Song 02: "Say Goodbye to Hollywood"
Time passed like subway trains in the Big Apple: one moment it was the end of spring, then the doors opened, passengers flooded out and in, and the train whooshed down the tunnel into a chilly autumn. One moment Dodger and the Company were rescuing Jenny Foxworth from her mafia kidnapper, Bill Sykes, and they were waving goodbye to Oliver the orange tabby kitten, who would stay with Jenny. It was all just a moment ago.
The next moment — the next subway arriving at the station — took them far, far away from the life Dodger knew. Everything moved fast in New York City.
"He can't be serious," Dodger had said the day Fagin came home to the houseboat and announced they were moving. But to his dismay, Fagin had begun packing his belongings. He didn't have much to his name; little worth keeping, anyways. He'd made several trips back and forth on his motorbike-and-shopping-cart contraption.
On the last trip, he'd paid a trucker some bills Dodger didn't know he'd had. They loaded up the recliner, the TV, and a patched-up couch from Goodwill. At last, he loaded his dogs.
The trucker drove them away from the Brooklyn Bridge piers and into the middle of Manhattan, then further north till they crossed a familiar bridge. "No, no, no," Dodger moaned. The ugly brick buildings, the littered streets, the cracked pavement — it was all just like he remembered. "There's gotta be a better place than tha Bronx."
They'd parked outside a three-story tall tenant building, only the gutters were coming off, windows were duck-taped, and the top floor looked in danger of falling apart. Of course, that was the floor Fagin took them to. He threw nervous smiles at the other renters, who weren't the prettiest bunch but at least didn't look dangerous. "Home sweet home, fellas."
It was a cramped studio apartment, the kitchen only separated by the change of carpet to tile. Fagin and the trucker set up the couch, the recliner, the TV, and a stained mattress. The cupboard doors were coming off the hinges and the bathroom smelled moldy, but aside from that, home sweet home. This was where the Company found themselves that breezy fall day.
But the Company in the apartment — the dogs Oliver met the day he'd followed Dodger to the houseboat — was not the exact same Company from back in the day.
Einstein, the oldest dog there, was snoozing in the recliner chair. Rita, the brown Saluki girl, was resting on the patchwork couch. She couldn't doze off, however, because someone was crunching kibble very loudly. Rita hopped off the couch and went to the food bowls, where a hairy rat wearing a green armband around his head was stuffing his face.
"That's enough, Tito. You've eaten twice today." She flicked him away with her paw.
The Chihuahua swallowed the bite and yipped, "No fair! No fair! I'm hungry."
"We're all hungry, but we gotta make it last. Fagin can't afford dog food every week, so no splurging." The pipsqueak she lectured was the most recent addition to the Company, not counting Oliver. His name was Ignacio Alonzo Julio Federico de Tito, but he went by his last name. The Chihuahua darted over to an English Bulldog lying on a mattress.
"Whatcha reading, Frankie, huh? Whatcha reading? Romance? Drama?"
"My name is Francis, not Frankie, and I am not reading. We canines cannot read." Francis sniffed disdainfully and drew the book — The Complete Works of William Shakespeare — closer to him. "I have simply memorized the Bard's magnificent lines." He cleared his throat. "To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer…"
"I think I'm gonna hurl." Tito crawled over the Bulldog and hopped away.
Rita was happy that her gangmates were content. Sure, the apartment wasn't a Fifth Avenue townhome, but it wasn't in danger of tipping over during a storm. It was a safe place to sleep and they had enough food, and for that, she was grateful. They were all grateful — well, four out of five were. They were short one scruffy-furred, bandana-wearing rascal.
"As tha handsome devil entered tha scene, his loyal fans applauded, not just outta sheer joy for seeing him, but also for tha tender and juicy steak he'd stolen for them to enjoy." The one-and-only Dodger took a bow. "Ya may proceed with tha applause."
His fur was white and gray with splotchy brown spots, but where the spots ended and the dirt began, she couldn't tell. Dodger was some kind of terrier mutt — Parson Russell, she mostly thought — but he took pride in being a mongrel. He had a constant stench about him, like trash cans and spilled gasoline, but Rita was used to it by now. He'd entered the apartment through the doggy door, which Fagin never closed.
"Ooh, Dodger, man! Ya got steak? Medium or well-done?"
"Rare." Dodger threw the meat at their paws. "Like my talents."
Tito, Francis, and Einstein tore into the steak like kids with Halloween candy, but Rita was hesitant. They left them their share, and she split it with Dodger. "This is delicious," she admitted, "I just don't see why you gotta go out so much. Fagin says — "
"Please. What Fagin don't know won't hurt him." Ever since they'd moved to the Bronx apartment, ever since Fagin had begun his new job working long shifts at a drugstore on the corner, he had asked them to not get up to trouble. To be normal dogs who didn't steal people's wallets, watches, or lunch-hour sandwiches. "But it ain't like Fagin knows what's best for us. What was he thinking, moving us here?"
