when he was visitin’ his sista. An’ he knew when t’ings was gettin’ too rough
ta sell alone, an’ he came ta me." This was harder. "But ya
see," he laughed, "I gots dis liddle rule. I don’t sell wit nobody.
My time is my time. Well, he knew dat, a coise, but nobody else could take ‘im
aroun’. So I told him he’d be aw right. Said da boys’d be watchin’ out an’
ain’t nobody stupid enough ta hoit a Brooklyn newsie.
"‘Cept, ya see, I was wrong. An’ da kid believed me. An’ five minutes
from heah, some a dose same boys jumped him. Or maybe he hoid somet’in dey
din’t want known jist yet. Cuz Bats wasn’t quite ready ta try fer Brooklyn, an’
he din’t want woid gettin’ out ‘fore he was. So dat kid’s dead now. Because
Spot Conlon sells alone." He heard his voice finishing as if from a
distance, and waited for it to come. What kind of a leader are you?
The cot shifted under him, and suddenly he was wrapped in a warm embrace. He
stiffened. Then something seemed to dissolve and he was hugging her back, face
in her hair, while she whispered over and over how sorry she was. An unfamiliar
lump rose in his throat.
If I’d done one thing differently . . . Lacey knew the thought so well. If
I’d been a few minutes earlier. If, if, if. Every superior word, every
insult she’d held against him vanished. They were kindred - if only in guilt. But
how much more awful - "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
Spot’s eyes were growing wet. He shook with the effort of holding back sobs.
Abruptly, he stood up, forcing her to release him. "Get out." Her
first reaction was confusion, her second anger.
"What-"
He blinked rapidly. "Get out!" He shoved her roughly toward the
door, half expecting her to slap him. Once again, she surprised him. Clown
stared at him, anger fading as quickly as it had come with an expression that
almost shamed him - understanding. The she turned, left and shut the door
quietly behind her - just as the tears began to fall.
Keet stood in the middle of the bunkroom, directing one group of newsies one
way and ordering another to bring water and towels to help, but somehow he had
time to notice Clown slip out of Spot’s room. "Ya aw right?" he
asked, probably in response to the tears in her eyes. "He ain’t usually
like dis, but it’s betta ta leave ‘im alone."
She shook her head at his assumption. "It isn’t that." But she
didn’t elaborate. She had no right to share Spot’s secrets. "All of
you-" She changed the subject without appearing to, trying to show her
sympathy. "How can you-"
Keet looked around the room. "Ev’ybody’ll be aw right," he
reassured her. "Fights ain’t usually dis big, but we’se seen enough of
‘em. Pretty soon dey’ll start moanin’ an’ ya’ll know dey’s aw right." The
newsies were noticeably subdued, however, Clown couldn’t help thinking. Keet
noticed her glance around the room and explained, "It’s jist - afta
Gard’ner-"
"I heard," she replied with a gulp, thinking about how much she’d
heard. "Can I help?"
Eventually, the shadows creeping steadily across the room communicated the
passage of time to Spot. True, evening was coming earlier and earlier now, but
he had still let a long day pass him by. He whispered a curse to the shadows,
but it held more relief than annoyance. Standing, he pushed open the door and
returned to the light and noise that was the Brooklyn lodging house. A few
heads turned his way, but no one remarked on his absence or his reappearance.
Keet stood up and crossed to him. "Splitz is seein’ Bats outta New
Yawk. I t’ink he’s gonna stop by Manhattan so Jack don’t have a heart
attack." Spot’s eyes flicked to Clown at this. "She won’t leave long
as she can help," Keet explained uncomfortably.
Spot shook his head. "I ain’t worried about it." Leaving Parakeet,
he crossed to the girl and leaned against a nearby bunk. Brat laughed like mad
as Clown swung him into the air. Spot cracked a smile. I gotta innerduce her
ta Lynn . . .
"Dat looks like fun." He smirked. Clown set the boy down and
turned. There were no comments, sarcastic or otherwise, about his return to the
land of the living. And, when he though about it, he hadn’t really expected
any.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid you’re a little much for me to
manage." She smiled. It took him a moment to realize that she was teasing
him. He’d suspected this side to her existed, but he’d never actually seen it.
They’d been too busy fighting to get to know one another.
"I’se surprised. I din’t ya found anyt’ing too much ta manage," he
teased back. The same words would have sharpened both their tempers not long
ago, but the edge was gone. A question in her eyes answered itself and
vanished, and her smiled widened.
