Rage Is Back (9781101606179) (20 page)

And so on. They were a haggard bunch, even taking the dress-down nature of the occasion into account. There was something in their faces, the hang of their skin. They had outlived what they'd invented, and this doomed them to live in the past, and fear the present. That's my half-assed take, anyway.

When it was over, Dengue came around and stood in front of the piano. “I'll get right to it. Y'all speak for the illest subway crews of all time, and we called you here for one reason: because it's time to take back these trains.”

His dramatic pause played like an awkward silence. That was punctured by a pudgy, babyfaced Puerto Rican, name of Species, the founder of a comparatively newjack crew from Queens. They'd come late to the party, squeezed in two or three years of intense mayhem as the subway era was winding down. Another contested invite, despite the fact that his squad was the most active on the docket.

“Yo, Dengue, no disrespect? Your man Rage called this meeting, all mysterious, back from the dead and shit. So first things first, a'ight? How we know he ain't five-oh?”

All heads turned to Billy, but before he could respond, the dull thump of a body hitting the ground refocused the collective attention.

Supreme Chemistry stood over Species, blackjack in hand. And I don't mean a face card and an ace.

“No disrespect to you either,” he rasped, and raised his eyes—assuming he had some, behind those shades—to the rest of us. “Those who don't study their history are doomed to be fuckin' stupid forever.” He crouched, slipped the blackjack into one of the pockets lining his fatigues, and cracked some smelling salts under his victim's nose. “Rise and shine, ninja.” Species twitched and woke. “While you was 'sleep we agreed that Billy ain't no po-po,” Supreme Chemistry informed him. “Next time you feel like talking, count to ten first, and then shut the fuck up.”

I was beginning to like this guy.

Species rubbed the back of his head, scowled, arranged his limbs to stand. “Yo, what the—”

Supreme Chem pressed four fingertips to Species' chest. “What I just say, B? Check this out: I already forgot your name, but if you on some graffiti shit, then I'm your daddy. You livin' under my roof, ninja. Now show some manners and apologize to Rage.”

Species looked around, incredulous that no one was interceding on his behalf. We all waited.

“Okay. I'm sorry.” Without a sound, Supreme Chem drifted back to his position in the rear. “I apologize. It's just”—Species looked over both shoulders—“I mean, shit is crazy right now. Vandal Squad is laying fools
out
. Y'all heard what happened to Hades?” Yes-nods, no-nods. “They ran up in his crib last week with search warrants, took his computer. He's got six thousand photos on there, and they're using them as evidence, charging him in four different boroughs. Seven to ten years
each
.”

“If he gets convicted, we're all fucked,” said Fizz. “That shit will set a precedent.”

“What's his defense?” I asked.

Fizz shrugged. “That he stopped writing when his daughter was born, in '93, and anything more recent is copycats. And that of course he has pictures of graffiti on his computer, he publishes books about graffiti, he's a historian.”

“Which is why they want him in the first place,” said Stoon. “Anybody getting paid off this, Bracken is gunning for.”

Another patch of dead air, this one more ruminative than awkward. Gradually the attention drifted back to Billy, who didn't notice. I once saw a clip of Ronald Reagan standing motionless behind a podium for five minutes, looking like a wax statue. Then somebody shouts, “rolling,” and he launches right into a speech. It's chilling. I nudged Billy's foot with mine and he reanimated, Gipper-style.

“Um, so basically, the plan is to bomb every train in the system, all at once. Start Saturday night and work through Monday morning. One crew to a yard. For security reasons, only you guys, the crew presidents, will know the big picture. Everybody else is gonna think they're just taking out a line.” He glanced over at Dengue. “There's, you know, a lot of specifics to go over, but we've figured most of it out already. We've got some money, or we're gonna have some money, for supplies and—”

“They watch the paint stores now, Billy.” It was a guy called Vexer, a lightskinned Dominicano. His voice was gentle, like your favorite grade school teacher breaking a piece of bad news. “I don't know if you knew that, seeing as you been away. Buying more than five cans is probable cause. They be doin' stop-and-searches.”

