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Chapter Text

"Brooklyn ain't fun, but it sure is exciting."

—Brooklyn's Here, Newsies (paraphrased)

Spot paced back and forth along the roof, fingering the gold finial on his cane. Every so often he stole a glance at the street down below, keeping an eye on his boys. They were just starting to get home, trickling into the lodging house in twos and threes as the sun started to go down. He kept a mental tally, swearing under his breath when he came up two short. The two he was looking for, of course.

Finally, he saw them. A tall, broad-shouldered Italian kid with a big smile on his face, and the brown-haired, olive-skinned girl that rode on his shoulders, waving their last pape in the air and laughing so hard it was a wonder she didn't fall off. Also known as Hot Shot and Riddle, his second- and third-in-command. Spot rested his elbows on the narrow railing that ran around the rooftop to watch, his thin lips pressed tight together.

"Extra, extra!" Riddle shouted. Her voice carried even to Spot's ears, a block down and two stories up. "Maniac on the loose in 'Hattan! Hundreds flee the city!"

Hot Shot grinned, cupping his hands around his mouth to bellow his own headline. "Unda'paid milkman drives truck through factory! Death count high!"

"Mayor falls in love with seagull!"

"Drunk jockey at Sheepshead runs race without a horse!"

"Drunk vaudeville singer falls off stage mid-song!"

Spot shook his head in disgust, watching as a man stopped them a few feet from the lodging house. He took the pape from Riddle and handed a coin to Hot Shot, touching his cap to both of them before he left. I didn't think it was possible. These two is worse than Kelly.

Pushing himself up from the railing, Spot brought his fingers up to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Both newsies looked startled, and he pointed at them with his cane. "Both of ya!" he called. "Get up here." Hot Shot let Riddle slide to the ground, leading the way to the fire escape ladder. Spot could hear them bickering even from where he stood.

"Ladies first," Hot Shot said with a bow.

Riddle took a step back with a shake of her head. "Not a chance. I ain't gonna have ya checkin' me out as I climb the ladder."

"I had ya on my shoulders all day and didn't try nothin' once, what are ya talkin' about?" Hot Shot said indignantly.

"Ya can neva' be too careful," Riddle said in a singsong voice.

"Yeah, since ya care so much 'bout bein' careful," Hot Shot teased.

Riddle parked her hands on her hips with a scowl, like the older boy didn't have a good six inches on her. "Says the fella who let me fall."

"It was an accident!" Hot Shot protested.

"Twice?" Riddle scoffed.

Spot rolled his eyes. "Would you two cut it out an' just get up here?" he yelled down the ladder. He resumed his agitated pacing, muttering to himself. "Why can't ya just act your age?" he said under his breath, casting a baleful glare in their direction.

Hot Shot pulled himself up onto the roof, giving Spot a nod and pausing for a second to give Riddle a hand. She sat down right where she was, leaning her back against the railing and stretching her legs out in front of her. "I wanna sleep," she said with a yawn. "Is it time for bed yet?"

"Quit your gripin', I did all the walkin'," Hot Shot said good-naturedly, nudging her leg with his foot. He reached into his shirt pocket, taking out a slightly squashed hunk of bread and tearing it in half. "Ya eat yet today?"

Riddle sat up straighter, reaching out for it. "No," she said, a note of bitterness in her voice. "Those old bats don't give me a second glance. Judgmental old hags."

Both boys' heads whipped in her direction. "Riddle!" they said at the same time. Spot's tone was scolding, and Hot Shot sounded horrified.

"Ya can't just insult nuns!" the Italian said, his dark eyes wide. He performed the sign of the Blessed Cross, making Riddle -the only one of them who wasn't raised Catholic- roll her eyes.

"Whateva' ya say," she said drily. "My point is, they won't give me food. They think I's some kind a' whore."

Spot grunted. "Ya are a whore."

Riddle opened her mouth to protest, then she changed her mind. "Fair enough." She sat back against the railing, chewing her bread, and Hot Shot dropped down beside her to count out the days' earnings, dividing the coins into two neat piles. Spot waited impatiently for them to finish, tapping out a beat with his cane on the ground.

Most people had a way of getting on his nerves, these two only slightly less than others. They could be irritating enough most days, but these two -the cool-headed Italian and the fiery, flirty gypsy girl- were part of his inner circle, somewhere between allies and friends. Hot Shot was the same age as Spot, fifteen, and the two of them had been fast friends since they were eleven. The other boy had Spot's level head for leadership, but without the quick temper that so often got Spot into trouble. His easy-going nature and the way he kept his temper under control made him a valuable second-in-command to have.

Riddle was a year younger, and the only girl living at the Poplar Street lodging house. She had been only ten years old when she had somehow charmed her way past house manager Mr. Crawley and into the ranks of the Brooklyn newsies, and she hadn't lost any of her skill since then. Then again, she was a lot less trouble back then, and old Mr. Crawley's heart was a lot softer. Either way, her quick thinking and out-of-the-box ideas had earned her a place close to Spot... in more ways than one. She had a few other attributes he was fond of, too.

Finally, Riddle swallowed the last of her bread and looked up, her violet-blue eyes meeting Spot's. "What'd ya need us for?" she asked, starting to untie the length of twine securing one of her braids.

Spot rolled a cigarette between his fingers before striking a match against the concrete and lighting it. He didn't miss Hot Shot's flinch as he did so, or the way he tugged his shirtsleeves down further and wrapped his arms around his torso. Spot saw it all -he saw everything- but he ignored it, blowing out a breath of smoke. "I's been hearin' things from me boids," he said. "There's whispers of a turf war brewin', ova' in Queens."

The other two exchanged glances. "So?" Riddle said cautiously. "Queens always fights ova' boundaries. Stretch is a good enough leada', he keeps 'em in check."

"He did," Spot corrected with a grim smile. "'Til they found 'im in the river."

He kept that eerie smile on his face as Riddle let out a gasp and Hot Shot muttered a curse in Italian. "A'right," Hot Shot said after a moment. "So they's without a leada', and they's fightin' with themselves. What's that gotta do with us?"

Spot rolled his eyes, running his fingers down the length of his cane. "'S only a matta' a' time 'fore a new leada' rises ta the top. New leada's is full a' bluff an' bluster. First thing he'll wanna do is try ta prove himself by takin' Brooklyn."

"Ya don't know that," Hot Shot said with a slight frown.

Spot took a seat, propping his feet up and letting his cigarette dangle from his fingers. "Ya wanna bet? I'se been around long enough ta see three guys take ova' Queens. Neither a' you was here, but Jumper always stomped 'em out quick 'fore they could do any damage." He noticed Riddle stiffen at the mention of the old leader's name, and he was curious as to why. Carefully, he filed that information away before finishing his thought. "We's got a chain goin', and I ain't lettin' myself be the weak link. Brooklyn don't fall, not on my watch."

