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It was cool for late spring, but it was a pleasant sort of day, if you like to hear birds chirping and admire the rare flower blooming from between the street cobbles and sidewalks. While he did not have anything particularly against said sort of lovely days, it had taken Spot Conlon the better part of the day to make his way from Brooklyn to Central Park and he had long since stopped taking in the attractive scenery, concentrating more on any possible threats.
As he walked around the edge of the Sheep’s Meadow, where the sheep, thin from the winter months, munched happily on new grass, Spot could see the homes of the rich, the men who owned New York City. He would never understand why the rich were constantly constructing taller, grander buildings, or why the paid veritable fortunes for rooms with the best views of the city, of the park, or of any other momentarily popular location. The mansions that lined 5th Avenue blinked in and out of view over the wall surrounding the park. They were both alluring and revolting in their exclusivity.
After a lifetime spent walking, or occasionally hitching a ride, Spot understood and new the city like none of the rich men in their fancy houses and curtained carriages could know. He knew the sounds and the smells of the city, those things that were the very beating heart of New York, those things one takes for granted. New York was meant to be walked, to be experienced, not to be watched.
But Spot did watch, he watched and learned. He’d always been small, and it took years of watching, studying—learning--to become the man he was, or the man he would be. Whether that studying was how to drink a grown man under the table by his fifteenth birthday or if it was how to fight dirty enough to always win or how to be sure he would always land on his feat, Spot was always observing. Evolving. He was a leader, his word was law, but he was far from being a brutish idiot or ignorant tyrant. He knew the day he stopped changing, stopped learning from his boys was the day he would loose the respect he deserved and he would be usurped as the man his newsies truly listened to.
The Manhattan newsies he passed on the street gave him a wide birth, a spit-shake, or a respectful nod, depending on their nature. A few of Cowboy’s boys were about. They exchanged noteworthy gossip and Spot kept mum on why he was in town. He would not ask for their help unless he truly needed it—he didn’t like to owe favors unless it was unavoidable.
He didn’t mention that the little ball of fear—the one he’d shoved down in his gut and pretended didn’t exist—loosened with each newsie he met who didn’t mention tragic news befalling one of their own. He didn’t mention that it was this festering ball in his gut that had forced one foot in front of the other that morning.
It had been years since Spot had made it so far uptown, and he knew his chances of finding his query were slim; there were miles of paths and roads crisscrossing the park and he had only one vague idea of where Race might be.
A few years back, when he had more time to travel and spent less time keeping his boys alive and out of the Refuge, Spot was a fairly regular newsie down at the Sheepshead racetracks. He and Race were thick as thieves, though they rarely dabbled in such risky business as pick pocketing, though both were skilled enough. They shared stories and told crass jokes while waiting for their customers’ attentions to shift from the races back to the world around them.
It was during one of those conversations when Race had mentioned a museum in Central Park. Race’s mother had not always been dirt poor, and she often regaled her young son with stories of grand parties and luxurious locations. One of her favorite places was the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was smaller than some museums she had visited, but it always remained her favorite. She’d promised to take him someday; she’d even been saving to do just that when she died. Race couldn’t have been more than eight.
“If your Ma had so much money, what in hell are you doing here?” Spot had asked him once.
“My father liked the races too much.” He replied with a wink and a puff on his ever-present cigar.
His time was hardly split evenly between the two, but if you were looking for Racetrack Higgens and you didn’t find him at Sheepshead, the next logical place was Central Park, an almost guaranteed selling spot for any newsie.
Walking passed rich ladies in their high-collared, tight wasted white dresses while who were pushing prams or carrying parasols, Spot held his head high. They walked past his proud, if slightly grubby, form with more haste than would be considered appropriate for such genteel women unused to exerting themselves, and Spot merely smiled. Let them be afraid of him; that suited him just fine. He whistled while he walked and spun his cane without seemingly a care in the world.
The street entrances, those breaks in the wall surrounding the park proper, passed at regular intervals as the street numbers climbed into the seventies and eighties. If Racetrack wasn’t milling about in front of the museum’s carriage entrance, the one facing south, Spot had few ideas of where to look. He sent a prayer to Race’s lady luck as he approached the large building.
Men in suits and ladies in their pale day dresses walked in and out of the main entrance. There was no sign of Race in his dark-plaid pants and equally dark cap. Spot took out a cigarette he’d bummed off of Munch a few hours earlier, and an older businessman with a mischievous twinkle in his eye offered him a match. Inhaling the warm smoke, Spot leaned against a lamppost. Ignoring the look the copper on the chestnut mare was giving him he stood his ground with practiced nonchalance.
