A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “Well, you don’t know me.” Zelda took a long swallow on her beer. She was still annoyed with Puppy and, like the mature adults they were, had bickered for half an hour about his poorly suppressed childhood traumas and her unfulfilled artistic aspirations, sending her stomping out of the apartment and down the block into Monroe’s.

  Shadows danced slowly to Willie Nelson. The silenced vidnews ran in a loop behind the bar; new farms were opening in the Southwest, thanks to radiation minimizing techniques. Would cactus burgers be far behind? Jimmy could serve them on Country Night instead of those stale tortilla chips covered in barbecue sauce squatting on the bar. The guy with the beard wiped the sweet brown sauce off her chin.

  “Full service,” he said quietly. “I take care of all needs.”

  Jimmy glared at the man. Maybe because he knew her a long time and thought four straight nights here at the bar letting men wipe her chin was too much. Or maybe it was the guy’s beard. Once, a beard or even a moustache got you stomped. Zelda could vaguely remember a hooked nose earning a beating. Now, just a dirty look from a protective bartender.

  She double blinked shorthand at Jimmy, who muttered and attended to a customer at the other end.

  “And you know what my needs are.”

  “I can sense them.”

  Zelda finished her drink and let the guy buy her another. Jimmy poured it slowly, disapprovingly.

  “I think you’re lonely.”

  Grandma’s clit, give me a break.

  “It’s been a while since you had someone.”

  Yeah, nearly twenty-four hours.

  “How’s my guessing so far?”

  “Brilliant. Can you guess my name?”

  “Does that matter?”

  Zelda smiled playfully. “Are you saying this is just about sex?”

  The Beard’s smile wavered slightly. “Doesn’t have to be.”

  “I’m single. Obviously. So are you. Hopefully. Did I guess that right?”

  He nodded, a little annoyed. “Otherwise…”

  “Otherwise you’d get a summons and adultery is ugly. Apartment, job, mark on your name up and down the entire system.”

  The Beard shifted uneasily.

  “Because I’m here looking for love and romance and relationship and sharing and all the things Grandma wants us to have. Otherwise I’m just a slut.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Do you think I’m a slut?”

  “No, I…”

  “If you do, then I should be reported for wayward pointless sex not designed for reproduction or at least companionship. That’s not what you were after, is it?”

  The Beard quickly tossed his Lifecard on the bar, agonizing as Jimmy ever so slowly rang up the charges.

  “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder.

  Zelda tapped the bar with her knuckles for a refill. Jimmy slid over a bowl of chips.

  “I wasn’t letting you leave with that bearded piece of crap,” Jimmy growled. He was about six five, two hundred and fifty pounds and could probably stop a crusher truck with a punch.

  “I don’t need a protector.”

  “You need to stay out of my bar for a while.”

  “But I’m a good customer. Without me, the way I draw men into running up big tabs, you’d close. Then I’d be stricken with guilt, unable to work, a drag on Grandma’s House. Both of us, Jimmy. Ruination. Shame. ”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Maybe you should try a girl.”

  “I have,” Zelda sighed. “I screw them up, too.”

  4

  Major Tomas Stilton was still half drenched from the long drive, the tropical rain pouring relentlessly into the open windows. If only he could scratch his face, but he wouldn’t give the scum the satisfaction of asking for help. Letting them slip their greasy fingers under the black hood seemed worse than enduring the itching.

  Then again, blinded, he didn’t have to look at them. Touching was difficult enough. Smelling, sensing. He’d shuddered for an hour; they thought he was just cold, but Tomas was remembering how many Allahs he’d killed. At least fifty. Half during the withdrawal at Sicily. Those seven in the chalet near Nice when his Seals had rescued the last Vice President. Another dozen covering the first convoy of refugee children. A few he killed out of savage vengeance.

  Two rough hands yanked him off the hard wooden chair.

  One, two, three steps, door creaks open, and one, two over the threshold. Left, one, two, three, steps, feet trailing behind him. Why are you bothering? They’ll take you somewhere different next time. If there was a next time.

  My beloved, I hope you know what you’re doing. Because I sure as hell don’t.

