The Fortress of Solitude (67 page)

So there it was: the inadequate liner note to Mingus Rude’s whole existence. I memorized his block and gallery numbers and replaced the file in the drawer. Then, before resuming my spook’s jaunt through the facility, I sat at the desk and was tempted by the telephone there. Perhaps it was a lingering whiff of my encounter with Sweeney, perhaps another stalling action, but I yearned for Abby.

I’d grown so accustomed to the empty ringing, though, and the blurred click of my machine’s pick up, that it was a shock when she actually answered.

“Abby?” I said, to her hello.

“Yes.”

“You’re home.”

“Well, I’m in your apartment,” she said cautiously.

“Is that an important distinction?”

“I’m just pointing out that you’re
not
.” She let this sink in briefly, before asking: “Still enjoying Disneyworld?”

“Disneyland. But no. I mean, I’m not there.”

She waited. I slowly grasped that all the time I’d been ringing the apartment in search of Abby, she might have been doing the same in search of me, with the same result.

“I’m not in Anaheim,” I said. “I came back to Brooklyn.”

“Is your father sick?”

At first I was stumped. It took a moment to grasp that this was Abby’s most generous guess to explain my absence. She’d spared me her worse ones.

“No . . . no,” I said.

“So you’re on some pathetic
Iron John
quest, huh? In the woods beating on a drum?”

“Not exactly.”

“Searching for the guy with the Afro pick?”

“Maybe sort of.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I can’t really talk now,” I said. “I actually wasn’t expecting you to pick up.” I wanted to add
I’ve been calling a lot
, but it was too late for that. I kept an eye on the murky light which penetrated the door’s pebbly glass, fearing patrollers in the corridor. Anyone alerted by my murmurs would have seen the phone’s cord hammocked between the handset on the desk and a receiver glommed into invisibility close at my head.

“You don’t really want to talk to me now, is that what you’re saying, Dylan?”

“I’m sorry.”

I heard her consider my silence. “You’re in a bad place, aren’t you?” Her tone was gentler, barely. “Our big talk really fucked you up.”

“I’m in a bad place,” I said, agreeing with the part that was obvious.

“I believe you.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“I guess you’ll call again when you can really talk.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. I suppose I can wait.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

“I’m staying here now,” she said. “Call anytime.” She was babying me, easing us both off the phone.

“Abby—”

“Yes?”

I wanted to say something before we were done, wanted to have something to say. But where would I begin? Instead I defaulted, to a factoid I’d been holding in reserve for her to admire, the sort of talk we’d enjoyed in better days. “You know how I was always wondering about the Four Tops, about why they didn’t ever break up or get new members, after all those decades? When every other vocal group fell apart?”

“Yeah?”

“Here’s the thing, I found out the reason, it’s kind of incredible. I forgot to tell you. The reason the Four Tops never broke up is they all go to the same synagogue. They’re Jewish. Isn’t that kind of moving?”

“That’s what you called to say? The Four Tops are Jewish?”

“Well—”

“Dylan, I thought you always said that the fact that you happened to be Jewish was, like, the
least
defining thing about you.”

“Well, sure. But, it’s a . . . a pretty amazing thing to know about the Four Tops.”

“Hmmm. I guess getting enthralled with negritude still beats self-reflection every time, huh? They must surely have a couple of those
black Jewish girls
hidden away in Crown Heights somewhere. Good luck on your quest, soul brother.”

With that she clicked off the line. It wasn’t the worst finish I could imagine, only a tad one-sided.

And with that, I had nothing left but my purpose here. Or take Abby’s word and call it
a quest
: go to Mingus.

chapter  
13

H
e never wanted to be King of the A, the CC, or King of any of the IRT lines, never wanted to be King of any line at all. It wasn’t like that for Dose: counting tags, bragging, marking turf. No, you might strike deals with the crews who fought dumb wars for dominance—Dose finally joined FMD as a matter of least resistance—but this was only to free you to practice your art. The days of Mono and Lee and Super Strut—the legends who’d operated in a wide-open Gotham that needed to be taught what a tag or throw-up or top-to-bottom was, what graffiti was in the first place apart from primordial bathroom-wall gags and faggot phone numbers—were over. Gone. A million kids tagged and nobody knew the stories. The kids might figure it was always this way: eat and breathe, watch TV, join crews, do tags.