"The all-knowing Spot Conlon can still be surprised," she laughed.
He smirked. "Ya’s tryin’ ta see how far ya can push me."
Clown sighed in mock-disappointment. "He’s gone and caught on!"
she mourned. "What will I do now?" She turned serious and looked
around the bunkroom. "It doesn’t look like there’s anything left for me to
do. I should go make sure Jack doesn’t worry himself to death and upset the
frogs." She grinned to herself.
Actually, she done all she could several hours before. Owl had offered to walk
back to Manhattan with her, but she’d wanted to stay until she was certain Spot
was all right. And he was all right, possibly better than he’d been for as long
as she’d known him.
"Frogs?" Spot raised an amused eyebrow. "Jacky boy has some
explainin’ ta do."
"You have no idea," she laughed.
"So can I walk ya back?" he asked - asked - which was a
victory in itself had Clown only known it. Clown opened her mouth, but he
interrupted. "I know ya don’t need nobody’s help, but if one a me
boys-"
"Ach-hem?" Pea Shooter had overheard.
"Or one a me goils picks a fight wit ya, dey’s gonna lose. I’ll hafta
deal wit dem whinin’ bout dere bruises fer da next week an’ I gots sensitive
ears." He smirked and Clown smiled in reply.
"In that case, I accept." He held out an arm which she also
accepted, smiling.
"So where did you get that key?" It was a question Clown had been
dying to ask for weeks. "You wouldn’t believe the number of rumors I’ve
heard about it."
"I’se prob’ly hoid most a dem, but da truth is it belonged ta me
fadder. He loved dis woman an’ she gave it ta him, cuz dey was gonna get
married. Two days before da weddin’ she ran away wit dis odder guy."
Clown frowned. "What if she had a reason for going?"
"Like what?" he asked skeptically. Goils. Hafta stick tagedda.
Clown shrugged. "Say she was afraid he would be hurt unless she ran
away with the other man. Say the man threatened her, but she kept the other
piece to that charm all her life, even though her husband might have found
it-"
Spot smirked contemptuously. "Dat’s very romantic - how’d youse know
dere’s anudda piece?"
"Because she did keep it." She pulled on the string around her neck
and brought out a small silver lock. "And her husband did find it. And one
night when he was drunk, he killed her because of it. And the only witness was
his sixteen-year-old daughter."
Spot’s eyes which had gone wide with shock for a few moments, lit with
comprehension. "So dat’s why ya ran away."
"Bright aren’t you?" But her comment didn’t have its usual bite,
she was trying to keep from remembering the look on her mother’s face just before
she died. She stopped and looked down at the water flowing under the bridge.
"I’m sorry, if dat helps." After a moment’s hesitation, he put an
arm around her shoulders. She turned and buried her face in his chest.
"Thanks."
The irony of the situation struck him. "D-n," he swore humorously.
"We is a pair, ain’t we?"
She nodded, recovering a little. "I guess we are."
"Clean sheets!" Clown sighed. "I feel like I haven’t touched
a bed in an age."
"Clean’s debatable," Firefly snickered.
"So’s sheets!" Pounce retorted. She sprawled on her stomach across
the bed. "So, what happened in Brooklyn? Dere’s rumors all ovah ‘bout some
huge fight."
"Spot. Territory," Clown replied briefly, as if that said it all.
She didn’t have the words to explain, even if she’d wanted to. She turned
towards the next bunk so she wouldn’t have to look at Pen or her sister.
Demands for more information quieted down once Kloppman came through the
bunkroom.
But they’ll accept that, she thought, bemused as sleep took over the
girls. I would have accepted that two days ago. The poor boy. He didn’t even
do . . . Inevitably, that thought led to the next. Did Father feel that
way?
"You plannin’ ta move out or somet’in?" Jack asked in amusement.
"Ya jist got back from Brooklyn!"
"You’re going," Lacey replied. "Is there any reason why I
shouldn’t?"
Jack rubbed his eye with a grin, though the bruise had long since faded.
"Not as long as you can hit dat hard."
"Besides," she grinned back, "I haven’t finished my slingshot
lessons."
Nickel grinned mischievously. "Ya’d almost t’ink she wanted ta see
somebody." Firefly bit her lip and glared at her best friend.
Clown frowned. "I want to see if ‘somebody’ as you put it, is managing
to run Brooklyn any better than he was the last time I was there."
