A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “Now I know you’re dead.” Mickey grinned. Cobb’s eyes narrowed. He reached home this time. Mick swung, missing and falling to one knee.

  Puppy sighed. But there was some poignant familiarity to the way they tried to throw and hit. As if Mick and Ty were putting on their wedding suits, knowing it didn’t fit, but didn’t matter because they still thought they were young studs on a happy day.

  He did the math. Both mid-60s, so born like 2033. Maybe they played high school ball. Around 2050, 2051. By then, the robot arm pitcher scandals, including the St. Louis Cardinals stripped of their world title, had gutted the major leagues down to twelve teams, six in either league, suffocating under the popularity of the more fast-paced football and basketball. VR and then AR gouged another hole in the sport’s heart, putting fans in the huddle or under the basket. Just the diehards, the real fans, wanted the laconic baseball from a distant past, an America which no longer existed, an America few wanted to be reminded of.

  Mickey moved into the left-handed batters box, promising to give up the bat soon. Ty threw at his head. Puppy underhanded the loose ball back to Mick, who easily caught it one-handed. His boyish grin would’ve set new smile-o-meter records.

  But how could they not remember what happened next: Miners, rebellion, the Infamous Day of 10/12, ballparks razed to the ground. It didn’t explain it even if they’d been in mental hospitals, drunks, good old-fashioned DVs in every possible definition like his father; they had to know something.

  Mick lofted the ball into right field. Ty clapped sarcastically and took the bat. Cobb missed the first two pitches, slamming the bat on the ground. On the third toss, he ripped a shot into the right field corner. Puppy sat up. Cobb cracked the next pitch over second base and followed with a rope over the third base line.

  Not bad, Puppy thought. Not bad at all. The morning rain splattered his hair. He didn’t notice.

  “Get the balls, boy.” Ty fussily put his suit jacket back on, disdainfully tossing aside the splintered bat. “And take me to my bank.”

  Mick had wandered into short center field to retrieve a ball.

  “There’s a fucking skeleton here,” he screamed.

  7

  Light glistened off the tight black curls dampened on his broad head. Sweat clung to the back of his neck and dripped carelessly down his tanned, muscular back. Zelda swallowed and waited another moment as the boy mopped the wood, his triceps popping out. He bent over to dump out the bucket.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  He glanced up with a polite smile. Zelda stepped around the puddles.

  “I’m here for the fishing.”

  He frowned.

  “Fishing. Salmon.”

  The boy, not a boy, he was mid-twenties with blackish eyes and a strong chin, pointed up and down the dock.

  “Right. Lots of boats. I’m looking for The Intruder.” She waved the authorization from Mr. Pietro. “One of Saul’s Salmons boats.”

  The boy/man wiggled his fingers sadly.

  “Does that mean the boat’s gone?” She didn’t care how hot he was, this was annoying.

  He nodded.

  “It’s supposed to leave at noon. It’s only eleven-thirty.”

  He shrugged that time was of no concern and listlessly moved the mop around, widening the puddles. She didn’t understand why a wet dock needed washing.

  “But it’s no more?” She wiggled her fingers.

  He held up three fingers.

  “Does that mean it returns at three o’clock?” As he shrugged maddeningly, her voice rose. “Or in three days?” He mopped around her feet, wetting her shoes.

  She tried giving him the official letter again, which he ignored and figure-eighted about, mopping. Zelda stumbled a little, off-balance from her aching vagina; the woman last night was voracious. Now she was in pissed off pain.

  “One more time. I’m with Saul’s Salmon. Your employer. As in, we, pay, you.”

  “Are you the owner?” he said, grinning.

  Zelda was taken aback by his delicate voice. “Well no, I’m not the owner. I work for him.”

  “Like me.”

  “Yes,” she said, exasperated.

  “Only I work for Mr. Lee. He owns The Intruder.”

  His mocking smile irritated her. “You’re pretty fucking insolent, aren’t you?”

  He held up his mop, shrugging sheepishly. “That’s why I’m mopping the deck when the ship’s not here.”

