Drop Dead Punk

by Rich Zahradnik

  The dog was tied to the man, who sat on blankets in a long box. A woman was in the other box. She stood as Taylor approached, rearranged a torn red plaid blanket into a spot of sunlight, and settled back down.

  “Man, you don’t live on our block.” The homeless man said it like a challenge.

  “No. I’m a reporter with the Messenger-Telegram.”

  The man laughed. “The Empty. Wannabe New York Times. What a piece of crap. You know you’re not going to last.”

  Fight or flight instinct sent an electric jolt to the base of his spine. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m looking—”

  “Calm down, man. Don’t mean you. I mean your paper. Wintertime, Sally and me were scrounging for newspaper for extra warmth. We always left the Empty behind. Thinnest paper in the city. Not that we found many copies. Tell me that’s not true.”

  Taylor had to marvel at the insight. Oscar Garfield had started buying cheaper newsprint about a year ago, leaving the paper feeling flimsy, as if it were only half there. During the same period, circulation had dropped by 90,000.

  “You’re right about both. I hope we make it. I need the job.”

  “We all need jobs, man. We all don’t get ’em. This city’s biggest problem.”

  “Can’t help but notice your dog’s in good shape.”

  The German shepherd wagged his tail. Taylor reached out to pat his head, and the dog immediately leapt, snapping at Taylor’s hand, straining the rope tied to the homeless man’s leg.

  Taylor pulled in his hand and took a quick step back as the man laughed. He was black, with oiled hair neatly combed. The woman was white with hair just the opposite—sticking out everywhere—and appeared a lot younger. The man pulled in his leg to reel in the dog. “Even he don’t like your paper.”

  “I see that. Like I said, curious how he’s so well fed.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m looking for the squat used by a guy named Johnny Mort.” The man and woman exchanged glances. “I hear he took care of dogs in the neighborhood.”

  “What do you want with Johnny?”

  The woman came off her blanket and pulled the shepherd close. The dog quieted. “Probably nothing good. Probably nothing good.”

  They don’t know. Hate this part. You have to say someone is dead for them to really die.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news. Johnny was killed.”

  “Ah no. Ah no.” The woman’s words turned into moans. She buried her face in the dog’s black fur.

  The man fished around in the pocket of his beat-up black-and-white checked overcoat. “I’m Rayban Lincoln. This is Sally. We don’t want the paper to have her last name.” He pulled out two thirds of a cigarette, lit it with a Bic, and looked up at Taylor. “Why’s it you’re digging Johnny’s grave?”

  “The police say he shot a cop. He was killed too.”

  “You don’t believe New York’s Finest?”

  “Seems straight enough to me. I’m just trying to figure out who Johnny was and why he did it.”

  “Yeah, he took care of dogs. Lots of dogs. Some he kept. Others, like John-Boy here, he made sure we got food for him. He wasn’t no criminal at all. He begged, badgered places for leftover food.”

  “He robbed a woman yesterday.”

  “No way.”

  “The cops say he took her purse at gunpoint. Was chased by Patrolman Robert Dodd and shot the cop when he was cornered.”

  Rayban slowly pulled on the recycled cigarette and the end glowed like a tiny furnace. “That’s crazy. I mean maybe he lifted some things when he was desperate. I’m talking food for the dogs from midtown stores where they’re too stupid to notice. Johnny never did violence. Not to get money. Not for anything. He could take care of the dogs, but he could hardly take care of himself on the street. People looked out for him because he looked out for the mutts. Take a look around. There ain’t no Humane Society down here in Alphabet City—not for the humans or the dogs. That’s all he was doing.”

  “Can you show me where he lived?”

  “Can and will. He’s got dogs in there. They must be starving.” Rayban stood, untied the rope, and tied it to Sally’s wrist. He patted her hair and kissed the top of her head. “We both see a lot of people go down here. Folks on the street and some in the squats too. Occupational hazard. Hits Sally hard every time.” Rayban led the way north. “How come we haven’t seen cops on the block?”

