A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “What if you need a loan?”

  “For what?”

  “A car. A house.”

  “You buy it.”

  “And if you ain’t got the money?” Mick joined in.

  “Then you don’t get it. You only buy what you can afford.” Puppy shook his head. They must’ve been in the home for a long time. “Any other financial questions I can answer?”

  They rolled their eyes and tentatively followed him to the robot, who eagerly shook their hands. Ty and Mick carefully checked their fingers.

  “You’re the new guys, right?”

  They nodded cautiously.

  “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”

  “Better not,” Mick warned.

  The A29 stepped around, assessing them and making notes onto its machine. “I’m figuring speed isn’t your forte.”

  “I had eight hundred and ninety-two stolen bases, asshole.” Cobb scowled.

  “Doesn’t look like you can move like that anymore.” The A29 tapped Cobb’s butt, turning to Mickey. “You another speed demon?”

  “I was until I hurt my knee.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” The A29 smirked.

  Puppy gestured for it to speed things up before Mick and Ty turned him into a talking garbage can.

  “But I bet you’re a powerful one.” The robot squeezed Mick’s biceps.

  “Five hundred and thirty-six homers,” he said proudly.

  “Almost as many as Mooshie Lopez,” the robot added. “And you, charm boy?”

  Cobb shrugged modestly. “I went for hits where you had to run and not trot.”

  Mickey playfully shoved him.

  “Positions?”

  “Center field,” Mick said.

  “Right field,” Cobb said.

  It took a couple minutes for Puppy to persuade the old guys to allow a DNA scan of their fingers. The A29 finished with a mechanical flourish. “All set, boys.”

  “Can we see?” Mickey looked over its shoulder. The robot hesitated, but Puppy nodded.

  A Mickey HG suddenly appeared at home plate, younger and sleeker by more than thirty years.

  “Holy shit,” Mickey muttered, astonished.

  “Now here you go running around the bases at the crack of the bat.”

  The HG raced down the first base line and tore into second with a head-first slide.

  “Holy shit,” Mantle muttered again.

  Puppy leaned forward, staring at the HG dusting himself off at second with a sheepish grin.

  “Now you, charm boy.”

  The Cobb HG, also younger and sleeker, made a diving catch in right-center field. Ty whooped a little before catching himself.

  “I was better than that.”

  “I can ratchet it up.”

  Puppy scrutinized the Cobb HG throwing the ball into the infield.

  “Do me catching the ball,” Mick said. “By the center field monuments.”

  “Monuments?” the A29 frowned, glancing at Puppy.

  Puppy wandered up the first base line, passing the Cobb HG trotting back toward the dugout with a sour, arrogant expression. The Mickey HG made a running one-handed catch and he, too, returned to the infield, grinning boyishly. He waved at Puppy, who waved back dully.

  Fuck me sideways, Puppy thought suddenly. Can’t be.

  • • • •

  THE DOE-EYED SALESPERSON in the men’s department at Chase’s tilted his head quizzically as Pablo hefted the gray socks for a third time in each hand.

  “Need help, sir?”

  “No, as I said twice before,” he grumbled.

  The salesperson worked on commission and held his ground. “Brown goes with your eyes.”

  “You think someone will look from my ankles to my eyes?”

  “The first thing someone looks at is your hat and your shoes. If they’re looking at your feet, socks are just around the corner.”

  The salesperson waited for Pablo to acknowledge his brilliance with some faint trace of civility. But Pablo always wore gray socks and if he changed now, was that the wrong change? And was he supposed to change or proceed as always? Wasn’t staying the course arrogant? If he changed, would that seem opportunistic?

  Pablo bought both pairs, mumbling a grudging apology to the salesperson, and continued onto busy Fordham Road, compacted stores jostling for customers with blaring promises of astonishing savings so that you could stumble through one shop and out another and, inside of fifteen minutes, change your wardrobe, buy living room furniture and book a vacation on the Connecticut beaches.

  Two pairs of socks were enough for today. Pablo paused for a taco on the corner, pointing out to the owner of the stand that he was being particularly chintzy with the hot sauce. He wandered away, munching with no appetite, looking for a routine gone awry.

