A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  He took Annette’s money out of spite.

  • • • •

  AZHAR MUSTAFA COUNTED yet another cloud formation. Eleven puffs. Second highest number of puffs in the past few hours. There were no other clouds drifting past the tiny island. The birds had fled at the sound of the helicopters. He squinted through the ponderous sunshine for some animals to count, observe, play a game in his head to pass the time, but none scampered past.

  He checked downstairs in the tiny ship that rocked gently, moored to the makeshift dock. Everything in order. Two rifles mounted on the rack. All the first aid supplies full; even a few syringes of penicillin. Five tins of canned beef and a loaf of bread waited on the table. He hadn’t known what else to bring because all he’d been told was to be prepared. For what?

  Mustafa sat on the edge of a chair and guiltily ate the leftover lamb his wife Jalak had slipped into his pocket. I can’t bring food, he’d insisted. You can’t turn on your mobile, how else will I know you’re okay? You’ll know if I eat? I will feel my lamb melting in your mouth. She’d smiled and he fell in love with her yet again. It often happened several times a week, when she wasn’t nagging about something.

  Azhar saved a chunk of lamb and returned on deck. A faint noise skipped through the trees. He looked up, expecting more helicopters, but just another white cloud lazily headed his way. The noise deepened into an engine. A gray truck bounced along the poor excuse for a road, stopping abruptly at the gangway.

  Two men in plain work clothes dragged a hooded prisoner, hands and feet bound, up the rickety bridge and onto his ship. One sliced the rope around the prisoner’s ankles, leaving his wrists still tied. The prisoner stood tall, defiant.

  One of the men yanked up the anchor, Mustafa knew better than to protest, and together they tied the prisoner to the outside of the cabin. The hooded figure sat obediently, still with the stiff back; Azhar could see his chin lifted challengingly under the black cloth.

  The tall one handed Azhar coordinates and the guards hurried down the gangplank. In a matter of moments, the truck disappeared.

  Mustafa stared at the waiting prisoner.

  “Are we leaving or not?” the man suddenly barked as if he were in command. Azhar grumbled, fired up the engines and steered northwest, careful eyes on the prisoner.

  What have you done, infidel? he wondered. But you do not seem in pain after torture. Mustafa noticed the dark skin on the hands and the legs where the pants pulled up slightly. From the accent, the skin color, an American African Crusader. How did you get here? Thousands of miles past the Surrender Line. Think not such thoughts, Azhar, so you return in one piece to your Jalak and her lamb, however dried out and tasteless. Your pockets will be heavier and you will have done a service for the Imam.

  The prisoner’s head bobbed slightly. Asleep. Perhaps unconscious. Wonder not. Steer. Abdul’s soccer game is tomorrow and he would welcome his father to show up with his head, otherwise you will not know what is going on.

  Mustafa grunted at himself, swearing slightly and putting the steering on automatic. He knelt by the prisoner, who tensed, immediately alert.

  “What is it?” he asked in perfect Arabic, surprising Azhar. “I asked, what is it?”

  “Are you thirsty, defiler of our law?”

  The prisoner chuckled. “Yes, thank you. But I’ll pass on the water if you’re going to say asinine things like that.”

  Azhar was shamed by the laugh, stillborn in his throat. He slid a straw under the hood, allowing the prisoner to suck the water from the bottle. He did so noisily, finishing in a minute.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Mustafa froze, bent over. “How do you know I’m a Captain?”

  “It’s your ship. I don’t hear anyone else. I assume you’re in charge.”

  He nodded, realizing the prisoner couldn’t see. “Yes.”

  “Are we alone?”

  “Why?” Mustafa grew suspicious. The Crusaders are all cunning wolves.

  “Because I don’t want to insult anyone by not including them in the conversation.”

  “There are two armed guards below deck.”

  “If they’re armed, why keep them there?”

  Mustafa bristled. “Because this is my ship and I don’t like guns on deck.” He moved away, worried. “We are not supposed to talk.”

  “Because the guards might hear.”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand.” The prisoner tilted his head. “Do you have any food?”

