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“How’s Manhattan?”
Jack let out a bitter chuckle, and it fogged up in front of his face and blew away over the river like a ghost. “Cold.”
“Yeah,” Spot chuckled, too, “I feel that.”
The two borough leaders were standing at the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge, staring down at the glistening, slushy water and luminescent white snowbanks in the full moonlight. New York was beautiful in the winter, but damn, was she cruel.
Jack sighed. “Sinceramente, Spot, we ain’t doin’ so good. People just ain’t buying, an’ I know that happens every winter, but I swears, it gets worse every year.”
Spot nodded. “Se necesita comer para vivir.” Gotta eat to live.
“You low on food in Brooklyn? Well, hey,” Jack lightly punched Spot in the arm, turning to lean back against the railing instead of forwards, “we gots a church where we gets food. Las monjas lo darnos. We can getcha some.”
Spot glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “We can trade ya mantas for food.”
“Shit, Conlon.” Jack smiled. “You read my mind.”
Jack would be sad later about the way his kids’ eyes lit up, when he brought home a pile in his arms and a paper bag full of blankets. For now, he joined in their excitement, glad to bring them a little warmth and happiness on a dead cold and chilly day.
“Holy shit, Jack!” Racetrack exclaimed, dashing over to help him with his armful. “Where did you get these?” He stopped to admire the clean, blue flannel blanket on top, and Jack made a mental note to make sure that one made its way to Race’s bunk.
“Courtesy of nuestros buenos amigos en Brooklyn,” Jack said, beaming. “We needed blankets, they needed food, so all we gotta do is share a little grub.” He looked around at his fellow newsies—Race, Albert, Finch, Specs, Blink— “Ey, where’s Crutchie?”
“Crutchie ain’t feelin’ so good, boss,” Race said. “He’s restin’.”
Shit. “Well…” Jack pulled a thick green blanket out of the pile. “Finch, take this up to Crutchie.”
“Will do, boss.”
Jack didn’t even bat an eye when Spot showed up to their biweekly meeting on the bridge twirling a cigar between his fingers. “Where’d you get that?” he asked dully, already knowing the answer.
“Lo robé,” Spot replied with a smirk, sitting down on the pavement next to Jack and handing him the cigar. “¿Qué pasa? What’s wrong?”
“Gracias,” Jack said, accepting the cigar and the matchbox that followed, ignoring Spot’s question for the time being. He lit the end of the cigar and took a breath, holding the sweet smoke in his mouth for as long as he could before his lungs demanded fresh air.
Spot nudged him with his shoulder. “Come on, talk.”
Jack sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the railing and squeezing his eyes closed. “Crutchie está enfermo. Ha tenido un fiebre toda la semana. No sé lo que hacer. No puedo ayudarlo. No puedo pagar un doctor. Él es mi hermano, Spot.”
“Entiendo.” Spot sighed.
They lapsed into silence as a light flurry of snow began to fall. Jack pulled his thready coat tighter around his shoulders, though there was little hope of keeping out the chill.
“Conozco un doctor,” Spot said at last. “Puede ayudarlo.”
“Give him this medicine up to three times a day,” the doctor instructed, handling Jack a bottle of foul smelling syrup. “That should help with the fever. Make sure he gets plenty of rest.”
“Thank you.” Jack nodded. “Thank you so much, sir. Please, I know you’re a friend of Spot’s, and I don’t have much, but I can pay—”
“I wouldn’t call myself a friend of your friend. I hadn’t met him, ‘till this morning.” The doctor closed up his bag and turned towards the door. “Not to worry, though; he already paid me.”
Jack watched the doctor leave the lodging house, dumbfounded.
Jack had been to the Brooklyn lodging house before, but he didn’t realize he knew the way by heart until he found himself on the doorstep after being lost in his thoughts on the way over. He raised his fist to knock, then let his hand fall to the handle and let himself in instead. A dozen eyes landed on him at once.
“What are you doin’ here, Kelly?” asked a boy—Bart? Jack wasn’t sure of his name.
“Whadda you thinks I’m doin’ here? I’m here to see Spot,” Jack shot back. “It’s important.”
“Well.” Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear. Spot came halfway down the staircase and leaned casually against the bannister. “If it isn’t Jack be Nimble, Jack be Quick. D’you see the doctor.”
“Sí,” Jack practically charged to the bottom of the staircase, “y tú pagaste.”
Spot raised his eyebrows impassively. “¿Tienes una problema?”
“¡No! No, pero…¿por que? ¿Que quieres?”
“Wow, Jack. I’m wounded.” Spot placed a hand over his heart. “Son los invier nos , no invier mis .”
Jack chuckled breathlessly at the joke, almost even more bewildered than before.
“Escúchame, Jack,” Spot said. “Eres mi amigo, ¿no? Somos hermanos.”
“Sí.”
“Así que yo ayudé su hermano. Simple.”
Before he knew it, Jack was running up the stairs, throwing his arms around Spot. “Gracias. Gracias .”
“De nada.” Spot patted his back. “No te preocupes. Brooklyn y Manhattan—we looks out for each other, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jack let go, offering Spot a smile. “Anything you need, Spot, Manhattan’s got you.”
Spot smiled back, lightly punching his shoulder. “Go. Cuida a tu hermano.”