Song 04: "Allentown"
The lower city was Skyscraper Town. The steel-and-concrete titans that rose thousands of feet above the pavement were a monument to human ingenuity. Poor construction workers in greasy overalls had once sat on miles-high frames eating lunch, praying they didn't fall, but they didn't own the fruit of their labors. These towers belonged to the wealthy.
They marked the territory of elite dogs who didn't have a drop of mongrel blood in their veins. The skyscrapers of Lower Manhattan belonged to the Purebreds.
Night was brighter than day in the city, illuminated by a million windows and bright street lamps, which never flickered downtown. It would be Halloween soon, which meant the streets would fill with monsters. Some had arrived early.
"Aaah!" cried a young dog with scruffy brown fur, floppy ears, and a hairbrush tail. No distinguishable breed. "I'm going, I'm going!" He ran down the pavement, barreling under people's legs. He turned into an alley with a chain-link fence.
The dog heard barking behind him, the rush of paws on pavement. He leapt onto a trash can and bounded over the fence, falling to the other side. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Then they appeared. Blocking the exit of the other side of the alley, the side he'd just fallen into, were three snarling monsters. The dog tried to climb the fence, but it was no use; there was no crate or bin to jump on. His pursuers had him cornered.
"I'll leave ya turf — I'll go uptown — Just let me go, please!"
The lead attacker was a German Shepherd, his body tawny-brown with black on his muzzle, legs, and back. Despite his pink scars and messy fur, there was no mistaking his pedigree. "Let ya go? With no punishment?" His left ear was completely torn off. It looked like an old wound. "Now what would that do to our reputation?"
The second dog was also a purebred, a Pit Bull with tan-and-white fur and a blocky head too large for his body. He pondered the question. "Uhhh… dogs would say we was nice?"
The Shepherd rolled his eyes. "It was rhetorical, Club! Good grief."
"How can grief be good, Razor?" the Pit Bull frowned.
"Stop talking and do what ya good at."
The Pit Bull's head made him look lopsided, but a big head came with big teeth. He closed in, snarling like a hungry wolf. The young dog fell to the floor, tail and ears down, whimpering. "If ya won't let me go, then I'll — I'll join ya gang! Please!"
Razor had a biting laugh. "Why would we let a mongrel join tha Purebreds?"
The brown mutt shut his eyes, praying it'd be over quickly.
"That's enough, Razor!" the third dog among them barked. "Ya made ya point." He had a voice like bricks smashing into gravel that made the Pit Bull and Shepherd freeze. This dog was an extremely large, extremely ferocious Rottweiler with the muscles of a purebred. There was a black spiked collar around his neck and nasty battle scars on his body. The one that stood out the most was jagged, like someone had taken a serrated knife to his flank.
"What do ya think ya doing, Skippy Dawg?" Razor turned towards him.
"What does it look like?" he growled. "I'm stopping ya."
Years ago, the Rottweiler had been named Skipper, but since hitting the streets he'd gone by Skippy Dawg. He'd run with the Purebreds for weeks now, but that was all over tonight. He shoved past his gangmates to stand in front of the brown mutt, who gazed at him like he was the statue of Balto the heroic sled dog in Central Park.
"Ya want to take me on?" Skippy Dawg laughed. "I eat dogs like ya for breakfast."
Club and Razor growled but knew better than to challenge him. Their muscles were young compared to his. "This means ya outta tha Purebreds for good, traitor!"
"Yeah, that's tha idea. Do ya need a letter of resignation?"
The Pit Bull and Shepherd spat at his paws but didn't attack. They left the alley, and Skippy Dawg didn't take his eyes off them until they were gone. He knew they'd tell the leader of the Purebreds what he'd done. He didn't care. He'd fight them all if he had to.
He escorted the brown mutt out of the lower city. They were safe once they passed New York City Hall on Chambers Street — the Purebreds hadn't claimed much territory yet, but they'd been gaining members for weeks, plotting their takeover. Skippy knew it wouldn't be long before they started pushing farther up the city. They stopped in Columbus Park to rest.
"Tell every mutt ya meet to get as far north as they can."
Rita's headache hadn't improved much since the fight.
The Company had tried to pretend like everything was normal. Tito had cranked up his Latino tunes, Francis had fawned over paintings displayed in a Metropolitan museum brochure, and she'd listened to Whitney Houston when she could steal the radio from Tito.
Einstein had been reassuring Annie that the conflict wasn't her fault. She would cry and say she never should've come, and the Great Dane would tell her that was silly talk.
