Song 05: "We Didn't Start the Fire"
"Ruscoe? Ya can't be — Ya mean ya old man was — "
"Roscoe, yes. Didn't my name give it away?" The Doberman cocked his head, grinning wickedly. All of the surrounding dogs howled with laughter.
It was well past midnight, and the shadows looming behind every bush and tree turned Battery Park into a nightmarish landscape. There were no humans in sight, no secret affairs or drug dealers. Perhaps the hellhounds of Halloween had scared them away: a pack of canine brutes who had made the Battery their territory. The starting point, that was.
Dodger's legs began to shake; his tail drooped. Everything about Ruscoe, from his pointed nose to the flecks on his muzzle, looked nearly identical to his father. The mirror image of a face Dodger thought he'd never see again outside of his nightmares.
"You look nervous." Ruscoe nodded politely. "I believe Club said I was looking for you."
"How — How are ya tha Purebreds' leader? When did ya — "
"When did I what? Happen?" He laughed deep and slow. Ruscoe moved closer to him, and his gang followed suit. "Where to begin… My father and my uncle were top-notch Dobermans, purebred pedigrees, so of course Sykes bred them. The pups Roscoe and DeSoto fathered fetched a high price. Some of us went to more breeders, some to the shows, but me? I went underground. I was in the fighting ring." Ruscoe's sneer had disappeared. "I got real good in those fights. I got so good, I started to wonder what I was doing there."
"So ya busted out? Escaped tha humans?" Dodger guessed.
"Turns out dogs put up a better fight than men," he chuckled. "I learned early on that it's a dog-eat-dog world, and a dog like me deserved to be giving orders, not taking them. That's why I started the Purebreds. A gang of New York's finest."
"What have ya got against mutts? What did we ever do to ya?"
At this question, Ruscoe nodded to some of his lackeys to step forward, including Club and Razor. Dodger thought they were going to attack him and he braced himself, but they stood in a row with stone-cold composure. They all had a large stature.
Ruscoe marched in front of them with unquestioned authority. "Look at these canines, Dodger. Razor is a pure German Shepherd. Look at his coat, the colors. Perfect, isn't he? Well, except for his ear. I heard that was your fault." He moved on to the other dogs, inspecting them like a drill sergeant. "Club has the proper build, the right jaw for a Pit Bull. Not a drop of dirty blood in his veins." After them was a Boxer with his signature brown fur, a Siberian Husky perfect for the snow, and a Greyhound that stood above them all. All five were the ideal of their breeds. Then Ruscoe turned to Dodger.
"Compare them to yourself. Your fur is scraggly, white here and gray there. Are those natural brown spots or mud? And look at your build, your tail, your ears. I mean, I guess you're a terrier, but what kind? Jack Russell? Parson?" He laughed cruelly, walking in circles around him. His followers laughed in sync. "You're a mess."
Dodger had never been ashamed of his breeding — rather, his lack of — but surrounded by these pure breeds, listening to their laughter, a shadow of doubt grew inside him. His cheeks flushed. He tucked his tail between his legs.
Shame was an oil spill in a body of water. All it took was one crack, one leak, for the blackness to billow and cloud and contaminate the entire gulf.
"A mutt is the result of two dogs who never should've mixed. It's a black mark in the bloodline. It shouldn't exist." He towered in front of Dodger, glaring at him like he was a beetle to be crushed beneath a boot. "And you're the biggest mutt of them all."
"Is that why ya after me? Cause I'm a mutt?"
"That's one reason, but you're missing the obvious."
His mind flashed the last memory he had of Ruscoe's father, the night they'd rescued Jenny from the clutches of Bill Sykes. He remembered the chase through the subway tunnel, Fagin's motorbike fleeing from a limousine on the train tracks. Dodger had leapt on the limo and had a rematch with Roscoe and DeSoto, and the Dobermans proved that the subway's DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE ON TRACKS signs weren't for nothing. It'd taken weeks to forget the smell of singed dog fur and get their screams out of his head.
"So it's revenge." Dodger growled at the giant, unwise as it was. "Well, lemme tell ya, Junior, ya father and uncle got what was coming to them!"
"That may be true, but it's an insult to my bloodline." Ruscoe didn't so much as flinch when Dodger growled at him. "I don't think you realize exactly how well-known you are on these streets. The Artful Dodger is a celebrity. More dogs than you know are aware of how the Company killed the Dobermans who'd been threatening your owner."
"Well sure, we did the city a public service."
That earned more than a flinch.