"Shoa ya is!" Pie Eater replied.
"Well, well." They had barely crossed the bridge when Spot greeted
them with a smirk. "Jacky-boy an’ Mouth, I expected - you ain’t had enough
a Brooklyn, yet, Clown?"
Clown smiled. "You can’t scare me away that easily."
"I wouldn’t presume ta try."
She sensed rather than saw David’s eyebrows rise, and turned mischievously.
"Something wrong?"
He grinned to himself and shook his head. "Nothing at all."
She had caught him at a bad time, Clown concluded, watching from a distance
while Spot talked with his best friends. Anyone who felt so deeply couldn’t
help, but show it - willing or no.
"Please, tell me you ain’t gonna get hooked on ‘im!" Pea Shooter
exclaimed as her pupil’s attention wandered.
"Don’t even joke about that!" she replied. "Now what were you
saying?"
"Clown," Jack called over. "Ya comin’?"
They hadn’t quite finished . . . She glanced at Pea Shooter who grinned.
"Ya wanna excuse?"
Lacey glared. "You haven’t finished teaching me," she replied with
dignity, then raised her voice to call back. "No, I’ll stay the
night," she called back.
It wasn’t as if she had any reason to start a romance, Clown thought. She liked
him, she was forced to admit, but it was different. Not like a brother,
exactly; Spot was nothing like Sam or Joseph or Peter or Jimmy . . . she gave
up with a sigh. There was no point in trying to define it anyway. He was Spot.
And if she could get away from all the implications of the word, she would have
said she loved him.
Abruptly, Spot asked, "Can you whistle?"
"Pardon?" she laughed. He had been waxing eloquent - her mouth
twitched - on his adventures as the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, inspired no
doubt by the shouts from the newsies swarming the docks around them.
"Can ya whistle?" he repeated. "I wanna teach ya
somet’in." He whistled an apparently random series of notes. "Doubt
it’s evah gonna happen," he grinned, "but if ya evah in somet’in ya
can’t handle, ya whistle like dat, an’-"
"Spot?" Sandpiper had wandered over.
"‘S okay, kid," Spot replied distractedly. "I’se jist
teachin’ Clown." He turned back to Lacey. "Anyways, dat’ll bring half
a Brooklyn runnin’. Try it."
"I’m awful at whistling," she warned, but attempted the whistle
with little success.
"Spot?"
"Piper, I toldja it’s-" Spot looked down, the boy’s tone
registering. "Yeah, Piper?"
"Cards got pulled in."
Spot swore, and Piper jumped. "Can’t dat bum keep ‘is fists ta hisself
fer once? What happened?"
"Well ya know he was goin’ ta a game in Manhattan. He ran inta some
guys an’ sorta got inta a fight . . ." Piper trailed off. Cards’ temper
was legendary.
Spot wistfully debated leaving the boy in jail for a week or so, then
dismissed the dream. "Which courthouse? Ours or-"
"Crow’s."
"Aw right, I want Keet, Robin an’ Legs outside da Refuge as soon as
it’s dark. Tell ‘em not ta move till I gets dere." He turned back to
Clown.
Don’t even think about leaving me here, she thought, but before she
could say anything Spot smirked.
"Ya evah been part of a break out?" he asked.
Cards was less than pleased to find her among the group that broke him out, but
he kept his grumbles to a minimum.
"Why do I get the feeling Jack won’t be happy about this?" Clown
mused aloud as they crept away from the prison.
They froze as a guard strolled by ahead of them.
"We’se walked inta da Refuge in da middle of da night, nearly got
caught twice, an’ nevah mentioned it ahead a time," Robin murmured back.
"What’s not ta be happy about?"
"It’s clear," Keet whispered.
Once again, Spot walked her back to Manhattan. "Ya aw right?" he
asked abruptly.
She’d been lost in thought. She shook her head, then one corner of her mouth
turned up in something like a smile. "As much as I loved - love - my
mother, I’m glad she didn’t marry Patrick."
"Why?"
"Because," she turned to him, "If she had, then we’d be sibs,
and then I couldn’t do this." With that, she stood on tiptoe and kissed
him.
Spot stepped back quickly. "No games, Clown." he said dangerously.
They hadn’t fought all day. Clown supposed it was inevitable. "And
what’s that supposed to mean, Mr. All-Mighty Leader-Of-Brooklyn?" she
asked hotly.