Riddle rearranged her features carefully, building up her mask of indifference before she spoke again. "That why we ain't allies with them like we are with 'Hattan?"

Spot studied her appraisingly. "More or less," he said finally. "If me boids is right, they'll have a new leada' come summa'. We's'll hafta be on our guard 'til then, make sure they don't try nothin' while it's still every man for hisself. I want ya ta stay away from the borda', Riddle."

"I don't go there, anyways," the girl said, shaking out her hair and stuffing the twine in her pocket. "Too close ta Blade's territory."

"Don't talk about him," Spot snapped. "I ain't in the mood."

Riddle frowned. "I ain't talkin' bout nothin'," she said. "You's the one who brought it up."

"I didn't bring nothin' up," Spot countered. "I just told ya-"

"As entertainin' as this is," Hot Shot cut in. "I'm out. It's too late for sparks ta be flyin' between you two. I's headed ta bed."

Spot glanced up, surprised to see the moon high in the sky. "Yeah, that's prob'ly a good idea," he agreed. "Whaddaya say, Rid? Let's save the sparks flyin' for the bedroom."

Riddle shifted her position to sit by Spot. "Sounds good by me," she said, her hands traveling up his suspender straps to rest behind his neck. Her slender fingers tangled themselves in his hair, and a playful smirk crossed her face. "Let's save the real fun for lata'."

"Yeah, I didn't need ta hear that," Hot Shot stated, scooping up his coins and getting to his feet. "'Night, sorella," he added to Riddle, handing her her share.

Riddle slipped the coins into her pocket and gave him a little wave. "'Night, Hot Shot," she said, laying her head back on Spot's chest. It was only a few moments before his restless energy was back, and he pushed Riddle off of him and crossed over to the railing.

The gypsy girl stood up with a sigh. "I should head down, too," she said. Spot didn't turn, didn't even seem to hear her. "Are ya comin'?" she pressed, wrapping her arms around her waist.

He glanced back at her. "Nah, I'm good up here," he said. "G'night."

Riddle waited a moment, but he was apparently done talking to her. "Night," she said, turning to find the ladder.

"Up and at 'em, boys!" Crawley yelled through the open doorway. He heard a few muffled groans from inside and rolled his eyes, stepping through the doorway and into the darkened room. He was instantly hit with the smell of unwashed socks, teenage boys, and wool clothes drying on the radiator. "C'mon, get up, get up," he scolded, crossing to the first bed he saw and giving the boy in it a shake.

The boy -Tracks, judging by the shock of red hair poking out from under his blanket- swatted Crawley's hand away. "Lea'e me 'lone," he mumbled, curling up tighter.

The house manager shook his head in response, a grin spreading across his face. "C'mon, boys! Up and at 'em!" he ordered, flicking on the lights. He opened the windows for good measure, shivering slightly at the draft. With a glance at Spot's empty bed, he ducked out of the room and took the attic stairs two at a time to wake Riddle. "You up, girlie?" he asked, rapping on the wooden door.

"Yeah, I's gettin' there," the girl called from inside.

"Spot better not be in there with ya," he warned, not budging an inch.

He heard a pause, a snap of suspenders, and then- "oh, Mr. Crawley, we would neva'."

"Don't you try that on me," Crawley retorted, rolling his eyes. "Ya may have those boys all wrapped up in those pretty little fingers a' yours, Miss Ridley, but not me. Where's Conlon?"

The thin door couldn't muffle her laughter, prompting him to roll his eyes again. "No idea. He was up on the roof all night, came down the fire escape. He passed my winda' on by. It was about four, I think. Ain't seen him since then."

Crawley shook his head, turning back to head down the stairs. That boy. Pausing outside the bunk room door to yell a few early morning encouragements to the boys -"Hurry up, ya lazy bums! My ol' granny moves faster than all y'all, God rest her soul!"- he strode into the front room and dropped into his desk chair.

"Mornin'," a voice said, causing the man to jump a foot into the air. Spot stood in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the jamb with a smirk on his face.

"Land sakes, boy!" Crawley sputtered, his southern drawl coming out thicker than usual. "Scarin' me nigh ta death like that."

"Calm down, old man," Spot said, leaning lazily against the desk.

"Old," Crawley muttered indignantly. "Ya better watch that mouth a' yours, boy. I'm twenty-five, and ya know it."

"The boys givin' ya trouble?" Spot asked knowingly, ignoring the threat.

Crawley waved a hand dismissively, sitting back down. "Boys'll be boys."

"Not on my watch," Spot said darkly, pushing up from the desk and heading up the stairs.

Riddle passed him on her way down, dressed in a green-and-blue checked shirt and gray trousers, her cap stuck in her back pocket and her hair tied up in braids. "Mornin', Crawley," she said sweetly.

The Texan softened some, sending the girl a fond smile. "Good mornin', darlin'."

Spot rolled his eyes. "Suck up," he hissed to Riddle as he breezed past.

Riddle grinned, flipping him off behind Crawley's back.

"Hey, that ain't very ladylike," a voice drawled from the top of the stairs. Sting sauntered down to stand next to Riddle, his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall, just a little too close for her liking. "What about me? Don't I get a good mornin'?"

Riddle crossed her arms over her chest, sliding back a step out of the older boy's reach. Sting- seventeen, always pushing the envelope and a constant thorn in Spot's side. And, by extension, Riddle's. "Good mornin'," she said stiffly.

"Not good enough," Sting said, snatching up one of her suspenders and tugging her towards him. His tone was joking, but his eyes were cold as ice.

"Let go," Riddle said irritably, yanking the strap out of his hands and snapping them up on her shoulders.

"Ohh, I see how it is," Sting said with a grin. "You's Spot Conlon's whore, but when it comes ta the rest of us you's man-shy."

Crawley got to his feet, but Spot beat him to it. "Sting," he said brusquely from the landing. Crawley felt a smile spread slowly across his face. For all his faults, Spot had a radar when it came to Riddle. It made Crawley's job that much easier.

Spot moved down to the bottom step, folding his arms and gripping his cane tightly. "Ya got somethin' ta say ta Riddle?"

Even on the step Spot was about two inches shorter, but Sting's resolve wavered. "No," he muttered.

Sting shifted uncomfortably as Spot's gaze burned into him. "Somethin' ya got ta say ta me? Thoughts on how I run the place?" When he didn't get an answer, Spot's arm jerked up without warning, clipping the bigger boy's jaw with the head of his cane. "Get outta my sight," he ordered. One hand flying up to cradle his chin, Sting fled without a word.