“I didn't know that. But I wasn't talking about paint. I meant night vision goggles, trip wires, smoke bombs, tranquilizer rifles. Bail bonds. Any information we might have to pay for.” With each item Billy ran down, the silence deepened. Words like these breathed life into the enterprise. “We're good on paint already. Cloud 9 is covering that.”

Snickers around the Parlor.

“Picking up where he left off, huh?”

“This is an old stash. A truck he jacked back in the day, and put on ice.” The Ambassador paused. “Any of y'all happen to attend Cloud's homecoming party?”

A few guys mumbled that they had.

“Then you know the stakes. We're the Committee to Not Elect Anastacio Bracken by Fucking Up His Trains.”

“He's ten points behind in the polls,” said Fizz.

“Yeah, but he's raised the most dough,” countered Stoon. “That's all that counts in politics, watch.”

“You crazy, man. In this city, it's union endorsements. Bracken—”

“Fuckin' MacNeil and Lehrer over here,” said the Ambassador. “So what's up? Everybody ready to rustle up their people and make history, or do I have to give my big inspirational speech?”

“I know
I
need to be inspired, dog. I was at Cloud's party. Billy ripped his name out of my blackbook and ate it. You saw it, Vex. So did you.”

He pointed at me. I guess I forgot to mention that Dregs was in the house.

“Yo, mega,
mega
-respect, Billy, man, but are you sure you're up to this? I mean, you been off in the jungle, just got back, probably haven't, like, totally readjusted yet. . . .”

“Painting that creepy juju shit in the tunnels . . .” Sambo added, under his breath.

“Yeah, yeah, right. I know if it was me, I'd need a year just to get my head straight. I damn sure wouldn't be ready to organize no
Mission: Impossible
shit.”

My father smiled indulgently. “I wanted to learn how to defend myself. For when I came home. Those symbols in the tunnels were for spiritual protection—if they're what I think they are, anyway. I, uh . . . don't remember painting them.”

The silence this time was tender.

“I heard the shamen taught you how to throw hex,” Blam 2 tossed into the void.

“Shamans, ninja. Not shamen. Read a fuckin' book one time in your life.”

“Word?” said Vexer. “You on some Obi-Wan Kenobi Gandalf Merlin shit now, Billy?” Grateful laughs. Dregs' was the loudest.

Billy stared into the darkness. “I learned some things,” he said. “But this city's no rainforest.”

Supreme Chem's throaty voice rose from the back. “Ayo, B, you bring any bazaguanco back with you? I been trying to get my hands on some, but ninjas won't send me any; they all say you gotta come to it, it doesn't come to you.”

Billy looked startled. “That's kind of the rule.”

Sambo raised his hand, waved it around. “Uh, hello? Hi. What the fuck are we talking about here?”

Supreme Chemistry turned toward him. “Whatchu wanna talk about, Sambo? How your man Shamrock went over me on the 1 train with his little bullshit straight letters and you ain't stop him? 'Cause Kimza told me you was there, ninja.”

“I don't give a fuck what Kimza told you, dude. Ask that nigga why he started putting up CFC, when he was never even down for one second.”

“Cuz Shamrock's a fuckin' basehead, that's why,” called Klutch One, from across the room. “He'll put anybody down who gets him high. Should call that shit the Crack Fiend Crew.”

“Yo,” said Vexer, rising, “it's kings or better in here, man. Chill. Put it aside.”

“Shit, if these ninjas is kings, I
know
I'm an Or Better. I carried the cross on my back for decades, and now these little pisswater ninjas—”

“Fuck this,” said Blam 2. “I didn't come down here to reheat twenty-year-old beef.”

“Yo, it is what it is, B. Certain shit gotta get rectified, you feel me?”

“No,” said Billy, loud enough to turn heads. “I don't feel you. I don't feel any of you.”

He walked to the front of the room, paused for a second as if about to speak, and then changed his mind. Stepped down from the Parlor into the gaping nothingness, and was gone.

“Billy!” His name echoed in the tunnel. “Come back, man!”

Dengue pointed after him. “There goes the readiest, downest,
uppest
dude in history. You goddamn . . .
children
!”