  He was dropped like a bag of soiled laundry onto a more comfortable chair. Leather, his bulky body squirmed, confirming it. Someone laughed and cut his wrists free of the thick rope. They yanked off his hood. He wouldn’t squint in the sudden light. Same principle of not giving them any satisfaction.

  Tomas kept his eyes fixed at the bare floor until he grew accustomed to his surroundings. Two young Allahs in flowing white robes flanked him, hands in their laps as if Stilton had stopped by for a beer. Another one, maybe thirty-five or so, sat gracefully on an identical black leather chair. He smiled warmly. This was the guy. Slight, almost frail. Arrogant in that cordial way they had.

  “Mr. Stilton, welcome.”

  Tomas nodded vaguely.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Tomas waved him off.

  “I do not consider it weakness if you need nourishment. It is a long way from the Bronx.”

  “Yes it is,” he finally said. “I’m fine.”

  The Allah shrugged off Tomas’ stubbornness and exchanged amused glances with his colleagues. Tomas wondered if the guns were under their robes or they just had a couple rifles aimed at his head behind the white walls. A generator hummed. They were probably deep underground.

  “I am Imam Abboud.” He tipped his head slightly.

  “Imam?” Tomas held his concern in check. Hood off for thirty seconds and already they’d fucked with him. And you’re very and deeply surprised, why? “Where’s the Son?”

  “The son?” Imam’s next look at his colleagues was decidedly less polite.

  “Abdullah.”

  “You will refer to him as His Most Worthy Successor.”

  The war was so easy to understand sometimes, Tomas thought. He bowed from the shoulders. “I was told I would meet His Most Worthy Successor.”

  Abboud sneered slightly. “He has ears.”

  “As I have a tongue.”

  The Imam acknowledged that with a gracious wave of the hand. “If you speak, I will listen.”

  Tomas hesitated.

  “Did you really think he would come?”

  “No, I honestly didn’t,” Tomas admitted. “But Grandma did.” And I should’ve talked her out of this; no one ever would’ve known.

  “As I said, he has ears.” The Imam touched his left ear lobe as if Tomas were very dull-witted. “His Most Worthy Successor is a man of great vision.”

  “Like the Grand Mufti.”

  The Allahs mumbled “Allah be praised.”

  Tomas pressed back the bile. “A man of astonishing vision.”

  “May His Most Worthy Successor have an ounce of that.” The Imam raised his hands skyward, looking shrewdly at Tomas. “He reveres the Grand Mufti.”

  “As he should. As would any son.” Tomas couldn’t resist.

  Abboud considered Tomas’s veiled insolence. “And your grandmother?”

  “Grandma is well and sends her blessings to His Most Worthy Successor.”

  “He is grateful for the thoughts.”

  Tomas shifted uncomfortably. How long would he have to continue this?

  “But…” Abboud abruptly continued. “Such thoughts are natural from everyone to his Most Worthy Successor. He wonders what other thoughts your grandmother…”

  “Grandma,” Tomas said coldly.

  The Allahs in the chairs stirred
enough so Tomas could see the outlines of their guns. The Imam calmed them with a wave.

  “Grandma.” He smiled. “Apologies. That is disrespectful. She has sent you a considerable way without food and drink. Someone very trusted. Her most trusted friend. To here, a place of your enemies. His Most Worthy Successor wonders why.”

  Tomas placed his elbows on his knees, releasing his lower back with a pleasant twinge. “She would like to discuss the future.”

  “Why not with the Grand Mufti whose courage created it?”

  Tomas took a deep breath. “He lives in the past.”

  Abboud tossed another wave at the bristling Allahs. “A glorious past.”

  “Yes.” Depending where you sit, you prick. “But Grandma believes it’s time to move forward.”

  The Imam’s face curled in curiosity. “Why would His Most Worthy Successor feel that?”

  “Because he is a son. And a son must look ahead to his own destiny. Forged by his own greatness. ” Tomas smiled quickly. “I could use some water.”

  The Imam snapped his fingers. Tomas waited until he took a few sips before beginning.