  Azhar swore at himself down and up the steps, returning with two tins dumped into a bowl and a chunk of bread.

  “Sure you’re not depriving the guards of dinner?” The prisoner’s hood pulled in a smile.

  “They’ve eaten enough.” Mustafa scooped beef onto a fork and squeezed it under the hood. It fell onto the man’s lap. “Sorry.”

  “Maybe if you lifted the hood to just below my nose.” Mustafa hesitated, searching for the trick. “Once I’m done you can slide the hood back into place.”

  The Captain lifted the hood. Not American African. He looked like one of our Indian brothers. Azhar tossed aside the food from the prisoner’s lap and fed him two spoons rapidly, barely giving the man time to chew. “How is it?”

  “Terrible,” the prisoner replied good-naturedly. “You make this yourself?”

  “No,” he said, embarrassed. He licked a piece of meat off his pinky and nearly gagged. “Wait here.”

  “I’ve got no plans.”

  Mustafa’s curses rose a little as he came back with another bowl, filled with Jalak’s lamb. He broke off chunks and speared them into the prisoner’s mouth.

  “Better?”

  The prisoner chewed ferociously. “A little.”

  “Just a little?” he snapped. “My wife made this.”

  “Delicious.”

  Mustafa burst out laughing. “She has other virtues.”

  “Glad to hear that.” The prisoner grinned.

  Their laughter was drowned out by helicopters circling overhead, the crescent moon and stars dipping side to side. Mustafa yanked the hood below the prisoner’s chin and rushed back into the cabin, flipping off the automatic pilot. Just ahead, he saw a small ship anchored portside. A rowboat splashed into the water and was soon waiting beside them.

  Mustafa dragged the prisoner to the side. Hands reached up and pulled the man into the boat, the helicopters continuing to circle like hawks. Azhar picked up the bowls, abruptly tossing them overboard. He wiped the spilled food with the bottom of his shoe, watching the boat hurry away.

  What did you come here for, infidel?

  5

  The morning started off with Mickey chasing Greta with the precious original Mooshie Lopez baseball bat, smashing two lamps and bashing a hole in the living room wall with a fluid swing, righty and lefty. Screaming “the midget will die,” Mantle drove the HG into the closet, only for Greta to slip under the door and land on his head.

  That’s when Puppy found himself with a new and very uneven hole over his desk before diving under the bed and pulling out the plug. Mickey sent the HG machine on a line drive into the bathroom, pulverizing the box so the pieces were embedded into the tiles.

  Puppy wasn’t all that unhappy about the death of Greta, although the neighbors were, calling the super, Mr. Ivanov, who scolded Puppy for having drunken parties at seven-thirty in the morning and suggesting the need to find non-violent boyfriends or, if that was his longing, finding somewhere else to live. There were also a few threats about calling the Blue Shirts.

  Breakfast, three sugar-scalded donuts and black coffee, calmed Mickey down a little. Actually, he was pretty serene, taking in the brief walk by saying little except he wanted a beer or rum and when could he have real coffee and the couch was killing his back and these fat clothes of Puppy’s were too big; he recommended a tailor on Madison Avenue.

  They waited patiently in the bus queue on West 170th Street. Mick ogled a few girls, who responded with disgust. Someh
ow, in this mind of his, that constituted a challenge, so he did a little number he later explained as “the walk.” Stare, but gently, he cautioned, starting at the woman’s brow, ruminating on her eyes, traveling slowly down her face, resting on the mouth, accompanied by his tongue rolling around his lips, before dancing down her throat and resting on her breasts.

  This part required subtlety which, to Mickey, meant eyes darting back and forth, back and forth, followed by a big grin suggesting the previous wet tongue and mouth would enjoy themselves greatly if given a few minutes in the cleavage zone. Then the walk stepped down the stomach, pausing on the vagina, Mantle’s tongue darting out like a hungry baby snake. The walk took a few steps onto the thighs, and then repeated the process upward.

  The first girl, around twenty, not bad looking if you liked flashy red hair and green eyes, stared, astonished, until Mickey finished walking. He winked. She slapped him hard, followed by two women who punched him in the ribs while an elderly woman poked Mickey in the back with her umbrella.