Riddle bit her lip, smiling slightly. "My hero," she teased, wrapping her arms around Spot's neck. She pressed a quick kiss to the side of his neck, right below his ear.

Instead of grabbing her waist and pulling her closer, like he usually did, Spot batted her off. "I's gotta get the boys," he said, sliding his cane through his belt loop without looking at her. "They take too long." He spun on his heel and headed for the staircase.

Crawley hesitated, still standing behind his desk. "You okay, girlie?" he asked, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Riddle glared at Spot's retreating back. "I's fine," she said shortly. "Tell Hot Shot ta hurry it up, will ya?" Shrugging out from under Crawley's hand, she pushed through the front door and let it close with a bang.

Crawley sighed, leaning back against the desk. "It's too early for them to start with this," he muttered.

Riddle was leaning against the red brick wall of the distribution center when the boys got there, poring over a copy of the day's paper. "We get paid ta hawk the papes, not read 'em," Hot Shot said, snatching it out of her hands and examining the headline.

Riddle bumped against him with all her weight, but the Italian boy barely wobbled. "Gotta check out the merchandise," she said. "Figure out the angle for the day."

"Fair enough," Hot Shot said with a shrug, handing the paper back. "Why'd ya skip out on us?" he inquired.

Riddle fiddled with the chain around her neck, sinking down to sit cross-legged with her back to the wall. "Don't see no point in waitin' 'round for the nuns, not when I don't get nothin' outta it," she said finally, spreading the paper out in front of her. "Figured I's'd get here early, beat the crowd."

"Good plan," Hot Shot agreed. "'Cept I don't have my papes yet, so you's still gotta wait."

Riddle threw a bundle of papers at his chest, a smirk spreading across her face. "Ya owe me forty-five cents," she said.

Hot Shot dug around in his pocket and flipped her a fifty-cent piece, deftly catching the nickel she tossed his way with the other hand. "Let's get movin' then, whaddaya waitin' for? We's wastin' daylight and losin' customers." He let his bundle of papes rest on his shoulder, pushing his long dark bangs out of his eyes. "Usual spots. Yell if ya get inta trouble, 'kay Rid?" When a moment or two went by without an answer he tried again. "Rid. Ridley," he said in a singsong voice. "Riddle!"

His selling partner flinched, her violet-blue eyes snapping into focus. "What? Jeez, Hot Shot."

"Bad mornin'?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin. "You was blankin' out."

"Shuddup," Riddle said, ducking away from him. "I don't blank out. I was plottin' out my sellin' patterns for the day," she added primly.

"Sure," Hot Shot said knowingly. "Flirt with anythin' that moves and beg for money. Takes a lotta thought ta plan that one."

"Didn't I tell ya ta shut up?" Riddle protested, dodging the hand that reached out to ruffle her hair. "Get out there, we's got papes ta sell. I ain't buyin' your dinner for ya tonight."

"Yes, ma'am," the older boy said with mock severity. "Ya won't see me again today." Shaking his head with a smirk, he headed off towards Prospect Park. "I'll take the south side a' the park, you take the north."

"No... Hot Shot!" Riddle yelled after him. "Wind's comin' from off the bay. You'll sell more on the east side."

He grinned, halting in his tracks. "Grazie per il consiglio, sorella," he called back, not bothering to turn around. "Stai attento." He knew she most likely didn't know that phrase, but he also knew that he was confused practically every time she tried to give him advice, so he figured they were even. Taking a deep breath, he set out to face the day. Take it one thing at a time, Hot Shot. For now just work on sellin' your first pape.

"Ma'am!" he said, falling into step beside a woman pushing a pram. "Have ya read today's paper? There's some kind a' maniac loose in the park, ya might wanna find a different route for your walk. A penny'll buy ya all the details."

I can do this. Today's gonna be a good day.

Italian translations:

Sorella - sister

Grazie per il consiglio, sorella. - Thanks for the advice, sister.

Stai attento. - Be careful.

Chapter Text

”There's a part I can't tell about the dark I know well."

—The Dark I Know Well, Spring Awakening

"It don't make sense," Riddle said. "'Eat it or pay for it,' that what Mista' Krezminski always says. Eat it. Why don't he just say 'sell it or pay for it?'"

"I dunno, Rid," Hot Shot laughed, shaking his head. "I's had a lotta hungry days, but I ain't neva' considered eatin' a pape before."

"Exactly!" Riddle exclaimed, flinging out her arms. Hot Shot ducked as she gestured wildly, neither of them breaking stride. "I ain't neva' heard a' no one eatin' no pape. It's a stupid sayin', I don't like it."

"And ya told this story just like you's tellin' it now?" Hot Shot inquired, glancing over at her. "Flailin' limbs an' everythin'?"

"Yeah," Riddle said, sticking her hands in her pockets.

"An' he really gave ya a dime for it. And bought a pape," the Italian confirmed, sending her a sideways grin.

"Yeah!" Riddle said defensively. "I still have the dime, see?" She jerked her hand out of her pocket, showing him the small silver coin.

"A'right," Hot Shot reasoned. "Guess I believe ya. Man, Jumper wasn't kiddin' when he said ya was meant for a stage."

Riddle only grinned, bumping the older boy's shoulder with hers. "C'mon, what's your best story from taday?" she asked.

The Italian shrugged noncommittally. "I sold all my papes. I didn't get beat up or hauled in. I'd call that a good day."

"With standards that low, what's ya excuse for not havin' a goil?" Riddle sassed, parking her hands on her hips. "C'mon, Shot, tell me one good thing. Did ya talk ta the Sonatas' daughta' again?"

"Nah, because I didn't eat at the Sonatas'," Hot Shot said.

The gypsy girl groaned in frustration. "Hot Shot!" she objected, curling her fingers in his sleeve and dragging it towards her.

Hot Shot jerked to a stop, trying to free himself from her grip. "C'mon, Rid!" he protested as she clung to his arm in a death grip. "Eitha' let go or hop on," he said finally. "I wanna get back 'fore it's dark." Riddle obediently unwound herself from his sleeve and hopped onto his back, resting her chin atop his head. "What's got ya bein' so clingy?" Hot Shot asked, rolling his dark eyes as he continued walking to the lodging house. "Spot's all about patterns, ya know," he continued, in answer to her stubborn silence. "If he's been ignorin' ya these past coupla days he'll be all ova' ya when ya get home tonight."

"Gracias, fratellino," Riddle murmured into his hair, wrapping her arms tighter around his shoulders.

Hot Shot pinched her leg. "Half a' that was Spanish, an' the otha' half was wrong."