  • • • •

  SITTING BEFORE THE wide, sooty window, Mickey stared off blankly as fellow patients nudged past his wheelchair like exhausted bumper cars. Mick’s mouth chewed as if forming words. Lost words, floating out and away. Puppy thought he could see them like the bubbles he blew out of a bottle as a child. Empty bubbles.

  He saw a lot while watching, hands crossed at his waist. No one bothered him, asked for ID, what he was doing there, planning on cutting the throats of any of our patients, sir? If so, take your pick, we don’t want them.

  Outside the boundaries of the DV, homes like this were called Backyards, places where grandma and grandpa and ol’ Uncle Eduardo rocked gently in the hammock. Dozens, hundreds of hammocks, swaying in a soft breeze where sunshine reigned for more than four hours, visitors lined up because it was a great honor to meet people who had contributed so much to their country and the Family.

  Here in East Tremont, it was called just The Facility, a place of embarrassment. No hope to advance, even mentor, hand down any important bits of last-minute wisdom. This was the ultimate disappointment, hopefully they’ll move on soon, within the hour, counting down one, two, three, and take their fleshy old hairy butts on to wherever you wanted to believe someone went anymore; Heaven and God and religion had been out of fashion for a couple decades.

  Puppy clasped Mick’s shoulder. The old guy kept staring through the windows, half spears of rusted metal protecting the outside ledge because this would surely be the number one destination for any thieves inclined to scamper up five floors.

  “Where the hell you been? Food’s worse here than your dump,” Mickey growled.

  Puppy signed him out, the diffident nurse perking up at all of Mickey’s many possibilities for happiness now that he had a home with his nephew. Puppy studied the checklist about health and exercise and mental acuity as they walked back toward his apartment, Mickey sadly shaking his head.

  “The whole neighborhood’s a dump.”

  “This is the…” he stopped, too much explanation. “I actually live in the better part of the Bronx.”

  “The Bronx? I’m in the Bronx?” Mick did a little dance. Puppy pulled him away from a bus bearing down to finish its route no matter how many old men in smelly clothes it had to run down.

  “I told you.”

  “No. You said New York. I got a good memory.”

  “I’m sure,” Puppy said dryly.

  “Where’s the stadium?”

  That made Puppy smile. He pointed west. “Over there.”

  “Old bitch is still standing. Can’t kill either of us,” Mickey marveled in relief. “Is it baseball season?”

  Puppy nodded.

  “We’ll go to a game. Sit in the luxury box.”

  At least he was a fan. Mickey made a sharp turn into Monroe’s as Puppy kept walking. He hurried inside where Mantle was already at the bar digging into a bowl of nuts.

  “Let me have a breakfast of champions,” Mickey said to Jimmy. “Know how to make it?”

  “Jimmy, no…” Puppy sat beside Mickey.

  “Hell, I’m thirsty. You abandoned me. I deserve this.”

  Jimmy gave Puppy a searching look. He shrugged wearily.

  “Gimme two shots of brandy, Kahlua and cream. And some real nuts, these taste like wood.”

  The bartender gave Puppy a longer, searching look. “Kahlua?”

  “Yeah.” Mick spun around on the stool; the place was empty at ten AM.

  “They don’t have Kahlua, Mickey.”

  “What the hell kind of bar is this? All right.” Mick held up a conciliatory hand. “Somehow the world ain’t what it was when I was alive. Gimme a vodka martini. Does the bartender know how to make a martini or do I have to go behind and help out?”

  Jimmy’s nostrils flared slightly. He noisily mixed the drink.

  “Just one.” Puppy raised a finger.

  “Sure.” Mickey smiled impishly.

  The bartender poured out the martini. Mickey’s eyes lit up and he gulped down half. A Blue Shirt strolled in with a friendly wave of his night stick. Jimmy tensed.

  “Morning, Jimmy. Everyone doing well today?”

  “Very well, Officer Frick.”

  “They ain’t got Kahlua,” Mickey grumbled and finished his martini, holding out the glass for a refill.

  “Now that’s a real problem.” Frick slid onto a stool. “Officer Frick.”

  “Mickey Mantle.” They shook hands.

  “He just got out of The Facility,” Puppy explained.

  “Oh?” Officer Frick wrinkled his nose. “I wondered about the odor.”

  “I don’t smell,” Mickey growled.