  An odd feeling since routines were his life. Linear, straightforward. Two hours of study every night, no matter what time he got home. Work six days a week. Date twice a month, whether he wanted to or not. Seven patients a day, whether in person or just reviewing their files. Aqua marble in right hand pocket, which he had found when he was thirteen, the day he first met Zelda and Puppy.

  And gray socks every morning since he graduated dental school fourteen years ago. Now one day a week, they’d be brown. Pablo shuddered slightly, stopping by a shop window to make sure he didn’t have hot sauce on his face.

  He should just relax. He’d gotten this far by doing what he did. Never around but through. They’d noticed him. Where? How did it work? Did they cull through lists of dentists to find one or three or ten a year? A quota. Not for dentists but for former DVs, he was certain. If there weren’t enough of them then the whole system didn’t work, it’d be elitist and Grandma’s dream of an America without Disappointment Villages would die. Back to slums, ghettos, barrios, hopelessness. They had to prove the whole damn concept worked, acknowledge the failure and fix it through yourself, not fix the failure by blaming someone else.

  Pablo never blamed anyone else. After suffering bankruptcy, his father had re-opened his bakery in the DV and, exhausted from twenty-hour days, fell asleep smoking, burning down the whole building on Gerard Street. Pablo blamed himself for not working late that night with him. His now widowed mother washed clothes and developed skin cancer from the chemicals. Pablo blamed himself for not supporting her sooner. The whole world just waited for Pablo to take responsibility for something. Allahs, the destruction of Washington, D.C., tacos with insufficient hot sauce.

  He sat on a bench overlooking Eastchester Bay. An HG sailboat passed with the waving passengers. Pablo refused to wave back.

  He should go to the mixer in his apartment building tonight. Maybe he’d meet someone. Or would they say he was trying too hard to find a partner to beef up his chances at Fifth Cousin.

  Who’d put up with him anyway?

  An elderly man shuffled past, his white hat stained, shoes worn, bare ankles crusted with eczema. Pablo smiled, giving the grateful man the brown socks and returning to the office three minutes early.

  • • • •

  “YOU’RE BURNT,” PUPPY pointed to Zelda’s forehead.

  “I worked outside today.”

  “I thought you were a slave to the business world of windowless offices.”

  “Salmon is a different world.”

  The waitress slid through the crowded dance floor at Monroe’s, jiggling to Van Halen’s Jump, and laid the large platter of fries on the table.

  “We need an extra plate,” Zelda complained.

  “She doesn’t want my food touching hers,” Puppy explained.

  “That’s not it.”

  The waitress only cared about the consequences to her tip and pushed back toward the bar.

  “Why do you tell people that?” Zelda sipped her beer.

  “It annoys you. Back to your hard day at work.”

  “I had a research field trip. And you, First Cousin Puppy? Tell me what you did to advance America today.”

&nb
sp; He brought her up on the meeting with Fisher and his new players; Zelda salivated as he ever so slowly ate fries. Finally the waitress delivered her from torture and set down two plates. Zelda scooped up the potatoes and drowned them in ketchup.

  “Those old boys really are nuts,” she said.

  Puppy shrugged dismissively. “I just wonder if they’re crazy.”

  Zelda sighed. “I knew you shouldn’t have let the second one stay with you.”

  “His name’s Ty Cobb.”

  “Sorry. When he told me how intelligent I seemed for a Negro, I shut down.”

  Puppy took a long swallow of the Gilligan’s Ale, laid his backpack on the table and slid the Baseball Hall of Fame book onto his lap, nervously looking around.

  “I don’t think you have to worry, Pup. Been a long time since someone with a Yankee cap was arrested.”

  Puppy still had her walk around and read over his shoulder. “This is what the real Mickey Mantle looked like.”

  Zelda squinted in the half-light at the black and white photos. “Okay.”

  “That’s what the HG today looked like. And here.” He turned the thick book to a marked page. “This is what Ty Cobb looked like as a player and this is exactly, I mean, exactly what the HG captured.”