"Personally, I don't give two bones that you killed Roscoe. I heard what had happened and I thought… so what? I barely knew my father. But the insult, Dodger. The insult." The Doberman regained his countenance after a brief snap and growl. Now he shook his head like the Godfather of a crime family — he had no choice but to answer insult with injury. "I can't have dogs saying that I let you get away with murdering my father. What kind of son would I be? So yeah, I don't care that Dad's dead. I just have a reputation to maintain. You understand."
"I don't understand why ya gotta take it out on every mutt ya meet."
"Hey, someone's gotta clean up New York. Guiliani didn't go far enough." Ruscoe and the dogs who served him began closing in, fangs bared, claws out. "This is a prestigious city. We can't have mongrels running around polluting every block."
"Ya won't get any farther than City Hall, mark my words."
"Please. It's just a matter of time till all of Manhattan belongs to us."
The Purebreds moved closer and closer, trapping him on all sides. Razor was to his left, Club on the right, and Ruscoe towered in front. Scores of snarling dogs encircled him, edging in with sneers and snarls. He was surrounded on all sides.
"You thought you could just barge into our territory, knowing nothing about our gang, and tell us what's what? This isn't your city, Artful Dodger. Not anymore." Somehow, Dodger knew the next words out of Ruscoe's mouth before he said them.
"Kill him, boys."
In an instant, every dog was charging him, barking and slashing teeth and claws, but Dodger responded a second faster than any of them. He jumped on top of the dogs, scraping over them, kicking his way onto their backs and jumping from one to the other.
He broke free of the crowd and ran as fast as he could, but the Purebreds started after him. Dodger bolted through the Battery, winding around trees and busting onto the streets of Lower Manhattan. But no matter how fast he ran, the Purebreds were always right behind him, snapping at his heels.
Razor was leaner and faster than the others and quickly gained on him. When the vicious Shepherd was close enough, he leapt forward and snagged Dodger's red bandana. He was choked instantly, pulled down to the asphalt. Even as Razor slashed and tore into his fur and flesh, Dodger fought back. He had to fight, had to escape, because if the rest of the Purebreds caught up and joined Razor, he was finished.
But just then, Razor sunk his teeth deep in his back leg. Dodge whined in pain. The other Purebreds were nearly caught up, but when Razor bit his leg, Dodger slashed his face.
Razor released his leg, but when Dodger tried to get away, the brute again snared his bandana. Dodger yanked and tugged until he heard the red scarf tear. It ripped off.
"I liked that bandana!" Dodger kicked gravel in Razor's eyes.
It was agony to put pressure on his injured back leg, but Dodger managed to jump atop an oncoming car. Just when he thought he was safely speeding down the road, he looked back and saw the Purebreds leaping onto cars like he'd done. They jumped from car to car, moving closer to him. Ruscoe himself was in the lead.
The cars took them zooming past the docks on the East River. The Purebreds chased him along the riverfront, leaping across cars to catch him. When Dodger changed cars, the Purebreds did the same — it was impossible to lose them — then the lane took a sudden turn.
Dodger started to slip but steadied himself on the swerving car top. He looked up and realized they were driving onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
He barely made the next car without stumbling into the speeding traffic. Fleeing for your life was exhausting. Dodger didn't know how much longer he could go, but the Purebreds never once slowed down. Now they were closer than ever.
They were on the Brooklyn Bridge, driving over the East River. With a giant leap, Ruscoe was on the car beside Dodger. They drove along the very edge of the bridge. The Doberman barked over the traffic, "You can't escape us, Dodger! Can't outrun us! There's no place in our city that's safe for you now!"
"This will never be ya city! Not as long as I'm around!"
"You're fooling yourself! New York is already ours!" Ruscoe readied himself on the edge of his car, ready for the kill. "It will always be ours, whether you live or die!"
In one swift motion, Ruscoe had leapt and landed on the same car as Dodger. He'd thrown all his weight against him. Dodger fell off the car, cracked his ribs on the bridge's railing, and then he was over the edge.
Dodger fell from the Brooklyn Bridge and plummeted towards the black waters below. His life passed in a blur, everything was a blur. He'd suffered pain and caused it.
He'd ditched the Company because of his mother. He'd given Charlie, Noah, and Nancy grief when they left. He'd gotten mad at Oliver for finding a rich human to love him.
Dodger slammed into the East River, and the impact of the water hurt more than anything he'd ever felt. The river was freezing cold, soaking him to the bone. He was below water.
He couldn't think anymore — it was all fading — and his world went black, just like the night his mother had left him in a snow-filled street. Everything was black, lost to the night.
The current tossed him back and forth without stop, his lungs filled with water, and vision left him. New York City disappeared below the waves.
