It's a Long Way Down

3. Was I Welcome?

Race had been selling in Brooklyn for a week, and he still found that very few of the newsies had warmed up to him. He didn't know why, but he definitely didn't like it.

Spot and Ace were nice enough, Ace especially so – he and Race had actually become quite close in the short time Race had been around. Maybe it was because of the similar roles they played in their boroughs. While Race dealt with less kids, he still had to be the approachable, friendly, second-in-command, to balance out the borough leader.

Ace balanced Spot perfectly. He, like every other Brooklyn newsie, appeared perfectly capable of putting up a deadly fight if he needed to, but he was also smiling most of the time, always open for a chat. He was happy to listen to Race rambling on about life in Manhattan when they were both in the lodging house after selling – he had actually begun taking an interest in the Manhattan newsies, attempting to learn the names of Race's closest friends to be able to keep up with the stories more.

He was what Race imagined Spot to be like once you got past the defensive layers that being a leader, particularly of a borough like Brooklyn, required; under constant threat not only of turf war by other newsies but, as Race had recently learned, by actual criminal gangs. Spot couldn't show any external weakness. A smile, a laugh, a personal conversation; all of that would be a weakness someone watching him could exploit. It was the same attitude Jack had tried to adopt, although Jack wasn't quite as good at it as Spot. Jack trusted people quickly, and always dropped the façade the second he was inside the lodging house; Spot had only laughed inside the lodging house a couple of times, and even then it was restrained, or hidden in some way.

Race needed to play poker with Spot.

This was how he found himself sat under the Brooklyn bridge, with Ace listening intently to his worries about not yet settling in with the Brooklyn newsies.

"I hear ya Race, I really do. It's gotta be hard comin' over into such a strange borough compared to your own. I mean... we ain't nothin' like Manhattan, as I'm sure yous has worked out. It's a different culture here." Ace thought for a moment – that was another trait Race admired; Ace was smart, and well-read it seemed, at least when one considered the normal newsie vocabulary. Ace had been a newsie since he was four, so how he had learned how to speak as well as he did remained a mystery Ace refused to go into. "I think some of it might just be that you's an outsider – we don' do well with visitors, and we don' really like newsies from outta Brooklyn strollin' on our turf. To the boys it just looks like Kelly brought ya here, demanded Spot take you, and left ya for us to 'deal with'. It ain't the case at all, and believe me Spot's thankful yous is here, but ya see how the boys might take it that way?"

Race looked out over the water. That made sense – as far as most of these boys knew he could be spying for Jack, or being used as some political pawn in inter-borough relations. To an extent, that was also true; Jack had sent Race for reasons beside him being one of Manhattan's best-performing newsies. Race was the one who really had friends in other boroughs, which Jack used in borough meetings to get his own way a little too often. Race smiled at that, getting a confused look from Ace.

"Sorry, I was jus' thinkin' of Spot's rant the other night about Kelly pullin' strings. For a guy who doesn't like to show emotion, Spot sure does bitch a lot."

Ace laughed.
"Spot's an unusual figure, as I'm sure you's begun to work out by now. But yeah, he complains all the time. If you think it's bad in the lodgin' house try sellin' with him for a day!"

Both boys shared in laughter. While Race hadn't been accepted yet by all the Brooklyn newsies, the ones who had were well worth it.

"Really Race," Ace continued "don' worry too much about it yerself. If there were an actual issue, Spot woulda dealt with it by now. I promise ya, it'll get better." He paused again, looking down the dockyard to see if there were any newsies around. His eyes seemed to fix on one in particular; shirtless, wearing only his suspenders and slacks as he sat around watching the boys in the river, smoking. "Aha. I think there might be someone yous is gonna want to meet."

Racetrack followed Ace to the boy, who looked up at them through the shade his cap was providing from the sun.

"Lucky Strike, meet Racetrack Higgins from Manhattan; Spot's asked for him to sell in Brooklyn."

Lucky Strike stood up and held out a hand for Race to shake, his cigarette remaining firmly between his teeth. Ace looked back at Race.

"Take one guess why his name is Lucky Strike."

Race then noticed the packaging of the cigarettes and smirked.

"I'se surprised I ain't earned myself the name 'corona' for the same reason."

He pulled the cigar from his pocket to quickly demonstrate his point.

Lucky Strike offered Race the box.

"Please, join me. Oh, and it's Lucky for short. You'll get sick 'a sayin' 'Lucky Strike' pretty quick."

Race took a cigarette and a match from the box next to him, lighting up.

"Don' tell me yous smoke too, Race?"

Spot. Race knew his voice by now – it was distinctive in a way he couldn't place. It commanded authority unlike any other Race had ever heard. Spot didn't need to shout to get the lodging house to fall into silence, he simply had to speak. It was part of what made Spot such a dangerous newsie to the rest of New York; he didn't need to try to command attention, respect and loyalty. It was just easily handed to him.

Race half-turned, and looked at him sheepishly, but not making any move to stop smoking. He knew it was a bad habit for how broke it made him, which is why he treasured his cigars. He could make a single one last a month or more if he really wanted to; and if he was offered a free cigarette, who was he to say no.

"Holy Mary," Spot sighed, "between th' two of youse we'll be makin' more pollution than all Queens!"

Lucky Strike flipped Spot off. Okay, so this was a common bit between them. Race tried to hide a chuckle, but choked on his smoke as he did so, drawing even more attention to himself. He sent Lucky and Ace into fits of laughter, and he saw that Spot had walked around in front of him, and was giving him an amused smirk. He pointed at Race with his pimp-cane.

"That is called karma." He then pointed at Lucky. "And that, is called bein' a total dick."

Between laughs, Lucky struggled out a "Sorry, Boss.", earning himself an eyeroll and light hit to one of his shins with Spot's cane.

Ace sat there smugly, and it didn't take Race long to realise he was proud of himself for successfully getting one of the Brooklyn boys to be nice to Race. Seems that all it took was an introduction where it was implied that Race was there because Spot specifically asked for him. It wasn't technically true, but Spot had asked for a newsie to cover the Sheepshead tracks area, and Race was that newsie, so it wasn't far from the truth.

Maybe Brooklyn would be a second home after all.

Looking up at Spot still incredulously watching Lucky, something in Race solidified that belief. 

A/N: I'd like to point out this isn't intended to promote smoking as something fun or cool - it's not. It's deadly. Please don't do it. Again, this is written with the context of the time in mind. Back in the 1890s, smoking was a popular habit, and it was being actively promoted as healthy as they didn't yet have the scientific evidence to say it wasn't. Please look after yourselves and your bodies; you only get one to last you your entire life, so it's worth protecting! :)