Letting his ever-attentive eyes close momentarily, Spot savored the wisps of grey smoke that filled his lungs and calmed his nerves.
“I should feel honored. Spot Conlon all the way up from Brooklyn just to see me. What is the occasion?” The sarcastic voice coming from behind him could only belong to one person: Racetrack Higgins.
Spot’s heart did not flip in his chest like one of those vaudeville girls on their trapeze. Cool and collected, Spot opened his eyes, took another drag of his badly rolled cigarette and turned to face the young man he’d been looking for.
“Race,” he spat in his hand and offered it to the dark haired young man. Race followed suit.
“Spot.”
They shook hands, the firm shake lasting a moment longer than strictly necessary, and locked eyes. Race’s dark brown eyes, as always, were filled with mischief matched equally by Race’s own.
With a smirk Race deftly stole the cigarette from Spot’s hand. Spot cocked and eyebrow in amusement more so than annoyance. Race grinned around the burning paper. Taking the last few drags, he flicked the rest away with practiced ease.
Race tipped his hat to the copper and then jerked his head towards the park.
Spot ignored the irrational desire to offer his arm like a gentleman to his…friend. Instead, Spot followed wordlessly as they made their way into a more wooded, secluded area of the park. The walkways were less defined, the people more scare, and the trees more frequent. Ducking under a branch, between a few bushes, and over a well placed boulder, the young men found themselves in what could have been called a clearing were it actually level ground. The area was dominated by a slightly angled rock slab and surrounded by trees and other flora. This was as close to a wilderness oasis as city boys like them were ever likely to get.
It was as if they were the first people to ever stumble upon this spot, this haven from the hustle and bustle that was New York.
Race took his hat off and with a dramatic breath and exhalation he laid down on the rock-face. After a moment of basking in the sunlight, he turned his head to Spot. Intense eyes met determined ones and the question didn’t need to be asked.
Spot lay down next to Race, his cane, still easily within his reach on one side and his hand coming to rest a finger’s width away from Race’s on the other, he relaxed. It was as if the stress and the responsibility that were his could be put aside even for a few stolen minutes with the only person he truly considered his friend.
Spot pulled his hat off his head and covered his face with it, effectively blocking out the sun. After a few long moments of comfortable silence, Racetrack began to fidget and became increasingly annoyed by Spot’s effective barrier against him. Spot hadn’t done it intentionally but he loved the way he could get under the other’s skin. He was not surprised when Race leaned over to pull it off Spot’s face and then move to tuck it into his back pocket.
Spot smiled as Race effectively stole his hat, surprised in fact that he’d gone so long without action. As Race struggled to get comfortable with Spot’s lumpy hat in his pocket, Spot turned to watched with the same intensity he would a barroom fight or a pickpocket on the street. When Race noticed this intense scrutiny, Spot thought he noticed a slight blush in his olive skin.
“It’s not the same without you at Sheepshead. Even the bookies miss you lousing about.” It was only fair that Spot spoke first; this was Race’s territory after all.
“They just miss my two bits now and again.” Race’s guarded, practiced charm, it was enough to fool most, but Spot knew he was pleased. Pleased to see him. Pleased that he’d come up.
“When you going to be coming back down?” Spot was a master at keeping personal feelings out of his voice, but this whole conversation was nothing but personal.
“Not sure. Had a few things to take care of.” Race licked his lips, Spot licked his own, knowing Race’s would taste of the same tobacco and not his usual heavy cigar.
“There are a few new boys trying to take your spot.” The corner or Spot’s mouth twitched as he tried to keep a straight face.
“Don’t worry, I’ll send ‘em back to ya with their tails between their legs.” Race winked.
“Good.” Spot was no girl to be falling for that nonsense. He knew better. He knew better and yet, here he was. God may damn him to hell and he might rot in prison if the were ever caught, but Spot couldn’t be damned to care.
Spot leaned over and met Race somewhere in the middle. The kiss was soft, teasing, and filled with the memories of a thousand conversations.
It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed—though this was both the most public and most private place they’d found. They’d shared a bed plenty of times over the years before this all became something more. It was something sweet and dangerous. Something that had to be hidden from the world.
In something as simple (and impossibly complex) as a kiss, a press of lips and joining of mouths, it was possible to convey their fierce friendship and devotion to unwritten and often unspoken codes of honor and loyalty.
When they broke apart, after long minutes of reacquainting themselves, Spot and Racetrack relaxed into the easy companionship they were accustomed to. Laying closer than was strictly proper, they relaxed and dozed on the almost sun-warmed rock.