"I tried, okay?" Riddle protested amid giggles.

"Ya hear me talk Italian ev'ry day," Hot Shot said, smothering his grin. "And ya come back at me with French, or Spanish-"

"I hear things all ova' the place!" Riddle exclaimed. "I can't rememba' from where."

"Yeah, yeah. Whateva' ya says, kid."

"Stay low, an' get out fast," Spot lectured, crouching down to the kid's eye level. "Get a look around, get a feel for the place, an' then get out."

"Conlon," Riddle said, holding the door open for Hot Shot as she came into the lodging house. "What the hell? We can't go ta Brooklyn but the littles can?"

"They ain't little," Spot corrected, folding his arms over his chest. "They's me birds. I taught 'em myself, they know how not ta get caught."

"Ya taught us, too," Riddle countered, stepping into his space. "Have a little faith."

"Leave me outta this," Hot Shot protested, holding up both hands.

"Yeah, I taught ya," Sot said, ignoring his second and refusing to back away from Riddle. "Too bad ya neva' listens ta a word I says."

"Mmhm," Riddle said, lifting her chin. "That wasn't what you was sayin' the otha' night."

Spot growled low in his throat. "If you was anyone else you's'd be dead,"

Riddle smirked, biting her tongue as she looked him in the eye. "Good thing I'm me." Slowly, deliberately, she wrapped her arms around his neck, rubbing his shoulders as she did. "Ya seem tense," she said. "Lucky for you, I knows the perfect break from borough politics."

Hot Shot rolled his eyes, tapping Spot's bird on the shoulder and jerking his head toward the door. "C'mon, kid," he said, steering him out of the room. "Ya eat yet today?"

Riddle smiled coyly, winding her hand in one of Spot's suspenders and leading him towards the stairs. "We won't be long," she called to Hot Shot.

"Speak for yaself, doll," Spot responded as they disappeared upstairs.

"We should do this more often," Riddle murmured a while later, tracing patterns up and down Spot's chest. "You's a lot closer than 'Hattan. Saves me the trip." His response was to shove her off of him unceremoniously, causing her to sit up in protest. "Hey!"

The Brooklyn king was up and moving, sorting through the clothes on the floor until he found his faded gray trousers. "It's Tuesday," he said briefly. "Poker night. Race'll be here any minute." Riddle groaned, falling back against her pillow and flinging her arm across her eyes. "If you's gonna pitch a fit about Race bein' here, then ya can just stay up here," Spot said, fixing his collar in the cracked mirror that hung from a rafter.

Riddle sighed, throwing back the thin sheet. "Gimme a minute ta get dressed, I'll come down with ya," she said reluctantly.

"Nope," Spot said, ducking out the low doorway. He could here the gypsy girl's objections as he shut the door, but he tuned her out. She and Race had never gotten along. They were too similar. Both charmers, both liars, both hotheaded... Spot sighed, twirling his cane in his fingers. It's gonna be a long night.

Crawley raised an eyebrow as Spot came down the attic steps, sliding his spectacles to the end of his nose and taking in the leader's relaxed posture. "Conlon," he said in a warning tone.

"Old man," Spot greeted.

The Texan rolled his eyes, taking off the glasses and tossing them next to his account books. "Funny how you an' Riddle both missed supper tonight, huh?" he said, forcing himself to keep his tone casual.

Spot lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "'S one word for it," he said, disappearing into the common room.

The house manager huffed a sigh, closing the ledger with a little more force than necessary. "Yer Manhattan friend's here," he called after him.

Riddle was down moments later, propping her elbows up on the front desk and resting her chin in her hands. "Evenin', Crawley!" she said cheerfully.

"Evenin', girlie," the man said begrudgingly, smiling fondly at the girl in spite of his foul mood. He squeezed her hand. "All the boys is in the next room. Go have fun, don't waste yer time with an old cowboy like me."

"Ya ain't old," Riddle said, leaning over the counter to kiss his cheek.

"Hey, Riddle!" Racetrack called before she was even fully in the room. "How's it rollin'?" He shuffled a worn out deck of cards between his hands, sending her a crooked grin.

Riddle didn't answer, jerking her thumb in the direction of the kid who hung a few feet behind the Manhattan boy. "Who's this?"

"Yeah, Higgins," Spot said, a trace of amusement in his voice. He was settled comfortably in an overstuffed, heavily patched armchair, dubbed his throne by the boys. "Who's the kid?"

At that the boy gave a frightened squeak, the blood rushing from his face. "Huh? Oh, yeah." Race waved a hand in the kid's direction. "This is Boots. Kid wanted ta see Brooklyn."

"Whaddaya think, kid?" Spot asked, smirking slightly. "Ya like what ya see?"

"Yeah... sir," Boots added hastily.

Spot grinned at that, fingering the head of his cane. "Cute kid, ain't he, Riddle? Whaddaya say we show him some more a' Brooklyn, an' what a fine borough we live in? Wanna give 'im the full tour?"

"If you's tryin' ta get rid a' me it won't work," the gypsy girl said stubbornly, rolling her eyes. "I's stayin'."

Spot's silvery eyes turned a steely gray. "Take the kid out for a bit," he ordered. "Run him. Have a little fun, don't go ta Queens. Be back in- two hours, ya said?"

"Two hours," Race confirmed, grinning.

Riddle crossed her arms over her chest. "You's choosin' Higgins ova' me," she hissed under her breath.

"I'll make it up ta ya later," Spot promised in a low voice.

"You'd betta'. C'mon, kid," she added, louder. "Let's get this ova' with."

"Riddle, how's about I roll ya for him?" Race called from his seat. "Double or nothin' for two hours a' Spot's time."

"Shut your trap, Higgins!" Riddle shot back, stalking out the door almost too quick for Boots to follow.

"You's goin' too fast," Boots said for what had to be the twentieth time. He had to trot to keep up with the Brooklyn girl's fast pace.

"Just try ya best ta keep up," Riddle said wearily. She took a sharp left, leading the kid through a maze of streets that zigged and zagged and heading steadily away from the lodging house. "I's just tryin' ta kill time until I can get ya back."

"I don't like it," the 'Hattan boy said dubiously.

"Yeah, an' ya think I like babysittin'? Riddle questioned. "Face it, kid, they wanted ta get rid of us. So let's just keep walkin', it beats standin' on the front steps like a pair a' lost puppies."

"I guess," Boots muttered.

Riddle shook her head in disgust, glancing up at the sky. About a half hour had passed, by her estimation. Then again, she was often wrong. "So how old are ya, kid?" she asked, digging into her pocket for a cigarette. "Twelve? Thirteen?" When she didn't get an answer -or a cig- she gave up searching. "Look, we's stuck out here but we don't gotta be strangers. Just answer the question."