  “You can’t treat women like that,” Puppy scolded. “Ever.”

  Mickey shrugged. At least they got to the front of the queue.

  The bus doors opened. Puppy swiped the Lifecard twice, gesturing at his guest Mickey. The A18 driver nodded diffidently for them to continue down the aisle. Mick stared at the ‘bot in horror.

  “You coming on or not?” The A18’s metal forehead creased.

  “There’s a fucking monster on the bus. Run for your lives.” Mick ran screaming down the steps, knocking over the women who’d slapped/punched/poked him.

  Now it was thirty-three years since the final Miners attack and twenty-five since the last Allah alert, just before the Surrender of ’73. Still, terror becomes part of a collective DNA and an old man yelling for help set off a mini-panic. A few shopkeepers ran out brandishing bottles, while a shoe repair person sprayed water resistant repellant on anyone nearby and a grocery store owner roamed up and down with an armful of apples. He threw some at the bus, breaking a window. Not to forget a couple of men fainting, a little girl running her bicycle into a light pole and yes, the police he’d narrowly avoided this morning did finally arrive.

  And Pablo wondered why they missed their 10 AM appointment.

  Pablo let Puppy back into the examining room and touched his right ear with a raised index finger.

  “Mick, can you wait outside?” Puppy asked.

  Mantle happily slid out of the chair and pocketed a few lollies. “I ain’t letting him drill.”

  “No need, sir. Your teeth are great.” Pablo smiled and closed the door. He frowned that familiar somber look and busied himself cleaning the double end probe. Puppy spun around in the bicuspid examining chair, making little whoopy noises.

  “Are you going to do that for long?”

  “Until you stop me.”

  Pablo stilled the chair, leaning forward to pick at Puppy’s teeth. Puppy pushed him away. “You’re overdue for a cleaning. You have food stuck.”

  Puppy rubbed his finger over his teeth, horrifying Pablo. “There. Clean bill of health. About Mickey.”

  “His teeth are pretty good for someone who hasn’t been living well. There should be more decay. All the teeth are solid. No gum disease.”

  “Maybe he just has naturally pretty teeth.”

  “Maybe.” Pablo had obviously considered and rejected this line of thinking. “He has all amalgam fillings.”

  “So?”

  “Mercury fillings were banned in 2024. Too dangerous.”

  “He’s old.”

  Pablo sighed and consulted his notes. “Not that old. He says he’s 64. Let’s assume he’s lying and he’s 70. That still means if he had his teeth filled when he was born, the amalgam would’ve been illegal by four years.”

  “What if he lived somewhere that disobeyed the law?”

  “Renegade dentists using hazardous waste fillings?” Pablo sighed pityingly. “There’s something else. He has unusual scar tissue on his gums. At first I thought it might’ve been self-inflicted from how you’ve described him. Or from some altercation. But it’s a surgical procedure. Pre-laser.”

  “I guess those same renegade dentists theory is out.”

  “Yes, Puppy,” he said wearily. “His gums were cut, twice actually.”

  “When did that process stop?”

  Pablo exhaled slowly. “Easily seventy years ago.”

  Puppy cupped his hand under the faucet in the small rinse-and-spit sink.

  “Use a cup,” Pablo said angrily.

  “More fun this way.” Puppy licked a green lolly. “He needs a Lifecard.”

  “Can’t they print out his records?”

  “He’s not in the system.”

  Pablo shrugged. “Not surprised. He’s lived deep in the DV. I saw a lot of this when I worked at the clinic on East 161st. They change names. Forget their names. You know how it is from your Dad.” Pablo tenderly clasped his shoulder. “Bring him back to The Facility, Pup.”

  “I can’t. I’m already in pretty deep. Banned from Monroe’s and the M43 bus route.” Puppy tossed the lolly stick and missed the garbage. “Can you give him a temp medical ID?”

  The dentist shook his head adamantly. “I’m not comfortable with that.”