You needed a feel for the lonely art. It was the line and the language of a fuzzy-gushy flow of pigment settling into vibrant evidence against stone or steel that Dose hungered for. The line and the language, the startlement a perfect tag carved into the city’s face. Let alone a blazing top-to-bottom car rocketing through a station: holy shit! This world might be a dungeon these days, but a few voices called out to a few others. Graffiti never was a popular movement, despite a fog of pretenders. Like Jackie Wilson to Sam Cooke to Otis Redding to Barrett Rude Junior, the real stuff formed a most rarified continuum, a constellation.

Barry might not understand, but Dose knew his own art brought them, father and son, closer.

Cocaine might do the same thing—Barry seemed to think so, by the way he welcomed Dose to it.

A drug was a long study, nothing to take lightly. You might die before grasping what it had to tell you.

His father Barry and his friend Dylan—they couldn’t know how alike Dose saw them, in the end. He felt the weight of their high expectations, of Dose, and of the world. Pops and Dillinger were dreamers, it made them shy. Weak. He wished to protect them from knowledge that would crush them, even if at times it seemed that might be any knowledge at all. Stuff Mingus knew just because his eyes were open. When he abandoned Dylan to his fate at I.S. 293, it wasn’t in ignorance. The opposite: he couldn’t bear knowing the grievance Dylan was destined to absorb, couldn’t face his own inability to stem it. Certain days he wanted to ring the doorbell and roar at Abraham:
Send the whiteboy to Brooklyn Friends School already! Get him clear of there!

And flying? He’d mainly just tried not to disappoint.

Black Panther, Luke Cage, Arrowman, sure. Like what Gowanus needed was a black superhero.

Dose read between the comic-book panels, where Dylan failed to, and knew they were only extras in this urban scene. A soon-to-be-canceled title.

Half the yoke artists they clocked were chumps Dose knew from around the projects anyway.

Barry and Dylan, both lingered in a romance of Dean Street. Dose saw the block for the fragile island it was, at sea in the larger neighborhood—knew it as a flying man might, aerial view. He saw Nevins and Hoyt and where they led. Nobody, apart from maybe Marilla, knew how Dose protected the block from thirsty brothers from Wyckoff Gardens and Gowanus Houses, from Robert Woolfolk’s young uncles and their like. Nobody knew how he sheltered the Dean kids, even Alberto and Lonnie, even chest-puffing Henry, from being beaten, from having skateboards and bikes ripped off countless times. Defended the brownstones from the gang on Bergen and Third, who pried basement-window bars with car jacks and slipped inside. Selling them herb, he’d overheard and petitioned against their plotting on the renovators:
Ain’t nothing to steal, man! You think those white folks got cash? They a lot of
hippies
, man! Had a choice you think they’d settle
here
?

A fair question, actually. Did the renovators think this was Park Slope? Or what?

Why should Dose have to carry them?

Abraham and Dylan was one thing, but some of those brownstoners, David Upfield, Isabel Vendle, the Roths, wouldn’t look him or Junior in the eye, seemed to begrudge their place on the street. Upfield, out there each day in his Red Sox cap and handlebar mustache, picking litter from his yard. Glaring at PRs on crates in front of Ramirez’s store, like they were ever going to quit tossing bottle caps and empty packets of plantain chips in his forsythia.

Possibly it was shifting from Philly that made him alert to the lines of force. Shedding Boy Scout uniform, football jersey, he’d had to tear down and start over. The whole middle-class assumption that was untenable here.

Junior could stay indoors and buff gold records. You, you were going to have to be able to move along the sidewalk.

There were mornings he just took off down Montague Street, strolled though the crowds of Heights kids rushing to make the bell at Packer and Saint Ann’s, to steal away and get high at the Bridge’s pilings. No teachers or school guards, no Dylan, no Arthur, no Robert. He’d be deaf to the call. No Flamboyan Crew, not today. No Savage Homicides, who wanted him to run Red Hook way, no Tomahawks, who wanted him to run Atlantic Terminals. Gone, all gone, like smoke to the Bridge’s span, while he sat in the city scrap yard among the crumpled cop-car fenders and smashed parking meters and the heap of Board of Ed typewriter carcasses, keys gnarled in a knot at the platen, as if trying to blurt some unsayable word. Gone. Junior gone, Senior gone, Mingus gone.