No answer.

"Kid?" Riddle twisted to look over both shoulders, her voice rising in a panic. "Boots! Kid, where ya at?" She retraced her steps, searching her memory for when he had stopped answering her statements. Right around the second right turn... "Great," she said aloud. "Just great. Blade, get the hell out here!" she yelled, her voice cracking slightly.

"Well, if it isn't Brooklyn's resident gypsy whore." She could hear the grin coloring his words and it practically made her sick. "What brings you here?"

"Get outta that stupid hole ya hide in an' ask me," Riddle retorted, resisting the urge to stamp her foot.

The owner of the voice waltzed out of an alleyway with a grin. He was tall and well-built. He dressed like a newsie, minus the cap, but he didn't have the bearing of one. Blade was a sixteen-year-old thief and conman who made his home on the Brooklyn-Queens border, a constant thorn in the sides of both leaders. He and his followers -rats, he called them- were drifters, combing the streets for anything of value, whether it belonged to them or not.

"Ya found something that ain't yours," Riddle said, meeting his gaze. "I want it back."

"I might've found somethin'," Blade said, walking around Riddle in a lazy circle. He opened his jacket, revealing half a dozen of the knives which had given him his name, and selected one, spinning it between his fingers as he spoke.

"What's the price ta get it back?" Riddle asked, turning to face him.

Blade grinned, a hungry look in his steely gray eyes. "I think ya know my price," he said, coming to a stop behind her. He ran one hand down her cheek while the other trailed the tip of the knife along her spine.

Riddle flinched at the tone of his voice and the touch of cold steel. "Ya didn't just steal from me, y'know," she said, ducking away from his hand. "The kid's unda' Spot's protection. If he don't make it back ta the lodgin' house unharmed-"

"Ya better be sure ta get him back, then," Blade said with a wolfish smile. "Do we gotta deal? 'Cause if not, I can always use him for target practice..."

Riddle fell silent, weighing the choices in her head. Blade wouldn't actually kill the kid... she didn't think... but he wasn't above slicing him up. One way or anotha', Spot's gonna be pissed. "Fine. We's gotta deal, whateva' ya want."

"Shake on it," the thief ordered. "I want your word."

"Ya only want whateva' Spot has, don'tcha?" Riddle said said in disgust, sliding her hand into his.

Blade yanked back as if he'd been burned. "Alright, rats," he called, looking away from Riddle. "Bring 'im out."

Four or five boys, all as scruffy-looking as their leader, emerged from an alleyway, dragging Boots along with them. The 'Hattan kid's wrists were bound, and there was a gag around his mouth. Tears ran down his face, and Riddle had to remind herself that he was only twelve. With a chuckle, Blade let the knife in his hand fly. Boots screamed through his gag as it embedded itself in the crate behind him, a hand's breadth away from his ear.

"Alright," Blade said briefly, finding another knife and flipping it in the air experimentally. "Ya got your goods. Now I want my payment." He pulled Riddle against him, holding her in place with his legs as he pressed a lustful kiss to her neck. He pulled hard on her hair, and when the kissing turned to biting Riddle shoved him away.

"Not now," she said. "Not here."

"My deal," Blade said, his breath hot and heavy as he came up for air. "My terms." He crushed his lips against hers, and Riddle pushed him off again.

"Spot's expectin' me back any minute," she said. "Do ya really wanna be the one explainin' things when he comes lookin' for me?"

Blade released his grip on her hair reluctantly, easing his weight off of her. "Alright," he said. "Until next time." He flicked the knife under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze and just barely drawing blood. "No need ta come back. I'll find ya when I's ready." Tucking the knife into his jacket, he faded back into the shadows, taking his rats with him. For such a rowdy bunch, they could move quietly when they wanted to.

"What a sleaze," Riddle muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She shook herself, trying to get rid of the feeling of his hands on her body as she stormed over to Boots. She let out every curse word she knew as she fumbled with the ropes on his hands, jerking him to his feet once he was free. "This is your fault," she accused. "This is why ya don't wander off! You's in a strange borough, with a person ya don't know, an' ya don't wander off!"

She yanked him up by the suspender strap, cutting off any apology he may have tried to make. "We need ta head back, she said, unshed tears smarting in her eyes. "Try an' keep up this time."

"Ow!" Boots protested, half-running to keep up. "You's is pullin' too hard!" He tried in vain to jerk his suspender out of Riddle's grip, only to stumble and nearly fall when she didn't slow her pace.

"I don't care," she said bitterly. "We's close ta home. Try ta keep up."

Spot and Race were on the front porch when they got there, a lit cigar between Race's teeth and a glowing cigarette dangling from Spot's fingers. "Take what's yours," Riddle said, showing Boots' suspender strap into Race's hands. "An' get the hell out."

"Bad night, doll?" Race asked mildly, steadying Boots on his feet. The younger boy scrubbed hard at the tear tracks on his face, fixing his clothes as he stepped behind his friend.

"Whateva' it is you's got ta say, I ain't in the mood," Riddle stated. "If that kid a' yours eva' shows his face in Brooklyn again- if he even sticks a toe 'cross the Brooklyn Bridge- I's soakin' him within an inch a' his life. Now get the hell back ta where ya belong."

"Little miss is givin' orders now, ain't she?" Race said with an amused grin. "What happened?"

Riddle flipped him off in response, taking the front steps two at a time and letting the door slam shut behind her. "Guess I won't be joinin' ya, then?" Spot called to the closed door.

Race let out a snort, barely containing his laughter. "See ya 'round, Conlon," he said, grinding his cigar against the brick building and offering his hand to shake.

"Yeah, see ya," Spot said with a smirk. "Come back the next time ya wanna lose all your money."

"That was just sucker's luck!" Race shouted back as he left, Boots in tow. "A'right kid," he said quietly, as soon as they were out of earshot. "So what'd ya do?”

Chapter Text

"What doesn't kill me doesn't kill me, so fill me up for just another day."

—Just Another Day, Next To Normal

Hot Shot glanced up from his plate as the bell over the door rang its toll and Riddle flopped onto the stool next to his, carelessly tossing her remaining papers onto the counter. "Sorella," he said with a nod. She grunted in response, toying with the knotty length of twine around her neck. Hot Shot shrugged, taking a sip of coffee from the chipped porcelain mug in front of him. Sonatas' Diner was by far his favorite place. Good, cheap food and hot coffee, run by people who didn't mind a couple dozen newsies hogging their tables every day. "Rough sellin' day?"

