Mark’s Church is one of the oldest sanctuaries in Manhattan with a rich history of worship, but it’s better known for its artist-friendly events. Patti Smith read her poems there. Richard Foreman put on his avant-garde plays. I had never set foot inside and, despite the mythology, wasn’t looking forward to my first visit. Watching a young man die the night before had left me feeling flustered, but I knew I couldn’t skip the dual memorial for Bobbie Giabella and Taylor Soto, even if I hadn’t been looking into their deaths. Dolly needed the support. He hadn’t said as much, but he’d texted me directions despite the fact that I was the one who’d gotten my fourteen-year-old belly button pierced at The Rose Petal in the East Village. I doubted the tattoo parlor was still in business, but I wasn’t likely to get lost either. Dolly walked a few steps in front of me, greeting nearly everyone by name, introducing anyone he thought I needed to meet. That had been our arranged code.