The hardest night had been when Fagin came back to the apartment and found that Dodger had been gone two whole days. "Did something happen to him, fellas?" he asked. Their eyes fell, unsure how to tell him. "He's been gone before… maybe he'll be back, huh?"
Fagin sat on the patchwork couch, holding a Brooklyn Dodgers cap in his hands.
One evening when their old man looked particularly miserable, Rita couldn't stand the guilt anymore. She licked Fagin's hand, he scratched her head, and she made for the doggy door. "I just need some air, guys. Be back soon." Then she disappeared.
Rita felt bad for dipping, but it was hard to get alone time in a one-room apartment.
She strolled down the block, intending to just walk a few streets then come back to the complex, but the night was pleasant for late October and she went farther than she meant to. Rita passed a clump of weeds growing in the sidewalk, then she smelled them.
She paused. Rita knew that canine scent. It wasn't Dodger, but it was a former member of the Company who'd left them months ago on the first night Sykes threatened Fagin.
Rita followed the scent around the block, tracing it to a fenced-in basketball court. She slipped through a hole in the chain-link fence and ambled onto the asphalt. "Charlie?"
Kicking and headbutting a scratched-up basketball was that familiar face.
"Rita!" The black-and-white, short-furred Collie laughed. "Long time no see, girl!"
"Where ya been, Charlie?" Rita couldn't believe this reunion.
"In Harlem. It's been me, Nancy, and Noah for a couple months now. We're in an abandoned subway station," the raspy girl said. "Ya live around here, don't ya?"
"Sure do, but how do ya know that?" Rita frowned.
"Dodger told us. I ran into him in Harlem, and he hung out with us."
Rita bounced the basketball so she wouldn't have to respond right away. She headbutted it against the brick wall, satisfied with its bounce, but she couldn't leave Charlie hanging. "So he told you what happened… He's being difficult right now. Didn't say that, did he?"
"Nah, but I kinda figured," Charlie chuckled. She headbutted the ball. "I don't know any details, but I don't want to. Ya guys just need some time to breathe."
"Yeah, maybe… So what are ya doing here? Did you come looking for us?"
"Not them." The Collie grinned mischievously. "Just ya."
"Aww, Charlie… you're sweet, but it's been such a long time."
"And somehow ya got more beautiful. What's ya secret?"
Rita rolled her eyes but smiled. "I don't need you to tell me I'm beautiful."
"I know ya don't" she said, beaming, "but let me tell ya anyways."
The Saluki and the Collie kicked the basketball around a bit longer, then they left the court and crossed the white-striped walkway to the other side of the street. The Bronx wasn't a bad neighborhood by any means, if you knew how to take care of yourself. It wasn't as congested as Manhattan, and Rita appreciated that. They goofed around, joking about stunts they'd pulled when they were all in the Company together, laughing at the old days.
Charlie and Rita strolled the streets for a bit, passing tossed-away newspapers and crushed Coke cans that littered the sidewalks. Rita noticed that her old friend liked to walk pretty close to her, which made her tremble. But Rita never let nerves get the best of her.
She hated to admit that the Collie had a charm about her, from her self-confident grin to her elephant gait. Charlie was such a boisterous gal, the furthest thing from snobby show dogs like Georgette. Still, she was snobby in her own way. Rita rolled her eyes often.
Then Charlie dropped the cheap pick-up lines. They saw a stray dog across the street, a mutt by the looks of it, who seemed nervous. Charlie cleared her throat.
"Rita, babe… I gotta warn ya. There's a new gang in town… the Purebreds," she whispered. Rita wished she'd go back to the flirtations, for now she sounded scared. "I heard from Noah — ya remember Noah, right? — that they're taking over Lower Manhattan."
"Seriously?" Rita gasped. "But how far are they gonna get, honestly?"
"No one really knows," Charlie sighed. "But they've got Noah scared, and he ain't never scared without reason. Apparently the Purebreds hate any dog who's a mixed-breed."
"They hate mutts?" Rita frowned. "But what does breed matter?"
"I dunno, but it matters to them." Charlie looked at herself in a puddle off the sidewalk. Her ears drooped sadly. "They're gonna know I'm not pure Collie… Man, ya lucky, babe. Ya got pure Saluki blood, anyone can see that."
"I don't care about being purebred," she protested.
"I know ya don't," Charlie said. "But I'm glad. It means ya safe."