Riddle rolled her eyes. "Rough's one word for it," she said. "If ya call gettin' yelled at by a copper rough. If ya call gettin' groped by a stranger on the street rough. If ya call seein' a crow rough."

"A crow?" Hot Shot asked, speaking around a mouthful of food. "Why's that rough?"

"A crow," Riddle repeated, staring at him incredulously. "A crow means bad stuff's about to happen, ami. 'One for sorrow, two for joy?'" At her friend's blank nod, she elaborated. "'One for malice, two for mirth?'" She groaned, smacking her hand down on her stack of papers. "Come on, Shot, didn't your mama teach ya anythin'?"

"Not the kinda stuff your mama taught you," the Italian said with a wry grin.

Riddle started to reply with an angry retort, but before she could get a word out a rather large, buxom Hispanic woman slammed her palms down on the counter. "Señorita Ridley, my most favorite customer," she said, a smile coloring her words. "¿Cómo estás, querida?"

The girl rewarded her with a dazzling smile, sitting up straight on her stool. "¡Que meravigliosa, Señora!" she said. "Now that I've seen you."

"Rid, that's Italian," Hot Shot muttered under his breath, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Clever girl," Mrs. Sonata declared, clasping Riddle's hand in both of hers. "Querida, you need to eat! You are so skinny!"

"Bad sellin' day, Señora," Riddle said regretfully, shaking her head. "I'll hafta be satisfied with jus' your company for today."

"¡Disparates!" the woman said, shaking her head as she turned back to the kitchen. "If you sweep the stoop, you eat for free. How about that?"

"Muchas gracias, Señora," Riddle said, getting up from her seat to kiss the old woman on the cheek. "Today's gettin' a little better after all," she added under her breath, sending Hot Shot a grin as she went to find the broom.

The Italian opted to leave early, deciding he'd rather get a head start on the afternoon of selling than watch Riddle flirt with the Sonata boys and enjoy her free lunch. The last few hours of daylight seemed to drag on. Aside from his handful of regulars, not many people were interested in reading about real estate prices in Queens. With that little to work with, his fabricated headlines weren't much better.

Hot Shot sank down to the ground with a sigh, finding a somewhat safe spot for a rest between a few garbage cans in an alley. Once he had found a comfortable position, it was only minutes before he was joined by a small visitor. "Ciao, Bella," he said, a small smile gracing his lips as he reached out a hand to the yellow cat. She trotted towards him willingly, nosing at his pocket for the scraps she knew were kept there. "Greedy little thing," he said with a little laugh, helping her get to her treats. "Just where have you been all day?"

Though not much of a talker, Bella was known for being a fantastic listener. "I need a break," Hot Shot murmured as he scratched behind her ears. "A long one. Six weeks at least. Wouldn't that be nice, Bella?" he crooned, stroking down her back. "No more worrying about headlines or food or whatever stupid choices people are gonna make next."

Bella meowed once, staring up at him with large emerald eyes. "I know," he said with a deep sigh. "It's gettin' late." He scratched under her chin gently, smiling a little as she purred, before getting to his feet with some reluctance. "Buona notte," he called. "E una bella notte, anche. Buona notte, Bella."

Hearing yelling in the lodging house wasn't too uncommon. Neither were shouted insults, slamming doors, insults to one's mother. Hot Shot barely paid it any attention, until a wooden hairbrush clattered down the stairs as he passed. He stared down at the object with a sigh, scooping it up and heading up the stairs. He didn't make it very far before his path was blocked.

"You're a whore just like your mother, ya know that?" Spot said angrily, glaring up at Riddle from halfway up the narrow attic stairs. His shirt was unbuttoned, his undershirt rumpled and untucked and his hair a mess.

"I am not," the gypsy girl insisted, barely even noticing Hot Shot's presence. The Italian idly wondered why Crawley hadn't noticed and put a stop to this. He's probably tryin' ta stay out of it, he reasoned. These two is crazy.

"That's right, I forgot," Spot said, his calm demeanor only adding to Riddle's frustration. "She at least had the sense to charge, you just gives it out for free."

"Conlon, I swear," Riddle warned, taking a few steps down the stairs. Hot Shot sighed internally when he saw her, letting his eyes fall closed. She was dressed in nothing but a loose shirt over chemise, her tangled brown hair swept to the side, revealing a large purple hickey on her neck. From the way Spot was reacting, he'd have bet a dollar it hadn't come from him. "I ain't your possession," Riddle stormed, stomping her foot on the stairs. "You may be the king a' Brooklyn, but you ain't the king a' me. I'll do whateva' I damn well please. 'Sides, it ain't like you's never come home smelling like three different girls' perfume."

"You had sex with Blade!" Spot accused, his voice rising. "I told you one thing, Riddle. I said ta stay away from the line. Hell, even the little ones listens better than you!"

"If you hadn't sent me out to babysit I wouldn't've been near the line in the first place!" Riddle shouted, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

"If you'd act your age around Race then I woudn't've had ta make ya leave!" Spot yelled, his neck starting to turn red. "Why the hell did Jumper an' Crawley let you in here?" he said in disgust, turning away. "You's more trouble than you's worth, always have been."

"It was this or die, Conlon," Riddle retorted, taking another step forward as she gestured to the mark on her neck. "You don't know the half a' what I do for you an' your precious borough."

"A dead whore would jus' leave Brooklyn better off," Spot muttered, turning away.

"Sex is a tool, Conlon!" Riddle burst out, tugging hard on her hair in frustration. "Me an' you know that better than anyone. So get off your high horse and get down here with the rest of us."

"Don't tell me what to do!" he ordered, pointing his cane at her chest. "Like ya said, sex is jus' a tool. I don't owe ya anythin', and you ain't anythin' close to me, so don't be gettin' it into your head that you's any better than you are."

"What's a' matter, Conlon?" Riddle taunted, taking another step down so his cane pressed against her chest. "Your throne so shaky ya can't have any friends? Can't let the boys down there know you're human?" Spot growled, raising the head of his cane to shove it under her chin. "Go right ahead, Conlon!" the gypsy girl challenged, digging her fingers in the collar of his shirt, yanking him closer and closing the distance between them. "Do it. Hit me. Turn into him. I dare ya." Her violet eyes flashed, reveling in the brief flicker of hurt that flashed across his face, her chest heaving as she caught her breath.

Spot jerked his cane away, sliding it back through his belt loop and ripping her hand off his collar. "Get out," he said abruptly, polishing the gold finial of his cane on his sleeve. "I don't wanna see ya in Brooklyn again. Not now, not eva'. Run off to your 'Hattan boys, see if I care."