  “I guess they don’t have a lead on Mort. I got the street at CBGB. He hung out there. That’s where I learned about the dogs.”

  “Surprised.” Rayban climbed up the steps of a mid-block brownstone with boarded-up windows and an intact front door. The only thing missing was a doorknob. “Police are bad in this part of town, but they usually get their shit together when one of their own is killed. Impressed you got here first. Your paper’s still doomed.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  Rayban reached over the side of the masonry steps and came up with a doorknob, inserted it in a square hole and opened the door. “It’s not what you call security, but I guess it might slow down somebody really stupid. It’s why I sleep outside. I can see ’em coming.”

  A big pile of rubbish blocked the first floor hallway, but the stairway was clear. Down from some apartment on a higher floor came barking. Taylor climbed behind Rayban, who left the stairs on the third floor, where the hallway was surprisingly clean compared with the first, and walked toward the apartment door at the front of the building. The barking turned to a cacophony as he approached.

  Rayban had the doorknob with him. He inserted it, slowly opened the door, slipped inside, and waved his hand for Taylor to follow. Two small dogs ran in circles and yapped at the same time. A big black Labrador barked too, though he was sitting and wagging his tail violently on the wood floor. A fourth stood in the doorway to the kitchen, whining. Dog urine and crap pervaded the place.

  “Careful where you step.” Rayban moved gingerly to the left. “Poor Johnny’s been gone more than a day. They couldn’t hold it. This place is usually immaculate. Cleanest squat I’d ever been in.”

  The two little dogs quit spinning and jumped up on Rayban’s leg. The Lab came over to Taylor, who was gun shy after the shepherd. The black dog nuzzled his hand, so Taylor carefully scratched his head and the tail swung even faster. Rayban went into the kitchen.

  “There’s no food. Johnny usually locks most of his supplies in the yard in the back of the building.”

  “Why not up here?”

  “He figured someone might hit an occupied squat looking for stuff, but they would skip the backyard. Worried like crazy about the dogs when he was gone. I’ll feed them and then see about getting them all out for walks.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “We’ll take care of them. We owe him that. There’s a bunch of people around here with dogs from Johnny. Some, he took care of their dogs when times got worse. They’ll step forward. Bad as it looks, it’s a neighborhood out there. Excepting the creeps, killers and shitbags, of course. Dogs are good company when life is bad.”

  Somebody better help. The city was closing firehouses and schools. Taylor didn’t want to think what the pound looked like these days.

  “He’s got friends at CBGB. I’ll see what they can do.” The Lab leaned against Taylor’s leg, pressing something like 75 pounds of dog against him. The tail kept going. “This one have a name?”

  “Perry Mason. Johnny was a bit of a dreamer. Said the TV show reminded him of when things were good with his family.” Rayban turned to the dogs as if they were a class he was about to lecture. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. I’m going to get you some breakfast.”

  The dogs barked even more loudly as they left. On the first floor, they had to go through an apartment to get around the garbage-clogged hallway and reach the door out to the tiny backyard, where weeds grew, along with one small tree that had forced its way up through a pile of broken cinderblocks. At the rear was a fen
ce with a three-foot-high shed built into the corner.

  Rayban lifted the combination lock. “Johnny had me feed the dogs a couple of times when he was away.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Family or something. He didn’t need to live this way, you know. He’s one of the ones down here by choice. Gave up all the comforts because he was into that punk music.”

  He dialed the combination and lifted the lid, revealing brown paper bags containing dry dog food. There were also a few cans, four leashes, some rope and a well-chewed squeaky toy. Rayban took out one bag. When he lifted the second, a board shifted and Taylor caught sight of something with a dull black shine. Once Rayban had the cans and leashes, Taylor flipped up the floorboard with a squeak, revealing a briefcase in good condition.

  “Johnny ever mention this?”

  “Nope. My guess it’s from his other life. Where he was before he came to Alphabet City.”