"More stress." Rita shook her head in frustration. "The last thing I need. Thanks for warning me, but we're in the Bronx… we've gotta be safe, right?" Neither of them answered. "I've just been super stressed since the fight with Dodger. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one in the Company with any sense."
"That's cause I left," Charlie chuckled. But her words hung heavy. She cleared her throat again. "I don't know what to tell ya, babe, wish I did… I just hope us hanging out helped ya de-stress a little. I wish we could hang out more often."
"Thanks, girl. I do feel better… but I've gotta get back. The Company may be stressful, but they'd be lost without me. Time to go home."
The two dogs had to part, and it was harder than Rita had anticipated. She didn't want to hurt her feelings, but Rita wasn't sure if inviting her back to the apartment was the best idea. Charlie, Noah, and Nancy had left them when the mobster started pressuring Fagin. She feared the rest of the gang would resent them, even if it'd been ten months ago.
So as much as it pained Rita, she didn't invite Charlie to return with her. And she didn't want to give her the wrong idea, to hurt her feelings. Charlie was an obvious flirt, and Rita was flattered, but she just wasn't sure. "But let's hang out again, okay?"
"Sounds like a second date," Charlie said, wagging her eyebrows.
Rita rolled her eyes for the millionth time that evening.
If you cut from the Upper West Side across Central Park, you would come out on affluent Fifth Avenue, and if you ventured up past the Metropolitan, you would come upon a grand mansion on the corner of East 94th Street. This townhouse — picturesque flower beds below numerous fancy windows, an enclosed patio space in the back, a fire escape on the side — was home to one of New York's many wealthy families, the Foxworths.
A redheaded eight-and-a-half year old named Jennifer sat on her family's living room sofa, her head on a silk pillow. She was meant to be studying, but she was distracted by an orange-furred cat on the windowsill. His blue collar and golden name tag read OLIVER.
The young cat pounced at spots of light, determined to catch one. Jenny laughed when he fell off the windowsill. "Oliver, you silly goose!" She leapt off the couch to pet him.
"Jenny, aren't you supposed to be studying?" Her mother appeared around the corner.
"I have studied." The girl shrugged. She held Oliver in her arms.
"Oh, you're all done." Her mom smiled. "What's the capital of Texas?"
Jenny scratched her head. "Err… Dallas, isn't it?"
"And what's the capital of California?"
"Los Angeles, that's easy… No? Is it San Francisco?"
"Better keep studying," Mrs. Foxworth said, kissing her on the head and walking her back to her U.S. geography textbook. "Why not let Oliver out on the patio?"
"Is it safe?" Jenny frowned. "I don't want him to get out."
"It's too high for him to jump," her mother reassured her. So they went down the hallway and out back to the enclosed patio, which was indeed very high-walled. There were more flowers back here, a garden shed, and a glass table and chairs.
Oliver loved being outside, though sunny pillows in the library or the fuzzy green table in the billard room were just as good. But he loved to smell the fresh air, to jump after a bird, and to stretch his legs. They left the door cracked for him to come back in.
He'd just curled up on the table, content to nap in the afternoon sun, when he heard a sound. "Hello? Who's there?" He glanced around but didn't smell anyone.
That's because she was upwind of him. He heard her move and looked up.
"Hey there, house kitty," she said dryly. She'd made herself comfortable atop the wall.
She was a calico cat with a beautiful mix of white, orange, and black fur and emerald eyes. Her fur was messy and matted, clearly the coat of a stray. Since he'd left his brothers and sisters in that cardboard box, this was the first fellow feline he'd encountered.
"Hello," he said politely. "What are you doing up there?"
"Sunbathing. Same as you," she said curtly. She gave an amused smile.
"It's a great day for that," he meowed sheepishly. "I'm Oliver. What's your name?"
"Hmm. I don't know." She shut her eyes. "Never had one."
"Oh. That's sad." Oliver frowned, but then his owner returned to the patio.
Jenny had heard Oliver mewing and wanted to see what the commotion was about. She picked him up protectively, then realized the stray cat wasn't going to hurt him. "Have you made a friend?" She gazed at the calico. Jenny had expected the stray to run when she appeared, but she didn't. "She's awfully pretty. You're such a charmer, Oliver."
The redheaded girl stepped closer to the stray, who still didn't flee. Either she was very brave, or she'd been around humans before. Jenny didn't want to scare her, so she approached gently. "I don't see a collar." She hummed, thinking. "A pretty girl needs a pretty name, don't you think? Why don't we call you… Adena?"