  “What’d you do? Be rude to a colleague?”

  “I disagreed with Captain Lee. He’s the Captain. That’s wrong.”

  Just go back to the office, Zelda, and ponder the virtues of salmon salad and why it has never overtaken tuna salad. Chug, chug, up the hill, taste my gill. No, she frowned.

  “You talking to yourself?” he asked, bemused.

  “Yes. That’s how I think, playing different roles, people attached to my thoughts, ideas, whatever. Are there any flights later today?”

  “You mean sailing?” he snickered, but good-humoredly. His eyes made him difficult to dislike.

  “Yes. Boats. “

  He shook his head. “Tomorrow at eleven.”

  “Not noon?”

  He frowned. “Right. Noon. I think. Captain Lee knows. Why don’t you wait for him?”

  “I have tons of work.”

  The guy grinned. “By the time you get back to Kingsbridge it’s at least two hours. It’d be almost time to go home.”

  “How did you know my office was there?”

  “We work for the same company.” His smile made her swoon. The guy was the bahm diggidy. “I’m Diego.”

  Zelda sat on a bench across from the dock, sketching several boats, putting happy salmons on deck until she remembered Mr. Pietro’s admonition about humanizing fish. Zelda humanized or life-sized, life-sensed everything. She preferred brushes to people; one had promise, the other only dabbled. When she was six years old, she’d disrupted her class, imagining her charcoal pencils talking and singing. The children and teacher and school thought she was disturbed, but her parents fought for her artistic expression.

  Until her father’s tie business faltered and they were moved into the DV. Then her parents had no time to worry if their daughter talked to trees or made games with shoes or gave forks names, first and last, occasionally a middle initial. The DV school didn’t care; they focused on specific, practical routes to success since you were already crouching in the shit if you were there. Staging shows on the sidewalk produced by/directed by/starring the Incomparable Zelda Jones and expecting someone to cough up coins to hear you prattle on about the souls of birds only deepened the poop puddle.

  Except she had a teacher named Mr. Willis, hunched and gray, whose eyes watered when she performed in the hallways or classroom, who showed her how to draw and where to kick someone when they bothered her. Right below the knee, then the groin, he said with that quiet dignity. He sponsored her application to the Regulars School and, when she appeared before the invitation committee, they treated her like an undiscovered genius. She hadn’t known Mr. Willis was a famous performance artist whose wife and kids were killed in the chemical attack. He’d refused pitying honors, moving from Manhattan to the Bronx and settling into a DV building, insisting he was one. He hadn’t protected his family. What more could stamp someone as a disappointment?

  She caught up to Captain Lee as he slung his backpack over a shoulder, heading toward the end of the dock.

  “Captain, I’m Zelda Jones from…”

  “He told me,” Lee grunted, never breaking stride. “Noon tomorrow, stay out of the way.”

  “Thanks,” she called after him.

  Diego joined her, buttoning his denim jacket. “Told you it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I could’ve gone back to work if you’d known the schedule.”

  Diego slipped out the drawings from her black bag. “Not bad.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  She reached for them, but he turned
away, studying one in particular. “This me with the devil wings?”

  Zelda flushed. “I was just fooling around.”

  “I like it. We all had wings at one time,” he said. “Can I have it?”

  “No, these are my sketches. For my job.” She shoved the drawings into her bag and looked around.

  “Bus is that way,” Diego pointed to the left. “Unless you’d like to have a drink.”

  • • • •

  THE PUMPKIN’S CAVE burrowed in the shadow of the 145th Street Bridge. Children still risked their lives on a dare to scamper onto the crumpled iron remnants twisting like broken arms to futilely reach across the East River. Every year some stupid kid fell, thinking they could jump, slipping beneath the sewage and setting off another round of nightly Parenting Skills on the vidnews for mothers and fathers all over America whose lack of diligence let a precious commodity die, whether in the garbage of New York, a river in Idaho, or a forest in Tennessee.

