A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “Pardon?”

  “I have to meet them.” Fisher glanced at the ceiling-to-floor oil painting of his heavy-set mother, whose scowl suggested terminal indigestion.

  Puppy reluctantly opened the door and beckoned to Mick and Ty, mouthing “behave” as they followed him back in.

  “David Fisher, owner of the Bronx Hawks, this is Ty Cobb and Mickey Mantle.”

  Cautious handshakes all around.

  “I hear you’re joining our little team,” Fisher said without making eye contact.

  Ty shrugged and peered distastefully at the oil painting. “Who’s the broad?”

  “My mother Anna, who owned the team,” Fisher said proudly. “Twenty-three years. She was a strong believer in strong character.”

  “That’s us,” Mick said. “You got any scotch?”

  “I don’t believe in drinking, Mr. Mantle.”

  “It’s for me, not you.”

  Puppy stepped in. “Again, they’re delighted to be Hawks.”

  “Let’s see when we get the contracts,” Ty said.

  “What contract?” Fisher snapped.

  “The moral contracts,” Puppy said quickly. “To play hard and play to win.”

  “That was my mother’s motto. She felt that since she won the team in a fair game of chance, the games the team play should also be honorable.” Fisher circled Mick and Ty in bland curiosity. “How old are you gentlemen?”

  “What year is this again?” Ty asked.

  “They’re experienced.” Puppy quickly opened the door to send everyone merrily on their way.

  “I know that, Nedick, but this is part of the welcoming ceremony which Mother did with every new player. Where’d you play?”

  “You don’t know where I played?” Cobb roared.

  Fisher flinched. He should’ve just given them their two bars of soap allotment and let it go but no, he had to show respect to that old witch’s memory. He checked her urn every morning to make sure the ashes hadn’t escaped.

  “I’m Ty Cobb, asshole. This is Mickey Mantle. Play? Where’d we play?”

  Puppy nervously pulled on Cobb.

  “Right here under your fat ass. You own a baseball team and you don’t know who we are? What the hell kind of candy ass shit organization is this?”

  Puppy dragged the two old men into the hallway before Fisher’s lower jaw hit the floor. He popped his head back in.

  “They’re honored to play for the Hawks, sir.”

  “Depends how much we get,” Cobb shouted.

  • • • •

  GRANDMA LAID THE silver tray on the gleaming wood-and-glass table, spooning out two sugars into Tomas’ purple cup. He knew better than to wave off her homemade chocolate chip cookies; somehow he’d have to find the strength to chew.

  “You look tired,” she said, settling into the high-backed chair in the small, comfy sitting room in her House. There was a master bedroom to the left and a guest room to the right; a study directly ahead where Tomas, alone, would come and go through a fake door behind the desk. Otherwise the large, two-story building tucked inside a maze of carefully guarded HG forest in Van Cortlandt Park was a long playground for visitors wandering around and giving Tomas endless indigestion as head of her security.

  Children, as if a Noah’s Ark of America, stared down from the great vid mural over the purple couch. They sang softly, swaying side to side, arms around each other’s waists.

  “There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done,

  Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung.”

  “I’m fine,” the Major said. Three neutral ships, Chinese, Brazilian and Sengalese, were needed to make it back more than three thousand miles to the narrow neutral zone, then a fat double payment for a small twenty-footer at the edge of their territorial waters of ten miles. Good thing the Allah Navy was a joke. He’d leave out the two dead Aussies who had rented him their boat; Grandma wouldn’t approve.

  “What about you?” He didn’t like her pale color. “Have you been bathing in the bio-regens?”

  She breezily waved her hands, free of jewelry, wearing only dangling earrings and a simple heart-shaped necklace. Her doll-like body tucked in a simple purple dress, Grandma always looked as if she were about to go out or retire for the evening. She lazily kicked off her shoes.

  “Is that an answer?” he persisted.

  “As good as you’ll get, Major.” Grandma studied him, her probes knocking about his mind. She frowned. “Did you have that snarly attitude across the sea?”

