Race's Fight

“Here guys, let’s come down this side street. It’s a shortcut,” Race shouted over his shoulder to Finch and Spot. They were all headed back to Race’s and Finch’s house after a long day of selling. Race had insisted that Spot come over for dinner, so they went to meet him halfway across the Brooklyn bridge and were now taking a different route back than they usually did.

The sun was just starting to set, casting a warm glow on all of New York. Finch loved this time of day, because it made every building, even the old run-down houses and apartment buildings, look to be a part of something magical.

“Do you even know where you're going?” Spot questioned Race skeptically. Race turned around to face him, his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth agape.

“Of course I do,” he shot back, talking around his cigar and walking backwards. Spot shrugged. “I know every street in Manhattan, thank you very much,” Race continued. “In fact, I know almost every street in New York City. It is my city, after all.”

“We know, we know. You’re the “King of New York” and all that,” Finch said, rolling his eyes but amused by his brother once again. Race smiled smugly, and the boys kept walking,

After about three minutes, Race turned them onto another street. This one was starting to look familiar to Finch. After walking by a few houses, he knew why. This was only one street over from his old house. He used to walk by these old run-down and falling-apart houses every day on the way to work. It had been a good six months since he and his brothers moved in with Race, so he hadn't seen this part of town lately.

“Uhh…” Race faltered, looking around. “Okay, I may have made a wrong turn…”

“”I know how to get back from here,” Finch said, taking charge.

“I thought I knew all these side streets,” Race muttered, clearly embarrassed.

“This area is bordering on Bronx territory. Some people say it is in the Bronx, so you probably haven't been down these streets much,” Finch offered, feeling bad that his brother was embarrassed in front of Spot. Spot didn't say anything, though. He just fell into atep beside Race followed Finch without a word.

Turning onto the next street, Finch began to walk quicker. Race didn't have to struggle to keep up, but Spot had to double his walking speed.

“Hey, what gives?” he called. Finch slowed just a little, not wanting to make Spot angry.

“This area gets a little-” he was cut off by the sound of yelling and a slamming door. Finch looked up. Sure enough, one of the residents on this street had just gotten home from the bar, or so it seemed by the staggering. A kid, maybe about his age, was looking at the ground while the man shouted in his face. After a minute, the shouting stopped and the man staggered back inside, slamming the door and locking it behind him. The kid stood on the stoop in front of the house for a second, looking at the locked door with disdain, before scampering away and joining another boy on the street.

“Oh, this is a bad area,” Spot guessed. Finch nodded and sped up again. This time, Spot didn't complain. When they got to a certain house, Finch stopped and stared at it for a moment, before shaking his head and kicking a rock towards it. Then he started back up with his half-jog. Race looked at Spot knowingly, and whispered, “his old house.” Spot just nodded. He knew the story of why Finch and his little brothers had moved in with Race’s family because Race had told him. Finch never talked about his father or his old house or anything like that.

They were just about to the end of the street when Finch ran straight into a boy.

“Sorry,” Finch muttered, stepping out of the way and continuing on.