He roared the word, and banged his walking stick against the floor for emphasis. Poseidon couldn't have done it any better; I half-expected a river to gush forth where wood met ground. “We come to you with a plan that can
redeem
all your sorry old asses, make it all
mean
something. But you don't even
see
that, because you don't know what you are.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, behind the piano, only to double back. “This should be a New York City thing, strictly. But it's gonna happen, with or without you petty motherfuckers. I got Germans who are down. Niggas from Brazil who
wreck
shit. If you want it to be them who take your trains back, fine.” He spun away again. For a couple of seconds, all you could hear was the scuttle of rats.

“Was that your big inspirational speech?” asked Fizz.

Dengue spoke without turning around. “Give or take.”

“Not bad. You got it in your pocket in braille or something?”

“Go suck some dick, you fuckin' corporate sellout.” But the Ambassador was trying not to smile.

“You know, Fev,” said Vexer, “none of us said no.”

“Far from it,” added Stoon.

“And no doubt, it's gotta be an NYC exclusive,” Sambo said. “I think even me and 'Preme can agree on that. Am I right?” He raised his fist into the air, behind his head. Supreme Chemistry came forward, bumped it with his own.

“Yeah, ninja. You right about that, if nothing else.”

“Awww. Now hug.”

“Fuck you, Fizz,” 'Preme and Sambo said together.

Blam 2 tapped me on the knee. “Little Rage, go see if you can catch up with your old man.”

Billy stepped into the light. “I'm right here. Let's get down to business.”

—

“Yo, ninja, lemme bark at you right quick.” Supreme Chemistry loped over, threw an arm around my father's shoulders, glanced over both his own as if to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. Only Dengue, Vexer and I were left; the other writers had melted back into the blackness when the meeting wrapped, minutes before.

“What's up?”

He rubbed his thumb against his nose, sniffed, cracked his neck. “Check the flavor, my ninja. Long as you down here, you best to go see Lou. You know she gonna hear about this, if she ain't already, and you don't need homegirl throwin' salt in the game, on some ol' ‘how Billy gon' be in my neighborhood and not pay his respects?' type shit.” His arm swung up again, and Supreme Chemistry pushed his shades flush to his cheekbones. “I'm saying, Vex Boogie can take Little Rage and Fever topside, and me and you can dap her up real quick, you feel me?”

Billy goggled at him for what felt like an epoch.

“Lou?”

“Lou, ninja. Don't tell me you don't remember Lou. Who you think kept you alive in these tunnels, gave you paint and fed you track rabbits and shit?”

“The Mole People,” said Dengue, strolling over. “Of course.” He brightened. “Hey, maybe they'd help. You all could ask.”

“Come on,” I said. “There's no Mole People. You guys are fucking with me. I saw
C.H.U.D.
That shit was bullshit.”

“Rats?” Billy blinked at Supreme Chem. “You're saying I ate rats?”

'Preme turned his head and hocked a snotwad into the abyss. We all watched its majestic arc.

Splat.

“Time's a-wastin', B, and Lou's camp is a hike. We going or what?”

“I guess so,” said Billy, slow. “If you guys think I should.”

“Yo, Lou got mad people,” Vex put in. “If she wanted to help niggas, she could help niggas.” He spit through his front teeth, a sleek bullet of saliva that landed without a sound. “Not that she's gonna help niggas.”

“I'll go too,” I said. “Maybe I can help convince her.”

The Ambassador smiled. “Getting a taste for downstairs, huh?”

I shrugged it off, but he was right. Being underground touched some vigorous, neglected part of me that had never stopped wanting to have adventures and explore new lands—the part graffiti channeled when my parents were my age, and nothing channels today, to my generation's great misfortune. No options for a city kid who likes scrabbling up stuff and outgrows jungle gyms, unless you want to go balls-to-the-wall and do that Parkour shit and break your skull. You could join one of those rock-climbing gyms, I guess, but it always smells like farts in there. Besides, scaling some fake wall while a harness hugs your nuts might be good exercise, but it's got nothing to do with freedom.

We said goodbye to Vex and Fever, and got moving. Half an hour of winding, forking tunnel brought us to a flight of metal stairs, and then we were trudging through a series of cavernous rooms separated by grated doors. The ground was littered with lean-tos, sleeping bags, mattresses, fresh human shit—like a foul, Mole version of Central Park during the Great Depression.