  “I kept off my knees,” he said sourly. “I didn’t want to tempt a beheading.”

  “Tomas,” she said sternly.

  “I behaved and said little. And they listened.”

  “And?”

  “You know what they’re like.”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t trust them.”

  “Nor do I.” She frowned.

  Twenty-eight years of devout service since Grandma found him semi-conscious in the hospital along with the remains of the 230th Battalion, the rest of the men and women floating off the beaches of Sicily. She’d stared into their eyes, held their hands, fed them, sang to them, reassured them, revitalized them. Promised them all this would not be in vain.

  He would kill his own mother to protect Grandma.

  “I trust us. Who we are. What we have to offer.” Grandma’s urgency softened into a smile. “You don’t even trust that much.” He shrugged and bit into another cookie. “You’re not exactly a walking advert for the Family sometimes.”

  “I trust you. The only one.”

  “Inside of half a cup of tea, you’ve blown up everything we stand for,” she said with mock disapproval. At least he hoped it was mock disapproval. “How did they leave it?”

  “The Imam will talk to His Most Worthy Successor.”

  “Good.” Grandma thoughtfully stirred her tea. “Two of the Collectors insist he’ll respond.”

  “If they’re still the Collectors and not feeding us disinformation.” When Grandma continued stirring, he persisted, “Which is a possibility.”

  “The Son hates his father,” Grandma said firmly. “We know of the fights.”

  “If this isn’t a trap. For them to suddenly reach out…”

  “Not so suddenly, Tomas,” she said vaguely, raising an eyebrow so he wouldn’t pursue.

  “For how long?” he asked anyway.

  Grandma rummaged about his mind. “Long enough.”

  “I only know about that Saudi prince and the Pakistani merchant…”

  “And a dozen more,” she scolded. “This one’s different. This time they can’t ignore their hunger.”

  He wasn’t sure if she meant the reported food riots in the Caliphates of France and Germany or another sort of stirring. “They’re still Allahs.”

  “And we’re still Americans.” Grandma sighed and squeezed his Gelinium leg. “I should’ve sued for peace in ’65 instead of letting more of you die uselessly for pride.”

  “You saved us, Grandma. The Allahs only understand one thing.” He made two thick fists which Grandma slowly uncurled, one finger at a time.

  “Not all of them. I have to believe that. Otherwise I lied to all of you when I said there would be another future.”

  A mop-headed little girl poked her head in.

  “What is it, honey?” Grandma asked.

  “I left my ball.”

  The child crawled under the couch and retrieved her basketball.

  “How’s your passing?” Grandma held up her hands. The girl glanced anxiously at Tomas, who nodded; she gently tossed the ball. Grandma caught it in one hand, twirling the ball on her left forefinger before whipping it back across the room. The child gasped as the ball knocked into her chest.

  “That’s how you pass. Again.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed and she fired the ball at Grandma’s head. Tomas tensed; eight-year-old girl kills Grandma with basketball was not a vidnews headline he wanted.


  Grandma smiled, pleased. “Were you afraid to throw it too hard because of who I am?” The girl nodded carefully. “Aren’t you taught that we are all equal and deserve the same treatment?”

  The girl hesitated. “Your Ninth Insight is revere the old.”

  Grandma cleared her throat and underhanded the ball back. The girl bowed from the shoulders and dribbled her way out the door.

  “Do I look that old?” Grandma spooned more sugar into her tea.

  “Not a day over ninety-two, Lenora.”

  She grunted dismissively and stared off for a moment. “You’re sure no one saw you?”

  He flushed; her stare hardened.

  “That’s not an insult, Tomas.”

  “Yes it is,” he said stiffly.

  “This cannot get out. We’re still not quite ready.”

  8

  Jalak Mustafa wiped her hands on a dishtowel and watched Azhar snore on the couch. She angrily switched off the football game. He woke up with a bleary smile.

  “Hello, my she-cat.”

  “It’s two o’clock.”

  “I must’ve dozed.”

  “For three hours it is sleep, not a nap.”