  Your children are my children and my children are our children, Grandma’s stern face would flash, seeking out that parent sipping a cold beer on the porch, indifferent to their kid discovering matches in the basement. We lost thirteen million people. We can’t lose any more.

  Puppy lowered his head down the narrow old bomb shelter passageway, led by a tatted TG with a long green ponytail whose sharp fingernails gestured at a chair. He cradled the package under his arm, still standing. Ponytail gestured again, puzzled why Puppy hadn’t sat. Her fingernails clawed and he got the message.

  After a few minutes alone in the dank room, bare bulbs embedded in the wall and smoke whistling from the floor like ‘bacco geysers, Pumpkin barreled out of a wall, a driverless truck on an icy road, falling heavily on his long, blue bean bag which raised him back up. Not that someone six-seven and three hundred pounds needed a lift, but Pumpkin was all about the presentation.

  “Puppy Nedick,” he tried to smile, but his orangish face held to a sneer.

  “Pumpkin Meadows.”

  The large man slowly rolled up his sleeves over his albino arms, staring at Puppy with some surprise, as if anyone got inside without an appointment.

  “Still with the baseballs.”

  “One last season.”

  “Must break your heart.”

  “It does, Pumpkin. It does.”

  Pumpkin giggled happily at Puppy’s discomfort. “And what will they do with all that land beneath your stadium?”

  “I don’t know, but I bet you do.”

  “I might. Care to hear?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I really don’t.”

  “Because it would hurt too much?”

  “Because it’d bore me.”

  Pumpkin laughed. “Always such a poor liar.”

  “As we were taught in the DV. Honesty, integrity.”

  “They will raze the park to the ground and build a factory complex. As if it never existed. No plaques, monuments, just dust. Finally.”

  Puppy flinched.

  The large man grinned and gestured around the room like it was a cathedral of his most devout greed. “Here I am. There you are. It must be a special favor since you’ve never asked me for anything. That hurts. An old friend, eager to help another old friend in any way I can.”

  Puppy was glad his sneakers had thick soles so Pumpkin’s verbal shit didn’t soil his socks.

  “I need a temp Lifecard.”

  “Oh?” Pumpkin’s eyebrow lifted in mock interest. “For a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Must be a good friend to break the law.”

  “It’s just until we find him in the system.” He didn’t think Ty had a record any more than Mickey and he wasn’t about to chance going back to the clerk’s office.

  “I didn’t think you consorted with criminals, Puppy. Such a paragon of ethics. The golden boy of baseball. Once,” he sneered.

  “You’re the only criminal I associate with, Pumpkin,” he snapped.

  Pumpkin held his gasp for a long time, releasing into a loud echoing chuckle. “Shame. We’re more interesting people.” Pumpkin lit a ‘bacco. “And why should I help you of all people, Puppy Nedick?”

  “Because it makes you happy to see me squirm.”

  Pumpkin’s laugh loosened some dirt on the ceiling. He clapped, rolling around on his pelvis. “Absolutely right. Even for that joy, which is priceless, I need to conduct this in an appropriate business manner.”

  Puppy unwrapped the red seat cushion and laid it in front of Pumpkin. “From the bleachers of Fenway Park.”

  The orange face settled into cold scrutiny, turning the cushion around. “How do I know that’s true?”

  “Because you know what a seat from Fenway looks like. You’re an expert.”

  Pumpkin grunted. “Where’d you get this? It was a forbidden stadium.”

  “They all were and it’s not illegal to have baseball memorabilia.”

  “Yes it is. The law’s just not enforced. No one cares about this stupid game.”

  “Some people still do or else you wouldn’t be interested.”

  Pumpkin smelled the cushion, smiling at a scent. “The other week a person offered a chair from the Cleveland ballpark. There was little interest.”

  “This is Fenway Park, Pumpkin. Not Cleveland. Not Detroit. Fenway fucking Park.”

  Pumpkin smirked. “What must it be like to think as you do with all those romantic notions?”

  “I don’t think about how I think.”

