Post by Spot Conlon on Sept 10, 2008 18:09:42 GMT -5
Spot wasn't happy with what he was hearing. For one thing, whispers had been going around Brooklyn like the winds that came off the harbor, and if there was one thing Spot wouldn't stand for, it was rumors, especially if they concerned him. His philosophy was if it someone had something to say about him, they better be able to say it to his face, or else they would get a fist in theirs. Especially ever since Mike Greaser declared war on the newsies, rumors were going around, hanging in the air like flies that buzzed past your ear and refused to be swatted. Spot didn't concern himself with those. But the ones he'd just been told...the ones he'd just been told...
In what used to be the lounge of the old hotel used by the Brooklyn newsies as their lodging house, several plush chairs were scattered around, most of them torn out either from wear, or someone who'd gotten bored and decided to pick at the fading fabric. Many were pushed over or broken, a silent wooden casualty in a fight between two newsies who decided things couldn't be take outside. All, though, were dusty and faded with age. At the far end of the room was a single chair that seemed untouched by the newsies: in pristine condition, save for the faded fabric and dulling wood. There sat Spot Conlon, in his lodging house throne. No other newsie was allowed to sit there, because they all knew what happened to the last guy who did.
Spot's look at the two newsies who stood before him darkened considerably, making the two boys extremely nervous. Nothing went well when Spot was angry. Nothing. When Spot was angry, all of Brooklyn seemed to stop and catch their breaths, and take their next step very, very carefully. Such was his power, and he would have it no other way. Spot spoke, and the younger of the two boys flinched, as if the Brooklyn leader had lashed out at him: "The hell do you mean," Spot said in a calm tone that was tainted with explosive anger, "they expect me to side with Greaser?"
The younger newsie was frightened into silence. Decker, who was among Spot's inner circle, had the courage to speak up. "That's what they said, Spot..."
"Who said?"
"The Flatbush Street pickpockets. They tell me an' Half-Pint, go tell your leader we're with him if he's siding with Greaser. So I says, who tol' you he was sidin' with Greaser? And they says, that's what's gonna happen, ain't it? I says how do you'se know. And then they says..."
"Get. To. The Point."
Decker stumbled, caught himself, and continued. "They says to me an' Half-Pint that's what everyone expects. You to side with Greaser."
Spot leaned back in his chair, fuming. He never liked those Flatbush street boys. They were a grimy bunch, always dirty and not even skilled pickpockets. He admitted that he might have brought this on himself: he had yet to proclaim his side in the fight between Jack and Mike, and of course things were starting to get ugly. It was time he got things sorted out. "Decker," he barked, and the large newsie stood at attention. "Go into Manhattan tonight. Tell Jack Kelly that me and him need to talk. Tell him to come by the lodging house at dusk. Go." Decker glanced at the dusty lobby floor, memorizing the message, before nodding and heading out again.
Half-Pint cleared his throat. "What about me, boss?"
Spot looked at him, and rolled his eyes openly. "Get the hell upstairs before I throw you up there." The kid beat it out of there like something was after him, and in his absence Spot leaned his head in his hand. He had to do everything around here...
In what used to be the lounge of the old hotel used by the Brooklyn newsies as their lodging house, several plush chairs were scattered around, most of them torn out either from wear, or someone who'd gotten bored and decided to pick at the fading fabric. Many were pushed over or broken, a silent wooden casualty in a fight between two newsies who decided things couldn't be take outside. All, though, were dusty and faded with age. At the far end of the room was a single chair that seemed untouched by the newsies: in pristine condition, save for the faded fabric and dulling wood. There sat Spot Conlon, in his lodging house throne. No other newsie was allowed to sit there, because they all knew what happened to the last guy who did.
Spot's look at the two newsies who stood before him darkened considerably, making the two boys extremely nervous. Nothing went well when Spot was angry. Nothing. When Spot was angry, all of Brooklyn seemed to stop and catch their breaths, and take their next step very, very carefully. Such was his power, and he would have it no other way. Spot spoke, and the younger of the two boys flinched, as if the Brooklyn leader had lashed out at him: "The hell do you mean," Spot said in a calm tone that was tainted with explosive anger, "they expect me to side with Greaser?"
The younger newsie was frightened into silence. Decker, who was among Spot's inner circle, had the courage to speak up. "That's what they said, Spot..."
"Who said?"
"The Flatbush Street pickpockets. They tell me an' Half-Pint, go tell your leader we're with him if he's siding with Greaser. So I says, who tol' you he was sidin' with Greaser? And they says, that's what's gonna happen, ain't it? I says how do you'se know. And then they says..."
"Get. To. The Point."
Decker stumbled, caught himself, and continued. "They says to me an' Half-Pint that's what everyone expects. You to side with Greaser."
Spot leaned back in his chair, fuming. He never liked those Flatbush street boys. They were a grimy bunch, always dirty and not even skilled pickpockets. He admitted that he might have brought this on himself: he had yet to proclaim his side in the fight between Jack and Mike, and of course things were starting to get ugly. It was time he got things sorted out. "Decker," he barked, and the large newsie stood at attention. "Go into Manhattan tonight. Tell Jack Kelly that me and him need to talk. Tell him to come by the lodging house at dusk. Go." Decker glanced at the dusty lobby floor, memorizing the message, before nodding and heading out again.
Half-Pint cleared his throat. "What about me, boss?"
Spot looked at him, and rolled his eyes openly. "Get the hell upstairs before I throw you up there." The kid beat it out of there like something was after him, and in his absence Spot leaned his head in his hand. He had to do everything around here...