  “I think you do, sir. It’s okay. Your friend…”

  “Nephew…” Puppy jumped in.

  “Nephew,” Frick drew out the word dubiously. “He’ll take care of you. Eventually.” The cop tipped the night stick on the counter and motioned for Puppy to follow, stopping near the men’s room. “Nephew?”

  “Sort of. I found him wandering in my neighborhood.”

  “Took pity, very nice.” Frick waited for Puppy to hand over his Lifecard, which he scanned on a thin silver device wrapped around his wrist. “Baseball historian?” The Officer chuckled dismissively. Puppy forced a wan smile.

  “Should have plenty of time then to take care of the gentleman.” Frick examined the discharge forms. “Like I said, you’ve done a nice thing. But stupidity trumps generosity.” Frick gently rapped his night stick on Puppy’s forehead. Maybe not so gently. “He left The Facility half an hour ago and you bring him to a bar?”

  “He kind of just walked in.”

  “And forced his way into receiving a drink?” Frick glanced at Mick, toasting. “Two drinks now.”

  Puppy groaned inwardly.

  “Is this the sort of care you’re planning on extending?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He’s clearly nearing the end and deserves dignity.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Will I see you in here again?”

  “Yes. But not with him.”

  “Because I will check.” Frick scribbled a reminder note with a small pencil in a large purple notebook, then walked back down the bar and warmly shook Mantle’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” He stared at Jimmy. “Mr. Nedick will relay our conversation.”

  Jimmy glared at Puppy. He really wanted to be on the police radar about smelly old men drinking when they shouldn’t and causing problems. Officer Frick made it as far as halfway to the door before Mickey raised his refilled martini glass, calling out, “What’s the rush, Officer? Join me for a round.”

  The Blue Shirt escorted them to The Foyer, the main administrative center for the Bronx, an ugly old building with latticed windows and scorched bricks which sat with a certain haughty air on Sheridan Avenue. After the Allahs nuked Washington, DC,
on the heels of the chemical attack on Manhattan, the seat of government had moved to the Bronx.

  At the entrance, Frick whispered heatedly to the Blue Shirt on duty, jabbing his stick toward Puppy. The large cop rolled off his stool, annoyed at the inconvenience of having to move, obviously caused by Puppy’s negligence and possible degeneracy. The Blue Shirt, identified as Manson Phillips on his NYPD badge, read and re-read the discharge papers, searching for some reason to arrest Puppy or at least take a very active dislike.

  Patient: Mickey Mantle. Age: Deceased. Born: Yes. Occupation: Hall of Fame Baseball Player. Relatives: Probably all dead like me. Last Address: Dallas Memorial Hospital and hopefully a cemetery. Health Issues: No sex for a 100 years. Mental State: Maybe.

  Officer Phillips returned the papers to Puppy, giving Mickey a bewildered look.

  “I’ll make sure they get to the right room.”

  Frick tapped his night stick rhythmically into Puppy’s forehead. as he instructed his colleague, “Check the papers when they leave.”

  Mick dozed on Puppy’s shoulder in the simply furnished waiting room. On a long poster by the door, the face of a pleasant faced girl in dreads smiled beneath a sign, “If You Don’t Know Who You Are, How Can We?” with stark lettering below, “Take Care of Your Lifecard.” Directly above their heads hummed the vidnews, scrolling along pictures of fish hopping happily into nets draped from a long boat somewhere in the Atlantic, a dour captain in a yellow slicker explaining new fishing techniques in a way that made you long for a good greasy cheeseburger; Puppy kind of remembered real meat, dozing into a light sleep where he was a pickle chip fighting off angry cheddar cheese with Mantle’s face.

  The reedy clerk beckoned them inside. Mick walked unsteadily; he must’ve thrown down an extra martini when I wasn’t looking, Puppy thought as they settled inside the office. Grandma’s classic pearl earrings photograph stared down.

  “Who’s the broad?” Mick drawled.

  The clerk stared, horrified.

  “He was in The Facility,” Puppy explained.

  The clerk held the application up to his eyes.

  “You got a toilet?” Mick asked.

  “Hold it in,” Puppy whispered.

  “I can’t.”