  Taylor rested the briefcase on the edge of the little shed. The latches were the one part of the case that weren’t in decent shape. They were badly bent, pried free from their locks. He lifted the lid. Inside in a neat stack were certificates. No, not certificates. They almost looked like giant $5,000 bills. He read the fine, engraving-like printing on the top one. “The City of New York Serial Bond.” It was numbered. The first few carried the same dollar figure: $5,000.

  “What the ….” That magic electric charge rolled across his shoulders. The story was suddenly a whole lot bigger than even he’d thought.

  “What are they?”

  “They appear to be City of New York bonds. Five-thousand-dollar bonds.” He counted the stiff parchment rectangles, each the texture of currency. There were 50, all the same value. “There’s a quarter of a million dollars worth in here. If they’re real.”

  Rayban backed up, hugging the dog food. “Keep those away from me. That’s bad shit. That’s rich people money. No one down here can spend those. No one down here has a bank that’ll take those. You’re going to find that’s what got Johnny killed.”

  “What was Johnny doing with these? What’s two hundred and fifty thousand worth of bonds doing locked up with dog food at the back of his squat?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t want to know. We’ve got to get the dogs out of here. A serious shit storm is going to come down on this building.”

  Taylor considered the intricate printing that looked like it was from another century. A shirtless Indian in full headdress. Blocks of words in a typeface designed to mimic old-style script. Counterfeit? Stolen? What do I do with them? Taylor knew he couldn’t walk off with evidence like this, but he had to know more about them, and what they really meant.

  He set the top certificate on the ground, pulled out his collapsible Polaroid and snapped one picture and a second, just to be safe. Putting the bond back in the case and the case back where he found it, he closed up the little shed.

  “We could get killed while you’re making pretty pictures.” Rayban headed for the backdoor. “I’m taking the dogs and not coming back. I’m forgetting that combo too.”

  Back upstairs, Rayban fed the dogs and gave them water. They were done in minutes.

  When Perry Mason finished, he came and sat next to Taylor. “Who will get this one?”

  “He’s the biggest challenge. Someone will watch him. For a little while at least. Big dog to feed. That costs. You think maybe one of the CBGB folks will help out? Some money folks go in there.”

  “He’s not one Johnny was taking care of for someone?”

  “No, these four are all strays Johnny found. He was trying to find others to adopt them.”

  “All right, he can come with me then.”

  Rayban shrugged at Taylor’s impulse. Taylor wasn’t sure himself why he’d said it. He was impressed with Rayban’s willingness to step in and help and surprised that others in this poor neighborhood would do the same. Maybe because it’s something I can do in this colossal wreck of a place.

  He had an out, after all. He could always put a notice in his own paper to find the dog a home. When his brother and his mother were still alive, his family had had a dog, a medium-sized black mutt named Josie. Somewhere along the line, he’d meant to get a dog himself, but he was always chasing one story or the next one. Maybe he’d done it now because of that knot inside and the empty houseboat on bricks.

  Maybe I’m just an idiot.

  Back at the cardboard boxes, Sally surveyed the dogs as the German shepherd greeted them all with far more friendliness than Taylor had received. “Where’s Moon? Where’s Moon?”

  “Who’s Moon?” Taylor asked.

  “Johnny’s dog. Johnny’s dog. Loved her. Loved her.”

  Taylor turned to Rayban. “Johnny’s dog is missing?”

  “Yeah, guess so. Didn’t notice in all the commotion.”

  “Odd thing to miss. The dead man’s own dog.”

  “Hey, listen, this is all crazy, mixed-up shit. Johnny showed up in the neighborhood with Moon. A beagle, or beagle mix. Dog’s not here now. That’s all I know.”

  “Would he give that dog up?”

  “Doubt it.”

  Taylor handed Rayban his card. “You don’t need anything else in that building?”

  “No way. Not going back.”

  “I’m going to tip the cops to the place. Assuming they don’t find it first. Call me if anything happens down here.”

