alleys and allies

Racetrack Higgins was born in Manhattan, but he had the attitude and brains of a Brooklyn boy. Because of this, Race split up his time between the two cities; he would sleep in Manhattan and sell in Brooklyn. This plan worked out just fine, and the infamous King of Brooklyn paid no mind just so long as there was no trouble on his turf. For a while there wasn't trouble either. Race would go to the Sheepshead, sell his papes, and enjoy the show,
occasionally betting in a cent or two if he had any. Besides the betting, Race stayed away from the gambling scene—he tried to anyway.

That all quickly ended one night when on his way home from the tracks, he stopped to observe a game of dice. He would soon learn the game was called Craps, and was based off probability. Just by observing, Race quickly learned the rules of the game, and a smirk spread to his face as he ran numbers in his head.

Race could barely read, but numbers were easy. Everything was a rule and made sense so long as you could follow said rules. Because of these rules, and Race's knack for them, he grew to love gambling. Even more than that, he was good at it.

It had soon become a tradition for Race to stop by a game of craps after he finished his day at the tracks, and he loved it. After a while, he had been the one to start shooting dice for unlucky gamblers who didn't know who they were dealing with. However, Race's undefeated streak went to his head. As soon as he could, he figured out how to use loaded dice, unknowing of the consequences for cheating. Luckily, Racetrack was rather good at being sneaky, however, little did he know that one night some of the poor bastards Race tried to cheat were gang members.

A snide smile spread across Racetrack's face, watching the men fall into his trap. While more and more money fell into his hat, Race thought it was too good to be true. Unfortunately, he was right. As a fifth dollar fell into Race's hat, Race made to shoot the dice another time, but he was stopped.

"We're using our dice this time." One of the men grunted, pulling a pair of dice from his coat pocket.

Race's smile faltered, but only slightly. He couldn't let them know he was intimidated—that would give him away too easily. "Fine, hand 'em over."

And with that, Race put not only his money on the line, but also his safety. With an intake of breath, Race shot the dice, silently praying to a God he didn't believe in.When the dice landed, Race looked at them intently. "Well, fuck me," Race thought maliciously, looking up at the men with fear and anger. Without a second thought, he grabbed his hat—money and all—before making a break for it down the crowded Brooklyn streets.

Behind him, the men were shouting profanities, while they chased after Race. Hoping to lose the men, Race ducked into an alleyway in attempt to escape. However, all he did was trap himself. Before he could make an escape, the men trudged into the alleyway, cornering the small boy.

They had begun to beat Racetrack, leaving him with nothing to do but scream and plead for mercy he would not receive. When they were satisfied, they took their money, and Race's dice before leaving the boy in the alleyway to bleed out.

—

Spot Conlon was tired, and ready to go back to his place so he could get some sleep before tomorrow's work. Being the King of Brooklyn was hard work, believe it or not. He had to make sure there was no trouble, and all his boys where were they was supposed to be, and boy that was challenging. He managed enough, and was able to sell at least 3 dozen papes a day. Suffice to say, Spot had it better than others, but he didn't let that go to his head.

He'd been walking down to his place when  he heard groaning coming from an alleyway. Curiously and cautiously, he turned the corner to see what the source was. What he saw was a small scrawny  kid all beaten, bloodied, and bruised on the dirty alley ground. The kid was a stranger to Spot, which was unnatural, due to the fact the he knew all of his "subjects". Spot figured the kid was an outsider, which brought a grimace to his face. If it had gotten out that a kid that wasn't his got hurt in Brooklyn...well, Spot didn't want to worry about those repercussions. By now the Kid was out cold, and Spot carefully picked them up, carrying the kid back to his place.

Spot entered an abandoned building he called his own, and set the kid down on the mass of fabrics Spot called a bed. Without meaning to, Spot woke the kid up by putting a wet rag onto him, trying to clean up the blood.

Racetrack's eyes fluttered open, and he winced at the feeling of a cold rag against his face. "Who're you?" he fearfully asked.

"Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn. Who are you and what're ya doin in my turf?"

"The name's Racetrack. I sell down at the Sheepshead," Race explained, unable to believe he was with the Spot Conlon.

Spot nodded at the new information. "So this was the infamous Racetrack Higgins?" He thought with a smirk spreading to his face.

"I want you to tell me what happened, and tell it right, or I ain't lettin you come back here. Ever." Spot demanded.

So Racetrack told him about the gambling and the cheating and the gang members. As he told his story, Spot's smirk fell into a grimace. "How stupid could this kid be to cheat out some gangsters?"

"Listen kid, I can't go huntin down no gangsters y'know? What I can do however, is teach you to fight," Spot stated, looking Racetrack up and down. "God knows Jacky's gonna have a field day when he finds out I let one of his boys get hurt on my turf."

With that, Racetrack's eyes lit up, and the hint of mischief returned to his face. With a wince of pain, he sat up.

"I'm gonna keep you here for a few days, till ya heal up. Then I'll send you back to Kelly. Everyday when you finish selling papes, meet me here, and we'll start our...lessons." Spot said thoughtfully.

Racetrack nodded, laying back down to get some rest. He was going to be seeing a lot more of Spot Conlon than he ever thought he would.