"Okay, it's not ideal, but at least it's four walls and a roof."
"Well, I sure preferred tha houseboat. It used to rock me to sleep."
"Yeah… I wasn't too crazy about all that rocking." When he passed near, Rita smelled saltwater in his fur, even though he wasn't wet. "You were at the docks again, weren't you?"
He shuffled his paws. "I'm sorry, Rita baby." Now he walked in circles, trying to find a spot to lie down, but a studio apartment was crowded with five dogs. "I know ya trust Fagin, but I don't trust any — what I mean is, when ya been on ya own for so long — "
"It's okay, sugar." She nuzzled him, but he drew away.
There was no need for him to be embarrassed around the rest of the gang. Dodger and Rita had never kept their flirtations a secret — neither were shy dogs, and neither pretended they were exclusive — but their back-and-forth had never blossomed into anything more serious. On good days, she wondered if it would. On bad days, if it should.
It seemed this was a bad day for him.
"Listen, Dodge, you don't gotta trust Fagin. I just hope you trust me."
"Rita… that ain't fair. Ya know that ain't fair." He gave up on trying to lie down and jumped up the couch, staring at the city through the planks that boarded the windows. "I don't like people acting like they know what's best for me."
"If you keep going out, Fagin is gonna start closing the doggy door."
He gazed out at the bright sunshine, the blue sky with not a cloud in sight. His tail wagged to see the mailman driving up the block, and he wanted to bark like a puppy — he used to chase that very same mailman all over the Bronx — and he whimpered when he passed out of view. "Look, I'm leader of tha Company, remember? Ya elected me president."
"Uh, actually, man..." Tito piped up, "...ya elected yaself."
"Best dog for tha job, right? So as leader, I say there's no sense pretending we're normal house pets. We're street dogs, ain't we? I say we come and go whenever we please."
"This is a democracy, old chap. We put such things to a vote."
Dodger turned on poor Francis. "Ya saying ya don't agree with me?"
"Well, it's simply… Fagin desires an ordinary, respectable life, so we should — "
"Ah, c'mon, guys! Tha old Company was way cooler than this." He looked at everyone present. Einstein had woken up from the recliner and was listening, a little confused as to why their voices were raised. Tito had crawled under Francis's front legs. Rita was giving him her disappointed look. "Let's put it to a vote like Frankie said. Everyone, bark once if ya say we ignore tha old man and do whatever we want."
Dodger barked. No one else made a sound.
"I can't believe it. Did all of ya get neutered and not tell me?
The mutt jumped off the couch and strutted around the room, the way he did when he was acting cool and aloof to avoid losing his temper. Rita knew him better than he realized. She'd seen him for the survivor he was, and she had nothing but respect for that. She also knew he buried a lot more than bones underground. But she'd seen a change come over him that spring, a good change, with the newest addition to the gang. After Tito, that was.
"Dodger baby, I know what's really bothering you."
"Nothing's bothering me. Just don't get why you guys worry so much."
He sauntered through the apartment, humming one of his many songs. He gulped down some kibble and made an exaggerated face. "Tastes like cardboard." He walked into the bathroom, but it was so tiny he felt claustrophobic. He laid down on the kitchen tiles, but they were hard and cold. He tried the mattress, but Francis and Tito were already on it, and three's a crowd. So he made for the doggy door. "Sorry, fellas. I can't stay cooped up here."
"I know you miss the kid, hon. Just say so. It's okay."
"So what if I do?" And with that, Dodger whipped around and disappeared nose-first through the doggy door. It only really fit him — Rita could barely squeeze through, Frankie was too fat, and Einy too big; of course, Tito could if he wanted to, but he didn't want to — so none of the Company went after him. They just stared, speechless.
With their fearless leader gone, the Company looked to Rita.
"He's just being dramatic." Rita sighed, for no matter how frustrating he got, she knew him. She couldn't stay mad at someone who, on the inside, was rocking like a boat in a storm. "He'll be back in a few days with a new pair of sunglasses."
The wild streets made his favorite sounds in the world. His city was construction-yard jackhammers, vendors yelling for customers, and honking traffic jams. She was skyscrapers and cold bagels in the morning rush, a sunset stroll in Central Park, or a subway ride at 3 A.M.
"Smell those soft pretzels!" He could practically taste the salt. "Hear that afternoon traffic!" He could listen to those horns all day. There was no place like Midtown.