  Taylor and Perry Mason walked west, the dog wagging his tail like every day was a good day. Taylor wondered what it was like to see the world that way. It’d make him a piss-poor police reporter, he knew that much.

  Chapter 5

  The walk to Broadway allowed Mason—Perry Mason was too formal for this smile of a dog—to finish his business. Taylor’s plan had been to stop at a diner and make some calls. Not now. He couldn’t go in the Bleecker Street Coffee Shop with Mason. He couldn’t go anywhere until he got Mason home. Christ, how I am getting him home? Not on the subway or the bus. He’d have to drop a day’s pay on a cab, providing he could find a cab that would take them. Make that a day and a half’s pay. What was I thinking? How was this ever a good idea?

  He bought coffee from a cart and found an enclosed phone booth. Mason sat on the other side of the door, the leash snaking underneath, staring at Taylor as Taylor stared at the phone.

  Who do I ask about the bonds? It was a good bet that once word got out, the army of reporters covering the city’s financial crisis would overrun him and his story. Whether the bonds were connected to the crisis or not—how could they not be?—they were too juicy an angle to ignore. The other names on his interview list would have to wait. He needed to know what he had before the whole thing blew up in his face.

  Henry Novak. He could help. Taylor didn’t have sources in the financial world, but Novak worked for the MT’s business desk. Novak had come up as a copy boy at the same time as Taylor. Less ambitious, he settled for a job rewriting company press releases, going to Chamber of Commerce meetings, and doing puff pieces on executives. But they’d stayed friends since their days fetching coffee and running copy around the newsroom. Taylor knew he could trust Novak because of that shared experience. Copy boys didn’t become reporters anymore. New journalists now arrived at the MT with fancy degrees from places like Columbia. Taylor and Novak were becoming a rarity, and that was their bond. Didn’t bother Novak like it did Taylor. Few things did.

  “Can you talk?” Taylor knew the answer.

  “What’s up?”

  “You know anything about municipal bonds?”

  “Who doesn’t? City’s going bankrupt because it can’t repay its bondholders.”

  “Do you know what an actual bond looks like?”

  “Since when do you care what a muni bond looks like? Just last week you told me you couldn’t give a shit—”

  “Forget what I said. Do you?”

  “Yeah, I guess. They look a lot like stock certificates. Formal type with a face value, serial number, and some other lan
guage.”

  “So you could ID one?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I need more than a maybe.” Taylor held one of the pictures he’d snapped. The shot of the certificate framed in the white of the Polaroid gave him an idea. He tapped its corner lightly on the phone. “Do you have file photos?”

  “We’ve used shots. So has the front page since the city’s troubles started. New York can’t sell new ones to get the money to pay back the old ones.”

  “Sounds like a con game to me,” Taylor said.

  “Told you this was a story.”

  “I’ve got a story. Meet me for lunch.”

  “Why not? The boss is at an American Express Company reception.”

  “Chumley’s at one. Bring the picture. Don’t mention any of this.”

  “I can’t mention what I don’t know anything about.”

  “Thanks, man.” Taylor hung up and dialed the city desk. He could easily have had Novak transfer him, but didn’t want Worthless to know who he’d been talking to.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Working the cop shooting.”

  “You get anything?”

  “I found the shooter’s squat. Got some good color. He took care of stray dogs in the neighborhood. Was a one-man ASPCA. The police haven’t gotten to the squat yet.”

  “What the heck does that do for us? We’re not going to make a dog-helping hero out of a cop killer. Why are you so obsessed with homeless people?”

  “Lot of people on the streets these days. I go where the story takes me.”

  “Well, don’t let this one take you very far. Not another one of your ten-day specials. We don’t have the staff for it. I’ve got just about everyone else on the fiscal crisis.”

  “There may be some other elements with the shooter.” Hint at some of the oddities at the crime scene. Maybe that’ll get Worthless into it. No mention of the bonds yet.

  “Hold on.” Taylor could make out another voice saying something to Worth. “You’re downtown?”