He put a hand on her arm, and she yanked it away, but something about the
way he was standing, almost ready to flee, stopped her from walking away or
hitting him. "It means," he said intensely, but with a very
vulnerable expression in his blue eyes, "dat if ya’s jist playin’ aroun’,
tell me now. Cuz I don’t knows how I’se gonna pick up da pieces a me heart when
ya decides ta end it." Her face grew hot, and she knew she must be
blushing.
"Pounce was right," she quipped after a speechless moment.
"You can be charming when you want to be."
Spot smirked, but his eyes were serious. "I love ya, Lacey
Peterson."
Clown was beyond speechless. She somehow managed to suppress her shock at
his confession and raise an eyebrow. "The all-seeing Spot Conlon knows my
name?"
He reached into his shirt and pulled out something white - her handkerchief.
"Ya was lookin’ fer it," he said a little sheepishly - Spot Conlon -
sheepish! That was something she’d never expected to see. "Ya can have it
back."
She pushed his hand back toward him. "Keep it - and keep this."
This time when she kissed him, he kissed her back.
A few minutes later, Spot pulled away. "Ostrich?" he said to no
one Clown could see. The night suddenly grew even more still.
"Scram."
She heard an embarrassed "Coise, Spot," and a shadow took off for
the Brooklyn side of the bridge with undignified haste. Spot smirked down at
her.
"Ya made me fergit me own spies."
"Will he tell anyone?" she asked, more out of curiosity than
embarrassment. She tucked a piece of hair back under her hat.
"Don’t t’ink ‘e hoid, though ‘e saw enough. I’ll make sure he don’t if
ya don’t want."
His wording made Clown think. "Would you care? If he told anyone? We’re
both due for a lot of jokes, you know."
He picked her up and swung her around, earning a box on the ear when he put
her down. "If dey put it on da front page a da Sun tamorra, I wouldn’t
care."
"Clown?" They had left the Brooklyn Bridge behind and were continuing
on to Duane Street.
"Yes?"
"Awhile ago - ya was askin’ ‘bout da key. Well da odder t’ing - me
fadda said dat - if I evah did find someone - ta give dis key ta da goil I
wanted ta marry." Lacey stopped short. "Dat scares ya, don’t
it?"
"If you’re saying you want to give it to me, a little," she
admitted. Actually, it scared her more than a little - how much she’d never
admit.
"I nevah t’ought I’d see da day," he joked. "Seriously,
though, wouldja wear it? Jist ta know dat I ast an’ you’ll t’ink about it fer
someday? You can always give it back. I promise. Anytime. Tamorra or five yeahs
from now. No questions ast. But jist ta say ya’ll t’ink about it?"
She considered it for all of five minutes and then her hands went to the
string around her neck. "If you’ll wear mine." The street was dark
and close to deserted, but neither would have cared if it was noon and all of
New York had been using that small side street.
They said good-bye at the door of the Duane Street lodging house. It wasn’t
until Clown stepped out of the dream world that was New York at night and into
the familiar lobby that she realized what had happened. When she did, she
couldn’t keep a blissful grin from spreading across her face.
"You’re late, Clown." But there was a twinkle in Kloppman’s eye.
She murmured an apology. "Tell Spot we’ve still got a bed free," he
added.
Spot poked his head in the door, smirking. "T’anks, Kloppman, but I
gotta get back ta Brooklyn."
"Of course," Clown said, signing in, "if he leaves them alone
for an hour, they fall apart." She looked up from the registration book,
and they shared one last glance before he disappeared onto the street and she
ran up to the bunkroom.
When she entered, the girls were in the middle of undressing. Clouds was the
first to see her. "Well look who’s fin’ly heah!"
"So Clown," Nickel teased, "ya decided not ta stay da
night?"
Clown tried to glare at the girl, but all she could manage was a wider grin.
"Now ya know she’s fallin’ fer ‘im," Pen laughed. "A few
weeks ago, ya’d’a been soaked fer dat, Nick."
Clown threw the oldest girl a tolerant smile and began undressing herself.
When she finished, she noticed Pounce giving her a speculative look.
"Somet’in happened, din’t it?" her best friend asked.
With an enigmatic smile, she replied, "Wouldn’t you like to
know?" and climbed into bed.
"So I guess youse two is done fightin’ now?" Pounce asked as they
waited on line outside the World building the next morning.
"Of course not!" Clown smiled. "Can you imagine how dull
life would be?"
Truth, just ahead of the two, shook her head in mock-disappointed.