  Mustafa knew the best response was a sweet smile conceding her righteous anger.

  “What are your plans?”

  He wondered who won the football contest. She snapped the towel at his head.

  “Your friend the Imam has no more exciting adventures?”

  “I’m sure I’ll hear soon.”

  “I can’t wait for another prayer mat. I can cook the next one since we don’t have dinner tonight.”

  “What happened to the fish?”

  “Your sons ate it. They are growing boys. They expect their father to bring home food every night.”

  Omar paused at the front door in his black Holy Guardians Disciple robe. The gangly fifteen-year-old, six feet of adolescent sullenness, grudgingly said, “I’m going to the mosque.”

  “Study and learn and be one with Allah.” Jalak smiled.

  “Yes, of course,” Mustafa added cheerfully.

  Omar shook his head and left. Jalak smacked the towel into Azhar’s head again.

  “You forgot to pray with him this morning.”

  Mustafa sighed. “Shit.”

  “Yes. Shit. And you have such a pretty new prayer mat.”

  He also knew it was best to let her bang dishes and pots in the kitchen and swear his name several dozen times. As it was best to slip out the door before she found some horrible chore for him around their modest home, a couple kilometers from Sitges Beach outside Barcelona in the Caliphate of North Africa.

  A bouncing soccer ball rolled around the side of the house away from the kitchen; his ten-year-old son Abdul also knew it was best not to be in his mother’s vision when she had her moods.

  “Papa,” Abdul called out happily. He adored his father.

  Azhar placed his finger over his lips. Abdul, short and round like his mother with his father’s easy nature, dribbled the ball knee to knee like he was marching in the band. When they were safely down the sandy road, they exploded in a wild game, chasing each other through sad-looking grass.

  “Wait.” Azhar caught his breath.

  “Papa, are you going to die?” Abdul asked, frightened.

  “Only from your mother’s cooking.” He straightened up as the gas mercifully departed. “But not to worry. She said there is no food tonight.”

  “We’re having chicken.”

  “Are we now?” One day I will smack your behind with a towel, Jalak, he smiled at the prospect. “It’s not stolen?”

  Abdul thought a moment. “That would be wrong. Mama’s hand would be chopped off.”

  “And we don’t want that.”

  “No,” Abdul agreed. “Omar thinks a thief should lose two hands. One is not sufficient punishment.”

  “What if the thief seeks Allah’s mercy and decides he will never steal again?”

  Abdul frowned. “Then he would have no hands to change his mind.”

  Azhar rubbed his son’s neck. “We must always be able to change.” He grinned. “Except beating your father in football.”

  Mustafa dribbled down the side of the road, Abdul futilely trying to steal the ball. A black jeep filled with three black-robed Guardians with machine guns cut them off with screeching tires.

  “Assalamu alyakkum wa rahmathullaahi wa barakato,” Azhar said softly.

  “Wa alaykum assalam,” said the stern passenger in the front seat, slipping menacingly out of the jeep.

  Mustafa put his arm around Abdul’s trembling shoulder.

  The Guardian’s face curled harshly. “Football in the afternoon.”

  “The boy has finished his studies.”

  “One never finishes their studying while there are infidels. While you frolic, devils walk among us.” He poked Abdul in the shoulder with his gun. Mustafa’s fists clenched. Safeties went off.

  “My brother is praying now against our enemies,” Abdul said, chin lifted.

  “Your brother?”

  “My son Omar Mustafa. He is a scholar honored by the Imam.” Azhar said this carefully to avoid any sense of challenge.

  The Guardian sneered. “Imam Abboud?”

  “He is a friend of my Papa.”

  Mustafa tried quieting the boy.

  “He gave him a prayer mat. Did he ever give you one?”

  Mustafa’s eyes closed and he held Abdul’s hand, waiting for death. Five seconds went by and they were still alive.

  “And for what would the Imam give a prayer mat to one who plays football in the afternoon?”

  “It’s a secret,” Abdul said.

  “My son talks.”

  “Yes, he does. But I ask the father.”