"Can't believe they'd ever give this up." Dodger breathed in the polluted city air. It was an amazing smell. "I tell ya, they're settling." The pigeons must've agreed with him, because they cooed and nodded their heads. "I gotta take my mind off them… I need a girl."
That perked him up. Dodger ran to the concrete's edge, jumped at a passing car, and landed on the roof. He'd been car surfing the city ever since he was a pup. It's gotten from the Bronx to Uptown and back again, and now it took him to the ever-bustling, ever-crowded Times Square. Broadway billboards lit up the sky. Neon pink lights advertised less-respectable shows. "Cause really, where else would I find a lovely lady but Times Square?"
Dodger sniffed through the crowd and spotted a Beagle girl in a pink collar and leash.
"I'm no show judge," he whistled, "but I know first place when I see it."
"Hmph!" She stuck her nose up. "I don't talk to filthy street mutts!"
"Me neither, sweetie. If ya see any, lemme know and I'll chase them off."
"If you get a single flea on me, I swear to Lassie, I'll — "
"Ooh, prissy missy! Calm down, toots. Ya too stuck-up for me."
The Beagle's eyes went wide. She ran to a store window to check her reflection, and Dodger was reminded of a certain award-winning poodle who lived on Fifth Avenue. While she contemplated rejection, he strutted off laughing. "Ah, what a hoot!"
Dodger looked back and narrowed his eyes. "I ditch ya, not tha other way around."
He'd lost track of time having so much fun. The skyscrapers of Times Square were already glowing with orange evening light, which meant he'd soon be needing somewhere to sleep. That was nothing to worry about — he'd spent most of his life finding safe spots to spend the night. Times Square was too crowded, so he went farther down the street.
He ran into a crowd, winding through the maze of legs and coming out with a wallet — sometimes he just couldn't help himself. Tourists made it too easy. Dodger's first thought was to take it to Fagin, then he remembered their old man was trying to live on the straight and narrow. He threw the wallet to the ground. Seconds later, a man yelled that he'd been robbed.
Dodger's nose twitched. Food vendors were everywhere, but he recognized this particular stench. Only one man in the Five Boroughs cooked hotdogs with that much grease.
"Hotdogs, people! Get your hotdogs! Hot and fresh!" Old Louie was as repulsive as a New York sewer and as vile as the mutant rats that lived down there. His black hair was oilier than his sausages, his rolls of fat so huge Dodger often wondered how he managed to stand. Looking at him, he remembered the day he'd stolen a roll of all-beef kosher franks.
And suddenly, Dodger knew where he wanted to spend the night.
Oliver's day had been wonderful, if a bit tiring. The Foxworth family had celebrated the weekend by taking a walk in Central Park, eager to see the warm colors of fall painted on the trees. They'd walked trails, seen the statues, and even had a picnic of sandwiches and lemonade that Winston the butler had packed for them. Georgette hadn't been thrilled to tag along — "It's so chilly! This breeze will ruin my hair!" — but Oliver had a great time, even if he was on a leash. Jenny smiled to see him chase squirrels and bat acorns.
After what had occured in April, over six months ago, Jenny's parents were desperate to spend time with her. Someone else in the office could take the business trips.
Her mother and father were now tucking Jenny into bed. David Foxworth kissed her forehead. "Did you have a good time today?" She nodded and hugged him. "I'm glad. Sleep well, sweetheart." He was a tall man with a bushy handlebar mustache and constant bags under his eyes. His auburn hair had gone gray before any of his business colleagues.
May Foxworth, a woman with a gentle smile and blonde curls who'd never let the world know she'd gone gray, kissed her daughter's cheek. "If you have nightmares, we'll be just downstairs." Jenny kissed her back, then Oliver mewed at them.
"Oliver wants a kiss, too." Jenny held him up and her mother kissed his ginger head. Mr. and Mrs. Foxworth hovered by the door before finally leaving. Jenny pretended to be asleep so her parents wouldn't know she could hear their whispers.
" — think the therapy is really helping. Jen hasn't had a nightmare in days."
"Oh, I hope so. I'm glad that awful mobster is dead. Is that wrong?"
"I don't know, dear. Let's not dwell on it."
Sometimes Oliver had terrifying visions that woke him in the middle of the night: a sneering mobster in a cloud of smoke, or Dobermans opening their jaws to devour him. He could only imagine what kept Jenny awake at night.
The little redheaded girl rolled over and tried to doze off, but to no avail. Oliver tiptoed across the bed, hopped down, and went over to the window to gaze at the city. A million lights shone from a thousand buildings. Who needed stars when you lived in the Big Apple? He'd grown to love the concert of late-night traffic and jazz drifting through the air.
Then Oliver heard the banging of paws on metal below him. Some four-legged creature was climbing the fire escape. Was it a Doberman? He mewed urgently at Jenny, and she leapt out of bed. Jenny's fright became relief when she was who it was. "Hello, you."