The calico rolled over to show her belly, nonchalant to the new name.
"She seems sweet, Oliver," Jenny giggled. "I'll bet she's hungry. I bet you are, too!"
She set her cat down and ran back inside to get two cans of cat food — her parents had informed her that she couldn't continue feeding Oliver her specialty blend of Cocoa Krispies and whipped cream — and Oliver was alone with her again.
"Jenny's really nice. You should come down…" He grinned. "...Adena."
"That's a nice name. I'll keep it." She stretched, paws out and backside raised.
Adena didn't come down but walked around the wall, staring down at him curiously. "Why do you stay inside all the time? Why don't you explore the city?"
"I'm not supposed to. New York is dangerous. I was a stray once, too."
"Oh… I didn't realize." Her smile vanished. "I'm glad you found a home."
"I love the Foxworths. Even their poodle is nice sometimes." Oliver's hazel eyes were fixed on her green ones. "You know, I bet if you wanted a nice home…"
"Not my style," she said quickly. Adena leapt down from the wall, sliding down a drain to the sidewalk. He jumped off the table. They were separated by the patio wall, only seeing each other through the spacing in the brick. It was too small for either to get through. "But you should come out with me sometime. We could have fun."
"In the city? I don't know…" Oliver grinned. "Maybe."
"Maybe means yes," Adena giggled. "I'll look forward to it, Ollie."
She reached through the spacing in the wall to lick his nose. He blushed and pulled away. When he looked back, Adena had disappeared, but he smelled her scent. It was exciting, the smell of dirt and gas mixed with a natural sweetness, a warm femininity.
He'd remember her scent. When Jenny returned with the cat food, Adena was nowhere to be seen, so Oliver had to eat his meal alone. Jenny was disappointed but hoped she'd come back to their back patio soon. So did Oliver. He'd never seen a cat as pretty as Adena.
As well-intentioned as his old friend Noah had been by warning him about the Purebreds, he'd done more harm than good. Dodger was the kind of dog who, when told not to do something, immediately did whatever he was told not to do. Defiance was in his blood.
That was why on Halloween night, while the city's children were running around dressed as ghosts and goblins and ringing their neighbors' doorbells for candy, Dodger was heading straight for Lower Manhattan. He'd prove there was no threat.
"Pure-blooded dogs taking territory," he laughed, riding atop a car heading downtown. "What a stupid idea. Ain't no reason to be scared."
The night was cold, chilled by the late fall air and the end of warm days, but Dodger's blood pumped with anticipation. His ride passed the columns of St. Peter's and he knew he was far downtown. Dodger jumped off the roof onto the sidewalk.
The mutt knew where he was going without having to look — these New York streets were his home. He'd been running the lower city longer than any of these so-called Purebreds, if they even existed. Dodger had a better chance of running into alligators.
He'd go straight to Battery Park, as far south as you could go in NYC.
Dodger's stomach rumbled, and with no street vendors in sight, he decided to sniff out a snack in the nearest alleyway. There were crowds of children going door to door. One was a toilet-paper mummy, one was Cleopatra, one was a feral werewolf, and one boy was Superman, cape and all, with a hair curl that would make Christopher Reeve proud. They dropped a caramel apple, but the dog knew better than to eat it — he'd had a bad experience with one as a pup, gluing his mouth shut — so he began digging in the trash bags of the alley. Not exactly appetizing, but trash bags meant food scraps, especially behind a restaurant.
The red-scarfed mutt had just torn open a bag when he jumped at a growl.
"Take yer nose outta our food, ya lousy mixed-breed."
The demand came from two enormous, growling dogs — a terrifying German Shepherd with a scarred face and only one ear, and a Pit Bull who made up what he lacked in smarts with scares — who looked ready to attack Dodger then and there.
Now, Dodger may have been beaten by Roscoe and DeSoto when he was defending Fagin, but every defeat made his fighting sharper, savager. He curled back his lips.
"Your food? Sorry, didn't see tha name tags on tha trash bags."
"Oh, a wise guy?" The Pit Bull narrowed his eyes. "Now I'm mad."
"Tha wisest guy in all of New York City. My city, I might add."
"Ya city? See, that's funny…" the German Shepherd began prowling around him in a circle. "...cause this part of New York belongs to tha Purebreds now. It's our turf."