  “Never did,” Pumpkin said dismissively, handing the seat to Ponytail, who wrapped it in thick plastic in a matter of moments before disappearing down a hallway. “I will confirm in my way.”

  “When?”

  “In a rush, aren’t we?”

  Puppy nodded warily. “I guess I’ll leave it.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “No.”

  Pumpkin couldn’t manage genuine hurt. “What else do you have?”

  “It’s all I got.”

  “This isn’t enough, Fenway fucking Park or not.”

  “Pumpkin. I ain’t got anything else.”

  “You? The famous Puppy Nedick? You must have a closetful of former illegal baseball stuff. Or something of actual value. Bibles are always sellers. Especially the Hebrew one. Extinction does breed curiosity. There’s a wonderful market for Judaica, especially anything ME or CE. Their religious paraphernalia, skull caps, the prayer shawls…”

  “No Bibles, shawls…”

  “Shame.” Pumpkin was briefly disappointed. “What about one of these?” He snapped his fingers and Ponytail returned with gray headphones. “Ever seen one?” Puppy shook his head, fortifying Pumpkin’s faith in Puppy’s ignorance. “Anti-Narcissim Act of 2068…”

  “I went to school, remember?’

  “Always the star student, I recall,” Pumpkin’s voice dripped disdain. “Outlawed for the obvious reasons along with all social media, cell phones and the like, but in 2077, headphones were restored for private use only, you probably didn’t know that. It actually has a practical use. Screw neighbors complaining about loud music. Get me a Bose and I’m yours.”

  “I wish.”

  “But no cellulars. Amazing how many people didn’t turn them in, hoping Grandma would actually restore the satellite links. Dreamers.” Pumpkin frowned. “How about bank statements? Collectors love those. Or canned foods from Christian Europe?” Pumpkin excited himself. “Some of those disgusting Brit foods like canned beans? Or German beer. Oh, if you only had a six-pack…”

  “Nothing, Pumpkin. That’s the truth.”

  “And the great Puppy Nedick doesn’t lie.” Pumpkin tilted his head side to side.

  “I’m jammed.”

  “Yes you are.” Pumpkin chuckled gleefully. “And I’m thoroughly enjoying it.”

  Puppy closed his eyes a moment. “Please, you fat sack of shit.”
<
br />   Pumpkin clapped. “That’s much better.”

  • • • •

  DAVID FISHER’S OFFICE had all the charm of a maximum security prison. He didn’t want to be there, so he did everything he could to discourage visitors. A thin, angry balding man in his thirties with a dull look, he’d inherited the Hawks from his mother, which made him angrier, because a dead parent’s wishes were revered. If your mother or father left you a rabid animal who bit off your left arm, you learned to eat with your right.

  “I’m pretty busy, Puppy.” Fisher gestured around the metallic office with its uncomfortable silver chairs. The window onto the stadium was corked off with aluminum shades so he didn’t have to be reminded that he was the owner of a baseball team.

  “Your time is precious to me, Mr. Fisher.”

  Fisher grunted dubiously and tried out a new pen on a notebook, grumbling when the ink didn’t flow.

  “Good start to the season, don’t you think?”

  Fisher peered at the tip of the pen.

  “Very spirited games. And that touch with the HGs running onto the field together really excited people.”

  “I don’t give a shit, Nedick.”

  Fisher flung the pen into the garbage and squinted suspiciously at Puppy, who always wanted something. Last season it was buy more potato chips. This season, change the HGs.

  “I know, sir. But I need your permission for the Hawks to sign two new players. You’re down a couple.”

  “Did someone die?”

  Puppy shook his head. “Remember last year we finished the season with just seven players each? The Falcons added two more.”

  “If that pile of pizza dough Boccicelli wants to waste his money, let him.”

  “You really want Boccicelli having an advantage?”

  Fisher darkened. He hated Boccicelli. “Same price?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Don’t try to squeeze in anything extra on me like toilet paper for the clubhouse. They don’t have to shit there. That’s why they have homes.”

  “I’ll let them know. Thanks, Mr. Fisher.”

  “Bring them in.”