Senior, he was more like Dose, in a way. Though rabid like a mongoose, he had eyes.

A few times Dose trailed Senior up Nevins for his parole dates, then afterward, to the Avery Bookstore on Livingston Street, where, in the aisle between the astrology magazines and civil-service test books, Senior spent an hour pawing through a bin of mildewed sixties
Playboy
s, until the old Jew told him he had to buy something or get out.

One day Senior pinched his arm in the hallway of their basement apartment, said,
I feel you in my footsteps, son, hope you’re learning something.

What he recalls of the Sunday of the shooting, though, is abysmal shame, wanting to hide the white boy’s eyes.

Remorse in him wasn’t what they’d said it ought to be. If he mentally rewound, it was only to bag Senior by night, entrap him with the whores on Pacific, put a silver one through that vampire heart.

Really, though, his grandfather wasn’t worth the bullet. If Dose could have somehow wielded a scalpel instead of the .45, he’d have bisected
Senior
from
Junior
. He’d meant to save his father. That would have been worth the bid he’d drawn.

Spofford.

Barry missed Dose’s arraignment and bail hearing. He’d fled the scene, it turned out, returned with Senior’s body to North Carolina, and left Dean Street behind, the apartment with its stained floor, coke dust melting into the cushions. Nobody arranges for Dose’s release, nobody’s got the money—what’s Arthur Lomb going to do,
deal
to put up a bond? Take up a collection on Nevins? Ask his horrified mom?

Nobody knew Dose had turned eighteen. So he was first thrown into a dormitory at Spofford Juvenile, up in the Bronx, alongside thirteen-year-old heroin runners, fourteen-year-old transvestites, child child-molesters. He met a couple of slayers, neither even pubescent. They’d killed other kids. Dose already shaved, and he’d shot an old man. Spofford’s boys treated him like an elder statesman. Ten days later somebody in Philly pulled up his birth certificate and the mistake was repaired. He was shifted to Riker’s.

Nevertheless, if he flashes to August ’81, it’s Spofford he recalls: a twelve-year-old bunkmate from Bed-Stuy who heard voices he described as “Bugs Bunny in my head,” who’d kidnapped a third-grade white girl from the yard at P.S. 38 and in the brick-strewn lots behind BAM and the LIRR terminal pulled off both their clothes and forced her to eat his feces, and who now spent nights keening for his mommy. Nobody mocked Bugs—his night song might have been on all their behalfs.

Riker’s.

His knowledge overwritten a dozen times, Dose can no longer retrieve a first impression of this place. Mastering the island is one of his life’s accomplishments, for what it’s worth. So, likely he’s purged the terror of his first glimpses by necessity. Building 6, sick with the special panic of the newly incarcerated: Dose is
always already
an old hand here.

There’s nothing worse than scared homies, seeking to prove they’re hard. You’d opt for a bid at any upstate prison over a spell in 6, once you saw how it worked. Upstate, men eased into sentences. Less uncertainty, fewer fresh crackheads, a general attitude of take your bid and do it, no unnecessary beefs. In Building 6, waves came in off the street. Young chumps, steeling for what they imagined they faced upstate, and making Riker’s worse than any upstate yard. Word went out: better get yourself a reputation as a hard case, straight out the gate. So they’d play razor tag in the long unpatrolled hallway to the commissary. The bubble—the COs’ glassed-in station—was so distant from the action it was humorous.

Everyone knew the adolescents were scarier than any grown man.

The fear method spares courthouse time. Every brother lands in Building 6 swearing to request a jury trial this time, vowing never to plea out again. Can’t abide another conviction on the record—
Anyway, yo, I’m innocent!
Then, after six months of dodging homies slicing on each other in the commissary line, your court-appointed mentions a deal. Felony parole and time served, or one-to-five upstate, and you take it. The risk of a dime-to-life, a Rockefeller bid, is too much. Surprise: you’re busted down again.

Nothing serves the system more than the system frying out of control around the edges.

Touring the island from every vantage, Dose has seen its works, like a clock pried open. When crackheads first get inside, they aim for a bunk and nobody lets them settle. Reeking, skinny, they’ll never get over, never convince anyone of anything. Older hard cases or young studs, anyone says the same thing:
Damn, motherfucker, you stink!