Dream of a Falling Eagle

dark pools that glittered with intelligence and seemed sensitive and kind, he had to be the meanest-looking, ugliest man I'd ever seen, and I'd seen more than my share of brutish types. He was wearing the summer uniform of the New York Sanitation Department. Both arms, which bulged out of his short-sleeved shirt, were also covered with old jailhouse tattoos, black on black, wiggling lines of ink carved into his flesh with the point of a shank. He was a truly awesome presence, a kind of moving mountain of graffiti advertising strength and power. In one huge ham of a hand, his left, he carried a black metal lunch pail, and under his right arm was a misshapen, scarred Ralph Lauren leather portfolio that I was pretty certain had been plucked from some pile of trash. He set down the lunch pail, then abruptly walked the rest of the way into my office and extended his hand in a quick, nervous gesture.

'I'm Thomas Dickens, Dr. Frederickson,' the man said in a deep, rumbling voice that seemed laced with just a hint of anxiety. 'But you can call me Moby. Everybody does. It's a kid's nickname that stuck. I used to be fat as a whale before I went to the joint and got into seriously pumping iron.'

I tentatively thrust my hand up into his, and was pleased when he released it with the bones intact. 'Moby Dickens. That's, uh. . right.'

'I really appreciate your agreeing to see me,' he said quickly, anxiously glancing back over his shoulder as if he was expecting someone to sneak up on him. 'It took me a while to work up the courage to come in. I didn't want to call, because I don't speak as well as I write. I'm not good on the phone. I also know I don't make a good first impression-my appearance, I mean. I'm scary-looking, and it puts people off, so I figured I'd just take a chance and drop in on my way to work. Lou told me you're not scared of anything.'

'He was talking about my brother.'

'Nah. He was talking about you. Anyway, thanks again.'

'Well, you haven't scared me yet, Mr. Dickens,' I said, toting up my first lie of the day and discounting my first, visceral reaction when I'd seen him filling up my doorway.

'Moby.'

'Moby.' I pointed to a chair over by my desk that I hoped was strong enough to support him. 'Come on over and sit down.'

'Thank you, sir,' he said, going over to the chair and sitting down, cradling his leather portfolio in both arms. The wood creaked, but the chair held together.

I went back behind my desk and sat down in my swivel chair, resisting the impulse to glance at the data that still flickered, impatiently awaiting my attention, on my computer monitor. 'What can I do for you, Moby?'

'Somebody's been stealing my poetry.'

'Somebody's been. . stealing. . your poetry.'

'Here,' he said, reaching into his leather portfolio and pulling out a magazine. 'I'll show you. Page twenty- three.'

He handed over the magazine, which was something called The New England Journal of Poetry, and dated two years before. I opened it to page twenty-three and saw a poem there entitled 'Fountain-head,' by Thomas Dickens:

I had escaped that hell riding

The backs of my demons,

Smoothing the way with paving

Stone words plucked from

The storm, cemented together

With my tears that otherwise

Would have dropped to waste,

Soaking the ground,

Miring my tongue.

Fear whispers from a far place

Deeper still than the

Cacophonous, rain-swept

Arena of our hatred,

A quiet hole where there

Is no wind and even our

Screams are drowned In the silent sea.

'Very nice,' I said, glancing up into the scarred, mashed, and tattooed face of the man sitting across from me.

'Thank you.'

I looked to my right as Garth, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and carrying the fistful of papers he had taken up to his apartment the night before, entered the office. He stopped when he saw us. 'Sorry,' he said, taking a pencil from between his teeth. 'I didn't know you had anybody in here with you.'

'What's up?'

'I need to call up the names of all those shell corporations, and Francisco's using his terminal to do something else for me. It'll wait. I'll come back when you're finished.'

'It's all right,' I said, getting up and coming around from behind the desk. 'This won't take much longer, and we can move over to the couch. Garth Frederickson, this is Moby Dickens. Somebody has been stealing Mr. Dickens' poetry.'

I thought Garth might be as amused as I was by the name, or show some sign of interest in the situation, but my brother was either being polite or was totally distracted by his paper pursuit of the CIA's dummy companies, because he displayed no reaction at all. He sat down behind my desk, brushed a few stray strands of his shoulder- length, wheat-colored hair away from his eyes, then began a brutal attack on my keyboard using the index finger of each hand.

I motioned Moby Dickens over to the small couch set up along the wall of the office, to the left of my desk, and he went over and sat down on it. He filled most of the couch, so I pulled up the single chair and sat down in front of him. He once again reached into the cracked leather folds of his portfolio and pulled out another magazine. This one was called The Raging River Review, and was printed on much cheaper paper than the first journal he had shown me, with the pages stapled together. It was dated six months before. He opened the magazine to a page, handed it to me. There was a poem entitled 'Fright,' by Jefferson Kelly:

Speaks softly From a distant place Even deeper than the Cacophonous, rain-swept Arena of our hatred; A still hole where there Is no breeze and even our Screams are drowned Out by the Din of silence.

'It's yours,' I said, handing him back the magazine.

Moby Dickens nodded, then plucked out a half dozen other magazines and offered them to me. 'There are a lot more-'

'I get the idea,' I said, holding up my hand. 'This Jefferson Kelly reads a poem of yours in some literary journal, then alters it slightly and submits it as his own work to some other magazine. It's plagiarism.'

'Yes.'

'And you want some kind of compensation.'

The ex-convict with the tattooed face and doughboy nose replaced the magazines in his portfolio, then studied me with his bright, expressive dark eyes. He seemed surprised. 'No, sir,' he said at last. 'It's not about money. I just want him to stop.'

'Aha.'

'A number of editors have been publishing my work for a few years, and so they're familiar with my name and work. It was one of them who noticed a plagiarized poem in one of the other journals, and she first brought it to my attention by sending me a copy. Then I went through the literature and found that this Kelly has plagiarized at least a dozen of my poems. There could be more-there are hundreds of literary and so-called 'little' magazines, some of which are just run off on mimeograph machines in somebody's basement, and it's impossible to check all of them. I can prove all the poems are mine, because mine were always published first. He may copy other people's poems as well, and then submit them as his own work. I don't know. I just want him to stop copying mine. My editors should be cooperative. I was hoping you could find out who this Jefferson Kelly is and where he lives, and you could go talk