"Clown, ya went soft on me! I’se da on’y sane poison left aroun’
heah!"
Clown slapped her arm lightly, but laughed.
"Hundred, Borin’," Truth added to the distribution officer.
"Yeah," Pounce teased, "Lynn betta watch out, ‘fore he
ditches her for ya!"
Lynn. She hadn’t heard the name in weeks, it seemed. Clown’s smile
faded as she stepped up to the window.
"How many?" Mr. Burrin asked.
"Clown," Swifty asked when they came to a likely street corner.
"Ya wanna perform now, while ya’s fresh or wait till dere’s more people
out?"
"Perform, definately." The exertion would keep her mind off Spot
and Lynn for a couple hours at least. She stretched, bouncing a little, and
began a series of backflips along the sidewalk.
Spot appeared in Manhattan a week or so later. Unfortunately, this gave Clown a
week or so to brood. Spot might have missed the stiffness in her greeting. He
might have missed the way she slid her hand out of his when he tried to kiss
it. He could not have failed to notice that something was up, however, when she
place her hands on his chest and pushed him none-too-gently away from her.
Lacey had all the subtlety of a fist in the face.
"Clown, what’s wrong?" Without his meaning it to, it came out
harshly. Spot was not accustomed to giving or receiving tenderness.
"This isn’t a good idea, Spot," Clown said, eyes fixed on the
tenement building behind him. The temperature on the corner dropped ten
degrees.
"Whaddaya mean," he replied icily, "it ain’t a good
idea?"
He was angry with her! He whispered that she had his heart in
her keeping and he had another girl. Two hearts? she thought cynically.
She channeled all her fury into a smirk that was a mirror image of his own and
quoted her earlier words to Pounce. "Of course. We’re much better off
fighting. Think how dull life would be without us arguing!"
Spot froze. He clenched his fist, furiously, whirled around and slammed it
into the nearest wall. When he turned around, he was the granite statue again -
all except his voice. "I ain’t-" he said with difficulty, "-in
da habit a breakin’ promises, an’ I said no questions, but ya gotta tell me
why." His anger became more and more audible as he added steadily, "I
don’t mean jokin’ aroun’, eidda. I toldja, if ya wanna play games, ya picked da
wrong poison."
Clown couldn’t believe her ears. She was playing games? "You
hypocrite!" She punctuated the last word with a slap, her own temper
rising to meet his.
"Dammit! What was dat for?"
She ignored him. "You have the nerve to - I believed every word
you said-"
"You sayin’ I lied?" he demanded quietly.
"Who’s Lynn?" she retorted challengingly.
"Lynn?" Anger and frustration dissolved into bewilderment. Then he
began laughing. "Ya wanna-" He shook his head and laughed some more.
"Ya wanna meet Lynn?"
"I think you’ve managed to pay me back for every time I humiliated
you." Clown whispered. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet all day.
"Where are we going?" she’d asked, by no means mollified as Spot
led her through Manhattan to a small cathedral and a building adjoining it.
Spot nodded at the sign above the door as they approached. "St.
Catherine’s Orphanage." She watched in slight bemusement as he knocked on
the door, removing his cap at the same time. "It’s Evan." he said
when the door cracked open. "Ta see Lynn? I brought a friend wit me."
Lacey raised her eyebrows at him when the door shut, and they were left
waiting. He shrugged defensively. "Well, I couldn’t ‘xactly go tellin’ a
nun dat me name’s Spot."
"Evan!" A tall, kind-looking nun came out of the orphanage, and he
turned. "Lynn’s missed you. I’m sorry Sister Sarah left you waiting out
here."
"Aw, it ain’t nothin’. Mudda Ann, dis is Lacey. She’s, uh, a friend a
mine."
What were they to each other? Clown wondered. They’d been enemies,
friends, and - what? Mother Ann seemed to have no doubts. Her eyes twinkled
knowingly as she shook Lacey’s hand. Despite the assumption - or because of it?
- Clown liked the nun immediately. The wwoman did not even blink an eye at her
wardrobe, let alone comment.
"Come in, both of you. It’s cold enough out here. The children will be
coming from breakfast soon. As if on cue, a line of boys and girls that Lacey
placed at about Pips’ age began filing through the entrance hall. One of the
youngest of the girls saw them and broke out of line to come running. She threw
herself headlong into Spot’s arms blissfully sure that he’d catch her in time -
as he did, smiling. "Evan!"