  “But that’s the point of HGs, to make the players look young.”

  “Creating an exact double of the person they say they are? Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

  “Maybe they’re related. Great-great-great-great grandchildren.”

  “I think that’s too many greats.”

  Zelda returned to her fries, chewing. “That would account for their athletic abilities. In the genes. And the resemblance. In the genes.”

  “And them knowing their statistics, home runs, stolen bases?”

  “They could look it up.”

  “Access to baseball stats is restricted to historians.” Puppy pressed forward. “Ty rattled off his numbers for every year of his career. Every year, Zelda. Twenty-four seasons.”

  “He’s sharp for a bigot.”

  “Mickey doesn’t remember much.”

  “Then he’s stupid.”

  “You’re missing the point.” Puppy ordered another round.

  “I can’t imagine another point.” She gave him a curious stare. “Unless you think they’re really Mickey Mantle and Ty Cobb.”

  “Of course not.” He shrugged weakly, only strengthening her smile.

  “Grandma’s bra straps, you do. Are they ghosts? Oooooh.” She swayed in her chair and shoveled down more fries.

  “Maybe you should slow down on the potatoes.”

  Zelda’s nostrils flared. “You’re mocking my weight because I don’t agree?”

  “No, I think you’re getting fat even if you weren’t being obnoxious.”

  The waitress put down their drinks. Zelda ordered onion rings.

  “Mickey got into your apartment somehow…”

  “How?” he demanded.

  “He picked the lock. You remember what guys that age in the DV can do. Then he let his buddy Ty in. I’m not saying they’re bad guys. Since this is the last season, it somehow makes sense they would show up…”

  “Exactly.” Puppy smacked the table, making the fries jump. “The last baseball season. And here they are.”

  Her eyelids fluttered mockingly. “Puppy.”

  “You have a better explanation?”

  “No. You’re probably right. The theory makes perfect sense the more I ponder.”

  He frowned suspiciously. “It does?”

  “Yeah. They’ve returned to help you. Guardian angels from the great baseball stadium in the sky. Watching over you…”

  “Screw you, Zelda…”

  “They might be here now. Oh look.” Zelda picked up a fry between her thumb and forefinger, making the potato dance. “It’s the baseball ghosts…”

  Puppy angrily dumped all her fries onto his plate; Zelda shook her head pityingly.

  “Do you see how stupid you sound?” She waved down the waitress for another order.

  “Not really.”

  “Until you do, get Ty a Lifecard. You don’t need any trouble.”

  “Already done. I saw The Pumpkin.”

  “Why’d you go to that pig?”

  “I couldn’t ask Pablo again.”

  “Why not?”

  He hesitated. Zelda twisted his forefinger until he cried out.

  “You can’t say you know. Because I’m not supposed to know.”

  “He met someone?”

  “Sooooo far off.” Zelda went for his pinky. “He’s under consideration to be a Fifth Cousin.”

  “Hell no.”

  “They just gave him a heads up, nothing official. But if they ever found out he told someone…”

  “I won’t say anything.” She stared moodily into her drink. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “I knew you’d go there. He only said something because I asked for the med info for Mickey’s Lifecard.”

  “Okay.” Zelda only half-believed him. They drank in silence for a while. “Pablo a Cousin.”

  “I know, right? He’ll never smile again.”

  They clinked glasses; Diego paused by their table, holding the hand of a sweet-faced girl.

  “Hi.” Zelda’s face fell.

  “Hi,” Diego answered. “You come here?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Me too.” Puppy couldn’t resist adding to the awkwardness.

  “This is Puppy,” Zelda said.

  “This is Caily.”

  “Hi,” Caily smiled at everyone.

  Zelda wondered what to say that wouldn’t sound totally stupid. Limited options. “You live around here?”

  “162nd Street. You?”

  “North.”

  “Near our offices,” Diego said. Zelda blushed and didn’t know why. “Well. Enjoy the night. See you tomorrow.”

  “Bye.” Caily followed Diego to the bar, holding both his hands so they swayed behind his back.