  “C’mon.” Puppy pulled the Lost Lifecard brochure out of his back pocket, unfolding Grandma’s chiding expression on the cover. “It says if a doctor examines the applicant and gives him a clean bill of health, he can get a temporary Lifecard.”

  Pablo hesitated long enough for a deep frown. “I shouldn’t, Puppy.”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “It’s a question of judgment. To issue a med temp when you have doubt isn’t something a wise person does.”

  “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  Pablo didn’t smile. “I’m not in a position to take chances.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Then why…”

  Pablo hesitated with that closed-eye, anguished internal debate expression which he used for everything from bending the law to ordering dessert. He would’ve made a good martyr. “Because I’ve been told that I might be asked to be a Cousin.”

  “Shit. Really? That’s wonderful.”

  “Yes,” Pablo said, agitated. “You’re not supposed to know this.”

  “Sure, sure, sure. Amazing news, Pab. Your dream coming true…”

  “If it happens. They probably ask a number of siblings, though no one knows how many since you’re not supposed to tell.” He gave Puppy a warning look. “Now you understand why I can’t do anything to jeopardize this. If it happens.”

  “I think this would only augment your candidacy.”

  “How?” Pablo’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re demonstrating compassion and empathy. You’re putting the needs of some crazy old guy ahead of your own. Isn’t that what being a Cousin is all about?”

  Pablo thought on this. “You’re playing me, aren’t you?”

  Puppy spread his thumb and forefinger apart an inch, grinning.

  Pablo grunted unhappily. “He has to take the smile-o-meter test first.”

  “I’m sure he’d love to.”

  It took two Bobby’s Burgers to wash away the supposed agony coursing through Mick’s face “like a whore tap dancing on your balls,” he’d growled while insisting the meat was human. A slice of Der Vunder German chocolate cake was required when Puppy insisted they return to The Foyer and get the temporary Lifecard validated before Pablo changed his mind.

  Mickey wasn’t happy about waiting on line again. Two wonderful hours of complaining punctured Puppy’s tolerance. Living alone all these years, he’d only had to deal with his problems. He was always there for Zelda and Pablo, but they weren’t in his bed or bathroom. Just him with his own guidelines of what was acceptable whining, easily adjusted. Or ignored. Loneliness had it
s benefits. You alone were the master of your misery.

  “Can we take a damn taxi?” Mickey grumbled outside, his shiny new temporary Lifecard safely in Puppy’s wallet.

  “Monsters also drive taxis.” He’d barely talked himself out of a ‘bot discrimination ticket for Mick’s behavior this morning. Robots were especially sensitive. Perhaps he’d be, too, if there were a law against him having a face.

  “Queers and monsters.” Mickey shook his head. “I should’ve stayed dead.”

  “Still plenty of time.” Puppy led them down Sheridan Avenue. “But Grandma gave you a free week’s worth of groceries and transportation, so let’s hold off a little.”

  “Can I buy booze?”

  They lugged two six-packs of Allentown Ale and half a liter of Vossily’s Vodka home. Clouds gathered. Puppy stopped under the awning of a barber shop, the red and white pole circling merrily.

  “What’s up?” Mick asked.

  “Four o’clock rain.”

  “You got good weathermen,” he chuckled.

  “Haven’t you ever been outside during the day?”

  “I was in a fucking coffin,” he shouted.

  Puppy quieted him. “Pours every day at 4:05PM. Also 10:40 in the morning and then at 11PM. Late night showers are romantic and cozy. Couples huddle. Children snuggle,” he dumbly recited the grade school jingle. Rain poured in a slant, thunder and lightning crackling. Some people walked right through, grinning. A few hoisted their umbrellas and skipped along through the growing puddles. Cars slid along, sending up streams onto the sidewalks.

  “Everyone looks happy getting soaked,” Mantle said wonderingly, the sky lighting up.

  Puppy frowned. Guy had to have been in a mental hospital. Yes, that explains a lot, he suddenly decided. “We contend with little challenges like getting wet. Makes you appreciate when it’s dry.”

  Mick shook his head. “Unless you get pneumonia. Or do you appreciate that so you’re happier when you get well?”