His body was pulled underwater then thrown to the surface again, an endless back and forth, carried north up the East River by a merciless current. Dodger fought for consciousness, afraid of what would happen if he closed his eyes.
If he never made it out of the river, what would happen to his friends?
Fagin must've realized by now that one of his dogs had left him yet again, and that could make him spiral into smoke and drink. Francis, Tito, and Einstein would be bummed out, but they had each other's backs. Rita would think that he was too stubborn to apologize, that he never wanted to see them again, and she'd hate him. He didn't want her to hate him. He just wanted them all to be a great big gang again, to get Charlie, Noah, and Nancy back in the Company. He thought about Nancy especially — her sweet scent, the gold of her fur, and the cute way her ears flopped around her face — and how much he wanted to see her again. But more than anyone else, he thought about how Oliver would react… and how devastated he'd be as he waited for a visit from Dodger that never came.
Dodger swam to the surface and fought to stay above water. He gasped lungfuls of air. He was determined now — he wouldn't be the Purebreds' latest victim.
He was forced underwater again, but the blackness didn't set in. When he reemerged, he looked to the city line. He wasn't that far from the river's edge. He'd been swept north of the Williamsburg Bridge. If he could just get to a pier.
He began swimming — or to be more precise, doggy paddling — through the cold waters, making for the nearest pier. Dodger struggled against the current, but the more he thought of Fagin, the Company, his Nancy babe, and Oliver, the harder he swam.
Finally, Dodger reached a pier that jutted out from the river walkway. When the waves rose, they buoyed him high enough to grab onto the wooden planks. He pulled himself safely onto the pier, dripping wet but alive.
Even an exhausted dog could still shake the water out of his fur.
"If I wanted to go swimming," he groaned, "I'd have gone to Coney Island."
The current had taken him farther north than he'd realized. He could make out the Empire State Building on the skyline, and when he peered up the river, he could just see the dark shape of Roosevelt Island that lay between Manhattan and Long Island. At least he was far from the Purebreds, though the next time Dodger needed to go from downtown to uptown in a hurry, he'd take the subway. Swimming was only pleasant in warm weather.
He was glad to be alive, but Razor had destroyed the red bandana Fagin gave him years ago. Dodger felt naked without it tied around his neck.
He needed somewhere to go, somewhere to spend the night. He could always find an alleyway to curl up in, but when Dodger realized that he was close to uptown, he started back into the city once he'd regained some strength. He'd make for Fifth Avenue. His cracked ribs and bitten leg had him gritting his teeth, but somehow, he limped onward.
It was thoughts of Oliver, his little brother, that gave him strength to swim the river and limp the city. It was to Oliver's home he would go.
In the busy world of New York in the late 1980's, hardly anyone stopped to look around when they were walking somewhere. Looking around meant you might see vagrants trying to sell you something, or just sleeping under a ratty coat or newspapers. If you looked down from the glittering city lights and street signs, you might see needles and broken bottles.
Mr. Foxworth stopped that morning. He'd first taken Georgette for her early stroll around the block. She liked to show off the latest outfit his wife had brought for her. Georgette was much more his wife's pet than his, which was perfectly fine.
Except that David Foxworth had always wanted a dog to call his own, not to dress up and take on photo shoots, but to sit with him during his morning coffee and newspaper.
Now that he had coffee on his mind, he decided to try the new shop that had opened on the corner. Winston, their butler, always had a pot in the kitchen, but David liked a cappuccino now and then. He returned Georgette to the mansion, then he went on his way.
He exited the coffee shop holding a steaming cup. When he passed a bench, he looked down to see if the usual homeless man was there. What he saw made him drop his coffee.
"Dodger!" The man fell to his knees — his pants already had coffee spilled on them, so gravel wouldn't hurt — beside the dog huddled below the sidewalk bench.
"You're hurt, boy." He picked him up gently, careful not to touch his back leg that had a nasty bite. His fur was damp and smelled like a dirty river. Mr. Foxworth was relieved to hear his heart beating, but he was unconscious — he must've walked himself to exhaustion.
Passers-by didn't stop to help, but they at least gave him room to wrap Dodger in his sports jacket, cradle him in his arms, and carry him back to the mansion.
"Winston, call the veterinarian. I found him on the sidewalk like this." He pushed books and TV remotes off the living room coffee table and set him down. "Now, Winston!"
The frantic butler made the call. They wrapped a dish towel around his back leg and tied it tight. Jenny heard the commotion and came running downstairs. "What's going on, Daddy?" Her eyes went wide when she saw Dodger. "What happened to him?"