  Mustafa swallowed. “It is a secret.”

  “Is the prayer mat a secret, too?”

  Jalak nearly dropped the chicken when Mustafa and Abdul walked into her kitchen trailed by the three scowling Guardians.

  “Is Omar okay?” Her eyes glistened.

  “Yes, yes, my darling. I wanted to show our friends the Imam’s prayer rug.”

  He led the black-robed men into a square room with white curtains. Abdul pointed to the khaki and brown prayer rug featuring the Masjid an-Nabawi’s Prophet’s mosque in Madina.

  “See?” Abdul said a little too robustly. Mustafa shook him.

  “I do.” The Guardian knelt and touched the soft velvet. “I have seen this gift to others. Only a few.” He rose, eyes narrowing. “And you use it?”

  “Every day, True Believer,” Mustafa said with deep piety.

  “I hope so.”

  The Guardians looked around, poking at furniture with their guns, disappointed at not finding some reason to burn down the house as a Gateway to Hell. They nodded brusquely and left.

  Jalak came into the room, eyes wide with terror, rubbing her hands over and over into the checked dish towel.

  “What was that about?” she asked hoarsely.

  “They thought we were infidels,” Abdul said.

  Jalak dropped her towel.

  • • • •

  TY STEPPED GINGERLY over the broken stool as if it came from one of the radioactive areas of Los Angeles. At the other end of the clubhouse, Mickey banged open lockers, clanging louder and louder until the last one came off the hinges. He kicked it across the room, the saucer-like metal jarring the pudgy catcher Vernon Jackson awake, who hurried to join the rest of his teammates cowering in the corner.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mantle picked up one of the three bats lying outside the smelly bathroom, deciding which wall to smash.

  The two old men exchanged wordless contempt.

  “This shithole makes your apartment look nice,” Ty grumbled.

  “The good thing is you don’t have to sleep here.” Puppy forced a smile. “If I can show you the uniforms….”

  “I’m not wearing that crap.” Ty pointed at the team in their forlorn white t-shirts and b
lue pants.

  “That’s kind of the official uniform.” Puppy opened a locker. A mouse scurried out. “He’s not on the team.”

  No one dared to laugh.

  As the team shuffled onto the field with the enthusiasm of gargling with poison, the A29 stood up in the front row, calling out, “Over here.”

  Mickey turned pale. “I ain’t talking to a monster.”

  “Don’t call them monsters. That’s against the law. It’s a robot.”

  “It ain’t human.”

  “They’re very nice. It just wants to discuss your programs.”

  Ty squinted shrewdly. “What’s that?”

  “It’ll create an HG program which reflects your skills.”

  “So the midgets can run and catch the ball like us?” Mickey asked.

  “Simply, yes.”

  They exchanged more silent contempt.

  “Look, it’s a job.”

  “How much we getting paid?” Ty finally asked.

  “I made a hundred grand my last years,” Mickey said, staring uneasily at the A29. “I’m not playing for less.”

  “I got twenty-five grand, which was best back in 1921 until that fat half-coon Ruth got eighty grand or something,” Cobb growled. “Since this is, what year again?”

  “2098,” Puppy said wearily.

  “We oughta get about fifty million each.”

  “Sounds right,” Mick agreed.

  Puppy took deep breaths. “Probably not to start. You’ll get paid into your Lifecards every week.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The card in your pocket that I gave up one of my prize possessions to get,” he snapped back. “You can use it for everything.”

  “Like American Express?” Mick asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “My money goes into my bank where I can see it,” Ty said stubbornly.

  “As I told you, the banks are all gone.”

  “You telling me there’s no Yids walking around paying interest?”

  Puppy was momentarily speechless. How could they have not heard of the First Anti-Parasite Laws which got rid of banks and the entertainment industry? “The vermin banks stole people’s money. Grandma stopped letting them get away with it. Now everything goes directly into this.” He held up his Lifecard. “One stop shopping.”

  Ty snorted. “Where do you earn interest?”

  “Interest isn’t earned through work so why would you get it?’