  Puppy grinned. Zelda flushed.

  “He’s a sailor. It’s work.”

  Puppy hummed Anchors Aweigh. Zelda twisted his pinky until he yelled.

  9

  As always, John Hazel stepped out of the car by twisting to the left and placing his right leg firmly on the ground. The Gelinium microprocessor never buckled, though he half-expected it to finally give out. Or maybe hoped it would, so he could apply for a special synthetic, realistic-looking leg and have some fun. You had to show decay, chronic pain, emotional turmoil at walking around with metal for toes; the checklist was bewildering. His buddy Chuck from the 238th Division had applied and they just flat-out discouraged him with all manner of questions except how’d you lose your leg below the knee?

  Chuck, being the Sgt. Chuck Daniels who swam back and forth to the smoking transport ships to rescue the rest of the company off Calais in ‘69, had finally, as he’d told the story, overturned the desk, knocking the fucking A18 or whatever number it was clear into a wall, where he threatened to make it an artificial limbs donor.

  They denied Chuck his request. They were going to deny him anyway since he was a vet. Like A1s with faces, they didn’t want ex-soldiers blending in. They just used the drunk and disorderly charge as an excuse.

  Hazel sidestepped a rusted-out lawn mower holding court with assorted other machines past their prime, and walked into the worn-looking country store.

  A bell tinkled, which the red-bearded older man with eyes like the muzzle of a .38 ignored, continuing to ponder the crossword puzzle behind the counter.

  “Morning.” Hazel nodded affably.

  The man ignored this, too. Hazel glanced at the shelves of canned food, feeling eyes darting from his back to his Ford sedan, alone in the parking area. Hazel laid three cans of Fenster’s YumGood Baked Beans on the counter.

  “Good thing I’m driving alone.”

  The man scribbled out a new word.

  “I’ll take som
e bread.”

  The man jerked his head, inviting Hazel to come around and help himself. John deliberated a moment on the row of crisp, fresh breads.

  “What do you suggest?”

  The man grunted.

  “Yup, all look good.”

  He laid a loaf of black bread alongside the cans. “How’s the licorice?”

  The man again silently suggested Hazel should decide. John measured out a mixture of red and black, weighed them and laid the bag on the counter.

  “Think that’ll do it.”

  The man put aside the crossword puzzle and started tallying the goods.

  “I also need a map.”

  Cold eyes indicated a rack behind him. Hazel found the state of Massachusetts and tossed it down.

  “Heading to Overton.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

  “Am I going in the right direction?”

  “That’s what a map’s for.” The man’s voice was surprisingly gentle. He held out his hand for Hazel’s Lifecard.

  “Be surprised how the quality of maps differs.” Hazel slid over the Lifecard. “I do a lot of traveling.”

  The man finished ringing up and showed John the sum, glowing in the center of the Lifecard, to make sure he was comfortable with the charges. So old school, Hazel nearly smiled. He nodded and took his package, then suddenly tossed an orange wig from his pocket onto the counter. The man’s eyes narrowed again, ever ever so slightly.

  “Appreciate the conversation,” John said, glancing at the blue baseball cap with the criss-crossed “NY‘’ hanging in the corner. “Let’s go Yankees.”

  The tires of the Ford sedan crushed pebbles, kicking them sideways as it eased out of the tiny lot. The engine faded away.

  Derek Singh, former Yankee great, original member of the famed Three Amigos, stared at the orange wig for a few long minutes, resting his Gelinium microprocessor left leg on a stool. He limped slightly into the back office, effortlessly shoving aside the heavy desk with his broad back. Singh pulled up a long rectangular piece of wood and looked down at the Vendt sub-machine gun, an orange wig wrapped around the barrel. He picked up the baseball, wedged patiently in the corner.

  Why now? Derek chewed on a stick, his trademark during the seventeen-year career that ended on 10/12 beneath the rocket fusillade at Amazon Stadium that ended so much. Singh looked at the orange Miners wig again, the strands knotted all around in a circle. Easy to duplicate. He sniffed. Grandma’s clit. Can’t easily duplicate the smell of death.