Dodger regarded them with a cocky smile and a slight tilt of the head, giving him the appearance of being not-all-that-interested. "Ah, do ya and ya friends think ya a tough gang just cause of ya fancy pedigrees? Ooh, purebreds, I'm so scared."
"Hold up," the Shepherd growled. He stopped the Pit Bull from coming closer, because now he was gazing intently at Dodger. Something sparked in his eyes. "I remember ya." Now his even temper went out the window and he snarled like he was rabid. "Ya tore my ear."
His own memory jogged. Suddenly Dodger was transported to a Bronx alleyway on a cold, snowy night — the terrible night his mother left him — where he won his first fight.
"I'd almost forgotten." Dodger sneered. "Ya look prettier this way."
"Didn't think I'd ever meet ya again, but I'm glad. Now I can pay ya back."
Just as the Shepherd was about to pounce, just as Dodger was bracing himself to meet the attack and go for his enemy's throat if able, the Pit Bull gasped. "Wait! He has a red scarf."
His partner rolled his eyes. "Well done, Club. Ya ain't colorblind after all."
"But Razor, ain't tha boss looking for a brown-and-white mutt in a red scarf?"
The Shepherd growled. "Ya think I didn't know that? Of course I knew that." He pulled out of his attack stance to smack his partner's face. "Who's tha brains of this operation?"
Club glanced at the skyscrapers. "Uh… Wall Street, I think."
Razor groaned, then scowled at Dodger. "It's ya lucky day, mutt. Just so happens tha leader of tha Purebreds has a personal bone to pick with ya."
Dodger snickered. "I assumed ya were tha leader. Since ya so scary."
"Well, ya know what they say about assuming." Razor had him cornered in the alley, and Dodger didn't like his chances taking on both of them. He thought again of his fight with Sykes' Dobermans. He wasn't escaping in one piece, but he didn't want to. Dodger would meet their leader face-to-face, whoever claimed to be in charge of this wannabe gang, because that was all these Purebreds were. Some wannabe gang who thought they were tough cookies.
So Dodger willingly accompanied them farther into Lower Manhattan. They flanked him on either side, and he didn't try to run. As they drew deeper into downtown, the steel buildings loomed taller overhead, more fearsome against the night sky.
As they approached the southernmost part of Manhattan, he saw more and more dogs around them. Many of them were brutes, giant Greyhounds built to run and Siberian Huskies who could pull a sled. He saw a Bull Terrier with a rat face, a brown-coated Boxer, and a black Cane Corso. He realized with a shock that these were indeed all purebreds. They roamed the alleys, the sidewalks, ducking around pedestrians if not outright scaring them off.
When they neared the park, Razor sneered at him. "Know why we chose tha Battery as our home base? Know what battery is?"
"Yeah, yeah, batteries give ya power. Very clever."
"Not just power. Battery also means beating tha living daylights outta ya."
The park was fairly large, an expanse of grass and concrete walkways with trees, bushes, and benches scattered about. There were open areas where he could see surrounding dogs, and there were hidden parts where more could've been hiding.
There were more dogs than Dodger had anticipated. He counted a dozen, two dozen, then there were more than a dog could count. He didn't see a single mongrel among them, no one with scruffy fur, mixed traits, or brown spots — except himself, of course.
His heart was pounding faster than he preferred. "Alright, Razor, this is far enough. Where's ya leader?" That only made the Shepherd laugh cruelly.
"Some dogs just have no patience." They had stopped amid a congregation of dogs, and Dodger was completely surrounded. He was starting to think running headfirst into Lower Manhattan, disregarding Noah's words, had been a bad idea.
Then a new dog emerged from the waterfront walkway, and from the way the others parted for him, his authority was clear. He was a monstrously-tall, muscular dog with short, pitch-black fur, undercut by solid brown on his muzzle, legs, and broad chest. His ears were uncropped and fell down, and his tail hadn't been cut short. He wasn't from a breeder, that much was obvious from his dirty, unkempt fur, but it did little to diminish his frightful appearance. He was clearly a purebred Doberman.
But what made the leader of the Purebreds truly frightening was the overwhelming familiarity, the recognition in Dodger's eyes, the dread welling in his chest. A long-forgotten nightmare come back to haunt him.
It was said that on Halloween night, the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Ghosts, goblins, and malicious spirits crossed over and spread fear. Worst of all was the ghost of an enemy who returned to seek vengeance.
The Doberman narrowed his gleaming yellow eyes and grinned, displaying rows of shark teeth. "Hello, Dodger… My name is Ruscoe. I believe you knew my father."