"I don't know, sweetheart, but we're going to make sure he's okay. I need you to stay calm. Go tell your mother that Winston and I are taking him to the vet."
Jenny nodded and ran from the living room. Oliver had followed her down and was now peeking around the corner. He didn't want to be in their way, but he couldn't take his eyes off Dodger. He looked worse than when he'd fought Roscoe and DeSoto.
When the two men had Dodger wrapped and loaded in their limousine, Winston hopped in the front seat. Mr. Foxworth sat with Dodger in the back. "Don't worry, boy. I won't let anything happen to you. That's a Foxworth promise." He scratched his ears. "You saved Jen's life. It's only fair that we return the favor."
That evening, the Foxworths were gathered in the living room again. When they left Dodger at the vet, they'd been assured that he would make a full recovery, but that did stop them from worrying. They'd had a light dinner — soup and hot sandwiches from a deli — but Jenny had been too anxious to eat much. She leapt off the couch and stood before her parents.
"Someone has to tell Mr. Fagin, don't they? Dodger is one of his dogs." She hugged Winston, who'd come to her side. "Mr. Fagin must be worried sick."
"Does Mr. Fagin usually let his pets wander around the city?"
"I… I think so," Jenny sniffled. "I don't know, Dad."
"Pardon me, sir," Winston said, patting the girl's shoulder, "but after meeting him at Miss Jennifer's birthday party, I was left with the distinct impression that Mr. Fagin is, well… homeless. Or close to it, anyways."
"Do we actually have a way to contact this Fagin fellow?"
"None that I know of, sir. He never gave us a phone number or address."
"Well, he knows where we live. If he ever stops by, we'll tell him what happened to Dodger. But in the meantime…" Mr. Foxworth knelt beside his daughter, who was trying to pretend she wasn't crying. He hugged her, then turned to Winston. "Would you mind taking Jen to bed? It's been a long day." The butler nodded and escorted her upstairs.
Alone with his wife, Mr. Foxworth collapsed into his armchair — exactly where Oliver had been sitting. The cat yowled indignantly and jumped to the floor. "Sorry, Oliver… I'm a little tired." He rubbed his forehead. "We have to take him in."
"Are you sure, David? Fagin might turn up and want him back."
"Then we'll give him back, but right now, Dodger needs a home. And if the man lets his dogs run freely around New York, maybe he's better off with us." Another thought occurred that made him smile. "Jen is happier whenever he's around. Have you noticed?"
"If he's good for her, then how can we refuse him?"
"We can't." He staggered out of the armchair to join May on the sofa, wrapping his arms around her. "He helped save her from the mobster. Having Dodger here could make everything better." David kissed her cheek. "But Georgette's not going to like it."
"Then Georgette's going to have to get over herself."
Three days later, Dodger was carried into the mansion by Mr. Foxworth, who'd gotten him to cooperate with extra bacon. Dodger's back leg and chest were all bandaged. He'd been grumpy after being locked in a cage at the vet, but ever since they'd given him pain medication he'd felt much more lightheaded.
Maybe it was the pain pills talking, but as he looked around the luxurious Foxworth mansion, Dodger was pretty sure he was going to enjoy himself. Jenny and Winston greeted him, while Mrs. Foxworth stayed back with a seething Georgette.
Best of all, Oliver was waiting for him in the living room. Mr. Foxworth set him down, chuckling as he limped towards the cat. They got on the sofa together.
Oliver snuggled beside him. Jenny fed him pieces of rotisserie chicken from the fridge. Mr. Foxworth reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two items of apparel.
"May bought you these welcoming presents." Dodger woofed at Mrs. Foxworth, who beamed as her husband revealed a dark red collar with a golden name tag. Dodger couldn't read, of course, but if he could he'd see that it said DODGER, 1125 5th Avenue. In his other hand, he held a navy blue bandana. Dodger sniffed it suspiciously. It had the disconcerting smell of brand-new, department-store clothes. "Seems you've lost your red one, so we thought you might need a replacement. Do you like it?"
Dodger woofed. Satisfied, Mr. Foxworth tied the navy bandana around his neck before putting the collar on him. It was a perfect fit. Best of all, it matched Oliver's. Crimson and navy blue was a new color combination for him, but Dodger liked it. He liked everything about the Foxworth, from their morning bagels to their nightly hugs.
Recent weeks had seen his life go up and down like merciless waves. Dodger thought of his mother with the Company, he thought of the Purebreds in the lower city, then he didn't want to think anymore. After his troubles, surely he deserved something good.
Mr. Foxworth kissed his head. "Welcome to the family."