Hot Shot flinched, feeling a hand rest heavily on his shoulder. He glanced up into Crawley's clear blue eyes, giving the house manager a brief shake of his head. Nearly every one of Spot and Riddle's frequent fights ended someone along those lines. And yet Riddle was always back by the next morning, taking her place in line at the circulation gate.

"Fine!" the girl stormed, brushing roughly past Spot on the stairs. "Maybe I'll go pay Blade anotha' visit. It was nice, bein' with a guy who lasts more than ten minutes."

Spot ignored ghe barb, grabbing her arm as she passed him. "I am not my pa," he hissed between clenched teeth, leaning in close so only she heard. "An' the next time you says I am is the day I kick you out for good." Riddle jerked her arm from his grasp, breezing past Hot Shot and Crawley and out the front door, wrapping her arms around her body at the sudden chill of the wind. Spot rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets and slinking down the steps. Taking a deep breath, he let the tension drop from his shoulders and straightned up, fishing in his pocket for a cigarette and ignoring his second's wince as he lit it. "Do me a favor and spare me the lecture, yeah?" he said, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

Hot Shot just shook his head, grabbing Riddle's hairbrush and heading upstairs to return it to its proper place.

Riddle pulled the thin cotton tighter, tugging the low neckline of her chemise up to cover a bit more skin. Coupla more nights like this an' we'll be needin' jackets soon, she mused. The freezing wind whipped past her face and hair, drying her tears before they fell. Halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge, she realized she should probably pick a destination.

Kid Blink is often her first choice. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't form attachments, and his energy and enthusiasm closely matches hers. Unfortunately, that means he's away from the lodging house more nights than not. On the nights that he's gone she doesn't mind Jack. He's more the sweet and sugary type, showering her with compliments and eager to win her over. It's exhausting, but his being the leader of the 'Hattan boys is the perfect way to twist the knife in Spot's side.

Most of the other 'Hattan boys were more than a little nervous whenever she showed up. Whether they were wary of Brooklyn's reputation or shocked by her brashness, she didn't know. More likely than not Race had told stories about her. Boots prob'ly has too, by now, she thought bitterly, her fingers brushing over the bruise on her neck. Just part of Blade's "payment."

"Like Spot's never made a deal or two in his time," Riddle muttered, brushing her tangled hair forward to cover the mark. "Brooklyn wouldn't be half as solid as it is now without my help sealin' deals."

She continued mumbling to herself, scarcely even noticing the rickety carriage parked down the street. She did notice the hands that grabbed her, too rough to be a police officer, clamping down over her mouth to stifle her screams and pinning her arms behind her back. She kicked her feet wildly as she was lifted, managing to land a sharp blow to the man's shin but not causing him to slow down. He only gripped her tighter, forcing her into the parked carriage. Trying to wrench her body out of his grip in a desperate last ditch effort, the faded writing on the side of the carriage made Riddle's blood run cold.

Warden J.W. Snyder's House of Refuge.

Spanish translations:

¿Cómo estás, querida? - How are you, dear?

¡Disparates! - Nonsense!

Muchas gracias - Thank you very much

Italian translations:

Sorella - sister

¡Que meravigliosa! - Wonderful! (In a Spanish-Italian hybrid of Riddle's own invention)

Ciao - Hello

Buona notte - Good night

E una bella notte, anche. - And a beautiful night, too.

Bella - beautiful

French translations:

Ami - friend

Chapter Text

"Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see."

—Strawberry Fields Forever, The Beatles

"She should be home by now," Hot Shot said in a low voice, keeping his head down as he counted his papers.

Spot glanced up, scoffing at the worry in his second's eyes. "Nah. She's in Kelly's bed right now, sleepin' in while we's out here slavin' away." He skimmed through one of his papers, nodding in satisfaction at what he saw. "That or she went to Queens, jus' ta spite me," he added as an afterthought.

"Why would she go to Queens?" the Italian asked, surprise evident in his voice.

"Suzie Q's there, ain't she?" the leader asked, shoving his stack of papes under his arm. "They's both girls. Prob'ly friends."

"They hate each other, Spot," Hot Shot said incredulously. "Catfights every time Queens comes here. Same with the Sonatas' daughta', and the girls at the orphanage, the girls who sell papes, the girlfriends a' the guys at the lodge-"

"A'right, she ain't in Queens!" Spot snapped, giving his friend a shove. "Don't matter where she is. She ain't here, and she ain't my problem no more. Now quit wastin' my time, Shot, it ain't cheap."

Hot Shot sighed, not fighting back as Spot pushed past him on his way out to sell. It wasn't personal. He was in a bad mood more often than he was in a good one, lately. He shook his head to clear it, deciding to follow the leader's advice. Better get out an' sell. Time ain't cheap.

The morning passed by in an uneventful blur. He couldn't focus, and his nearly empty pockets reflected it. On good days he could usually flirt and charm his way into a dime, putting his Italian accent and handsome face to good use. With Riddle he could do perform, make people laugh in exchange for quarters. He hated that his mood affected his selling ability. He supposed they could see it in his face. He knew he looked like his mother, and he could always tell what she was thinking just by looking at her. He'd be lucky to break even.

On these days it felt like his body was moving on its own, handing over papes and taking coins while he watched and daydreamed. It wasn't an uncomfortable way to pass the day, and before he knew it the sun was high in the sky. His gaze passed over the street, searching for his next customer, and he saw something that made his heart skip a beat and his brain snap back to reality so fast it nearly gave him whiplash.

It was a man. A man with wide shoulders, thick black hair, tanned skin, a strong jaw, and dark eyes so piercing they seemed to pick Hot Shot out of the crowd of hundreds in an instant.

The boy's breathing picked up, his shoulders heaving and his eyes darting around for a place to hide, making him look borderline crazy as he dropped his entire stack of papes into the street. He vaguely heard someone yell, saw a horse and cart trample over his day's wares, but they sounded oh so far away.

When he looked again the man was gone.

It ain't real, Shot, he scolded himself, taking a deep breath to calm his rapidly beating heart. You's havin' an off day, of course you's seein' things. Get your head on straight.

He stepped out into the street, examining his ruined papers. Oh well. He shook the pennies in his pocket ruefully, knowing it wasn't anywhere near enough for a bed tonight and papes tomorrow. Might as well cap it all off an' treat myself ta lunch.

Sonata's Diner wasn't crowded. He was able to sit at the counter at eat his soup -the cheapest thing on the menu- in silence. "Señor Hot Shot, where is your little friend?" Señora Sonata asked, parking her still-floury hands on her rounded hips.

"She's sick, signora," he said, forcing a smile. "She'll be back soon."