She slid the windowpane open, and Oliver caught wind of a familiar stink. It was garbage bins and engine smoke, stale bacon and cigarettes, all in the fur of his very best friend.
"Dodger!" He greeted the mutt as he crawled into the bedroom.
"Hiya, kiddo. I was hoping ya'd be home."
Jenny gave him a bigger hug than her father had got, and he licked her face in return. She loved the nights he visited them. This was the dog who'd saved her from Sykes, and she allowed him to come and go as he pleased. When Dodger was there, Jenny slept soundly.
Oliver rubbed against his matted fur. "What are you doing here?"
"I was just… I dunno. Needed somewhere to spend tha night."
"Well, you know you're always welcome here."
"That means tha world to me, kid." He flopped onto his favorite fluffy rug, and Oliver curled beside him. Any day when Dodger got to see this cat was automatically a good day.
He'd visited the Foxworth home many times that spring and summer. Whenever he was near Fifth Avenue, he'd bark at the front door till Winston let him in, then he'd run through the mansion and find Oliver. Inevitably, he would find Georgette and bother her — one time he'd peeped at her in a bubble bath and she'd screamed like a foghorn — but it was Mr. Foxworth he really enjoyed seeing. That'd been quite a surprise for Dodger.
They would sit on the sofa together, his head in David's lap as he read the paper. "See this, boy? Stocks on our business — terrible, just terrible." When they went up again, he rewarded himself with a bagel, and Dodger always got half of it.
The Mrs. always said he'd get mud on the carpet and sofa, but Mr. Foxworth said the dog reminded him of his working-class roots. They never bathed or collared him, for they knew he was a perpetual stray. That didn't mean they hadn't discussed it.
Together on Jenny's bedroom rug, Oliver yawned and Dodger had to yawn, too. The cat first met the Company back in April, and in the months since, no one had visited him more than Dodger. Tito came every now and then to break up, make up, and break up again with Georgette, and Francis liked to admire the mansion's artwork, but Dodger was a constant.
"Why'd things have to change?" the mutt sighed. "Ever since Fagin moved us to tha Bronx, he wants us to be normal dogs. Stay inside, eat tha kibble, no stealing. Maybe that's safer, but I love tha streets. I love tha danger, tha excitement. And I hate tha Bronx."
"Well, I'm not crazy about you loving danger."
"Ah, y'know I can handle myself." Dodger rolled over like he was playing dead. "It ain't tha gang's fault, really. I can't be mad at them for wanting normal lives... But I don't."
"Nothing stays the same forever." They drifted off to sleep, the concert of the city playing faintly for them. Dodger's stomach made the best pillow. "Except one thing."
"LaGuardia being trash?"
"Nope. It's you being my big brother."
"Absitively, kiddo. Absitively."
Rita needed to clear her head. When she sat dwelling on every little thing that stressed her, she got the worst migraines, and right now the sight of an empty dog bed where a certain scruffy terrier mutt usually slept was setting her off.
She knew Tito, Francis, and Einstein could tell she had a headache — they were looking at her like a tea kettle about to boil over — but she wouldn't be pitied. That wasn't her style.
So she'd told the gang she needed some fresh air, a nighttime stroll around the block, and she'd squeezed out the doggy door with some difficulty. Rita knew she was going out alone right after she'd lectured Dodger about it, but she was only going for a walk, not an adventure.
She couldn't understand why Dodger disliked the Bronx so intensely. Sure, it was a bit rundown, but it wasn't as packed as Manhattan and the people were friendlier. Rita passed kids playing basketball in a cracked court. Across the streets, a boy was spray-painting the side of a building. He was talented, and she hoped people appreciated his art.
Around the corner, she smelled another dog. Rita could tell it was an older female, no threat to her, and when she went into the next alleyway, she found her.
"Hey, girl," Rita nosed up to her. "You all alone out here? It's not safe."
She was a scraggly terrier mutt, sandy-furred with brown spots here and there, elderly and exhausted and extremely underfed. Pity flooded Rita, and she didn't care that this was a complete stranger, she had to help. Rita helped her stand as gently as possible.
"Yes… Thank ya, oh, thank ya," the mutt coughed. Her fur was caked with mud and grease. "I don't… have anywhere to go. I don't know what to do."
"Everything's gonna be fine, sister. My friends and I live nearby. We'll help you."
The cold weather would soon be a death sentence, so Rita's mind was made up. She walked her out of the alley, around the block, and towards Fagin's apartment complex.
"My name is Rita. Don't you worry about a thing. You're safe now."
"Thank ya so much." She managed a smile. "I'm Annie."