"Hey dere, kid!"
Clown had to laugh when the girl threw her arms around Spot’s neck and gave
him a very wet kiss on the cheek. He’d never looked less like the ‘feared
leader of the Brooklyn newsies.’ "Hey, Evan! Where’d you go? Did you bring
me anything?"
"Yep. I brought ya a friend ta meet. Lynn, dis is Lacey. Lacey, dis
liddle imp is named Lynn."
"I ain’t little!" the girl retorted. "You’re just big!"
Clown laughed again. "I know just how you feel, Lynn."
Spot, who had been trying to follow Lynn’s directions for the making of mudpies,
smirked at her. "‘S ‘bout time, too!" He retorted.
Clown hit him lightly on the arm, just a little annoyed. "Hey, you
deserved it, most of the time!"
"No, no, no! You’re doing it wrong!" Lynn scolded. They looked at
each other over her head and tried not to laugh.
They couldn’t stay at the orphanage all day, of course. They had papers to sell
and Lynn had classes. After a talk with Mother Ann over lunch, the two newsies
left to get some work in before the evening’s party. However, despite their day
together, they still hadn’t discussed the topic foremost in both their minds.
"Thank you for introducing me to Lynn, by the way."
Spot gave a rare smile. "She’s a doll, ain’t she? She likes ya."
"Who is she? Your sister?" But now that she remembered it, hadn’t
Spitfire said her cousin was an only child?
"Naw. She’s - dat kid - Gard’ner? His sista."
"The poor thing!"
"‘Least by da time she realizes he ain’t comin’ back, it’ll be too long
ago fer her ta cry too much."
"Unlike us."
He nodded soberly. "Unlike us."
They walked on.
"Uh, Clown?"
"Mmm? What?" He’ll make a wonderful father someday, Clown
was thinking. I wish that little girl had someone . . . I wonder where my
brothers are.
Spot turned and stopped. "We tagedda or not?" he asked bluntly.
"I - don’t know." Clown was caught off guard, though she’d been
wondering the same thing. "What do you want?"
"You." He smirked. "I t’ink ya’s spoiled me fer anyone
else." She eyed him sideways, and he added seriously, "Ya know da
best an’ da woist a me."
Clown’s breath caught, and her eyes filled. "How do you do that?"
she whispered.
Spot smirked again. "Dat a yes?" he asked, bending his head for a
kiss.
She shook her head, and kissed him back. "You - yes."
"Glad youse two didn’t get lost." The laughter in Jack’s voice was
barely suppressed. They separated and turned toward him with unruffled,
absolutely identical expressions - rather like a pair of cats caught lapping up
the last of the cream and daring him to challenge their right to be there. "I
hope I wasn’t interruptin’ anyt’in," he snickered.
"Actually, ya was," Spot retorted.
Clown sighed regretfully. "I suppose we do have to stop now. Wouldn’t
want anyone else to come looking for us." She glared at Jack who assumed
an innocent expression.
When they entered the boys’ bunkroom, Spitfire took one look and grinned.
"Racetrack!" She called. The gambler looked up, and she gestured at
what was now very obviously a couple.
He grinned. "Two months, Spitfire. Ya said one," he called back.
Porter was indignant. "C’mon! Ya know what I meant!"
"Ya still said one."
"Dat ain’t fair!"
"Dat’s da way da dice fall. Speakin’ a which, I don’t believe ya’s paid
me yet."
"Pay?"
"Five ta one. I put up a dollar."
"Dere ain’t no way I’se givin’ you five dollars even if I had it!"
"Dat’s what ya said." Race pulled a worn piece of paper out of his
pocket, refolded it and flew it across the room at her.
"You-" Porter sputtered for several minutes. "Bring it down
ta two bits. I’ll pay ya one twenty-five." Race appeared to consider it.
"Dat’s t’ree days’ woith a papes!" She yelped when he seemed about to
refuse.
"Ah, aw right. One twenty-five." he said magnanimously.
"Shyster," Porter muttered. She headed for the girls’ room and
returned with a dollar and twenty-five cents in pennies. She wore a wicked
grin. "Double or nothin’?"
"I’d love ten dollars," Race replied.
"In yer dreams!" Spitfire gave him the money, then glared at Jack
who was making no attempt to hide his amusement.
"Where were you two, anyway?" Dave asked Spot, laughing at
the argument.
The Brooklyn leader smirked. "Jist clownin’ aroun’."
Lacey smacked him.