"She better be!" Señora exclaimed in her heavily accented English. "I miss her smiles. ¡Oye! ¡Carlos! ¡No quemes el pan!" She hurried into the kitchen, scolding one of her sons. A few moments later she was back, laying two thick slices of bread on Hot Shot's plate. "One for your Señorita Riddle," she said, her face creasing as she smiled. "And one for you, mijo. You're too skinny."

Hot Shot laughed, standing up to kiss her cheek. "Gracias, Señora. Muchas gracias."

As he left the diner, Riddle's slice of bread burning hot against his skin through the pocket of his thin shirt, Conlon's words played over in Hot Shot's mind.

"Suzie Q's there, ain't she? They's prob'ly friends."

Riddle hated Suzie Q. But she also had a strong, slightly skewed moral compass, and Hot Shot knew she hated it when anyone was hurting. She had burst into tears when Hot Shot told her about his mother's death- granted, she was eight, but still. She was beside herself whenever one of the boys got hurt in a fight or soaked by the bulls. It had nearly gotten her soaked more than once, her efforts to "help." More likely than not, she was with Suzie Q in Queens, attempting to comfort the grieving girl.

So that's where he was going.

She was standing on the dock when he found her, dangerously close to the edge. A thin shawl was wrapped around her, not doing much against the biting wind. He tugged the brim of his cap down further, shoved his hands in his pockets, and went for it. She whipped around when she heard him, and when she recognized him she scowled. "What's a' matter, Brooklyn?" she spat out, her voice ragged from crying. "Come ta gloat?"

Suzie Q. Girlfriend to the leader of Queens. She wasn't like Riddle, didn't involve herself in borough politics. She didn't consider herself a newsie at all. She sold a few papers here and there, but mostly she made her living elsewhere. Stretch didn't stay at the lodging house, he had a small shed at the docks he'd stakes out as his own. Naturally, she lived there with him. His ever present admirer. Riddle had always despised her, with her giggling and hanging on Stretch's arm and looking up at him with big doe eyes. He didn't feel the same way. She was something pretty to look at, a bit of fun when he came home at night, and everyone knew it. And she didn't care.

Hot Shot knew he looked like an idiot, staring blankly, trying to come up with a reply. He'd loved her for a while— well, he thought it was love. He didn't have much to compare it to. Watching his father bellow and his mother hurt herself in response, no; that wasn't love. Spot and Riddle standing on the stairs screaming, all over each other one minute and complaining about each other the next-that wasn't love either. But the spark he felt when he looked at Suzie Q, her flashing blue eyes and her mane of silky blonde hair, giggling as she clung to Stretch's arm or perched on his lap— it might have been.

"No," he said finally. "I didn't come ta gloat. I'm here on business."

"Then you'll wanna talk to the leader," Suzie Q said bitterly, a few unshed tears standing in her eyes. "They sure replaced him fast. One minute he's here, he's in charge, and the next he's... he's..." she trailed off with a hiccup, scrubbing at her eyes fiercely with a corner of her shawl.

"I'm lookin' for Riddle," he interjected, touching her arm gently. She seemed to melt into the touch. "Have ya seen her?"

She shook her head, wrapping her arms around her torso. "Haven't seen her. Not since... I don't know. Not since I last saw her."

Hot Shot felt his heart sink. It was a long shot, he knew, but he had hoped and prayed that she'd be in Queens. Defying Spot, waiting it out, getting the last laugh before coming home.

"I cheated on him, ya know," Suzie Q half-sobbed, looking up at him with wild, tear-filled eyes. "Last time we was in Brooklyn. We were drinking, I had sex with Conlon."

Oh, he knew. He and Riddle had spent a lonely night on the rooftop that night. He had even smuggled up a bottle of beer, gotten her drinking. That rarely happened.

"Do ya have a place ta stay?" he asked, his compassion getting the best of him. Riddle's not here. Ya got what ya came for, now get out!

The broken girl nodded with a hiccuping sob. "Th- there's a boarding house. Madam said I could stay f-for a little bit. Get back on my feet."

"Good," he said, pulling her into a hug. Suzie Q collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and crying into his shirt. He didn't feel that spark of almost-love, not anymore. There was a time he would have been swooning to have Suzie Q pressed up against him, but hysterical girl in his arms- the one with the tangled mess of dirty blonde hair, eyes that were dull and glassy, unhinged and borderline crazy- she wasn't Suzie Q. And all he felt was pity.

"Here," he said, freeing himself from her arms and reaching into his pocket. He handed the girl his piece of bread, no longer warm but still fresh. She let it slip through her fingers as soon as she held it, staring numbly as it dropped to the ground. Seconds latrer, when her mind caught up to her, she scrambled for it, snatching it out of the dirt and eating it in a few bites.

Hot Shot couldn't help but think that Brooklyn had more class than that. Sure, their numbers were composed of leftovers from gangs and brothels, but they never ate out of the trash, never begged. They were far too proud for that. When he left for Brooklyn, after a long moment, he didn't look back.

He returned to the lodging house only a little later than the other boys, with empty hands and pockets. Spot Conlon himself was on the front steps, hands in the pockets of his too-short trousers, smoking a cigarette.

"Crawley kick you out?" Hot Shot asked, referencing the house managers 'no smoking inside' rule. He sat down a safe distance away, keeping a wary eye on the glowing ember of the cigarette.

The leader blew out a breath of smoke, staring off into the darkness. "Yeah." He let the cigarette dangle from his fingers, reclining back against the top step. "Oh, I forgot to tell ya," he said, glancing up at Hot Shot. "I saw Race today. Down at Sheepshead. Riddle ain't in 'Hattan."

Hot Shot sat up. "She's not in Queens, either," he said. "I checked."

Spot's eyes narrowed. "I oughta soak ya, ya know," he muttered, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. "The two of ya, hellbent on ignorin' everythin' I say."

"Where the hell is she, then?" Hot Shot asked, ignoring the remark.

Spot lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "The Refuge? Prob'ly grabbed her on her way to wherever it was she was goin'." The Italian leaned back against the front door, letting out a deep breath. "Calm down," Spot said with a roll of his eyes, noticing. "She ain't made a' glass, and the Refuge ain't that bad." When only silence answered him, he sighed, putting out his cig. "You and I's both been there. We know what it's like. They knock ya around some, don't feed ya for a couple days, and then you're free. She'll be fine."

"Ain't that bad" weren't the words Hot Shot would use, but he had to admit that Spot was right. He remembered a guard stepping in his hand and breaking a few fingers, but the worst part hadn't been the pain. He hadn't been able to play his guitar for weeks, and that bothered him more. He'd definitely been through far worse. He shivered a bit, the pea-sized scars under his shirt burning as he remembered the worse, and the man he'd seen that morning.

The Refuge was nothing. She'd be fine.