A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  Puppy wished she’d stop kicking his knees.

  “We’re back. You could die this very moment. Keel over, Mr. Nedick.” Adona squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. “And your family would see you all dressed up. A nice suit, not that rag you have on. Good shoes. Big smile. Not some ashes. A new era of death.”

  Adona’s toe found his shin as she reached around for his application. “I think you could work, Mr. Nedick. Let’s go downstairs and see how you do around dead people.”

  • • • •

  WEEDS AND ROCKS streamed over the broken concrete on the playground off Clay Avenue and East 163rd Street. At one end, a bent basketball rim pulled the neglected backboard forward as if trying to leave. Puppy stepped through the mangled wire entrance.

  Ty stopped cold. “This is a park?”

  “Best we got.” Puppy led them in.

  “There’s gotta be a real field,” Mickey said, nearly falling over some blocks. “I don’t know why we couldn’t use the stadium.”

  “I told you. It’s illegal to practice on off-days.”

  “That don’t make any sense,” Mantle persisted.

  “Does it make sense to have holograms?”

  That quieted them down for a moment.

  Cobb doubtfully took in the length of the playground, about a hundred feet. “Who’s shagging flies? I can check a swing and send it out of here.”

  Puppy tossed them each a glove. “Let’s play catch first.”

  “What’s this made out of?” Cobb sniffed disdainfully at the pocket.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It ain’t leather. I only use the finest material.”

  “This is all I could find.” Four weathered, dried-up gloves.

  “Well, we ain’t using them in a game.”

  Mickey weaved unsteadily on a vodka cloud. He flipped the ball to Cobb. The two men played catch, slowly lengthening out the distance to about twenty feet, complaining about tight muscles as if greeting an unwelcome friend. Sitting near the entrance, Puppy marveled at the way they threw, even old, even fat. With Mickey, even tipsy.

  The fence rattled.

  “Afternoon, sir.” The Blue Shirt on the other side tipped his hat.

  “Afternoon, Officer.” Puppy quickly stood.

  “What do we have here?” The cop pointed the nightstick at Mickey, chasing down a missed throw.

  “New players for the Hawks. They’re just getting their arms in shape.”

  “Here?”

  “Nothing wrong with that, is there, sir?”

  The Blue Shirt thought a moment and couldn’t come up with any infraction over two old panting men dripping sweat, soft-tossing a baseball.

  “I thought they used HGs.” The Officer brightened at finally finding something odd.

  “They do. But there are still humans who bat.”

  “Then why are they throwing?”

  “Warming up muscles. So they can bat.”

  The Officer frowned. “Is that safe? What if a ball comes out of the playground and hits a pedestrian? Or damages a car?” His mind raced with a lengthy list of disasters.

  “We’ll be careful. We’re just throwing and taking some soft BP.”

  The Officer frowned again. He didn’t like unfamiliar acronyms. “BP?”

  “Batting practice. Underscore practice. Seriously, sir, look at them. Do you think they can drive the ball over the fence?”

  The cop watched Ty bend over, gasping. “Are you sure it’s safe for them?”

  “I’m supervising, Officer.”

  The cop nodded doubtfully. “I’m in the neighborhood if you suddenly need help.”

  Ty and Mickey stood with hands holding up hips, grimaces too pronounced to conceal.

  “How you guys doing?” Puppy asked.

  They grunted, offended at his audacity.

  He grinned. “Up for a little hitting?”

  Mickey examined the chipped bat, knowing it would fail him. Ty waited thirty feet away. The back end of the playground, nestled against an abandoned building, served as the outfield wall.

  Mantle motioned Puppy closer. “You’re the catcher. Then catch.” He tapped the scuffed bat on the invisible catcher’s box.

  “He’s afraid,” Ty called out, smiling maliciously.

  Puppy did a little grumbling of his own and moved up, anxiously watching Mickey’s practice swing arc near his head.

  “Give me a damn target,” Ty yelled.

  Puppy sank. Mickey swung and missed. So did Puppy. He corralled the ball at the other end of the playground. Another pitch. Another swing. Another jaunt down to the 163rd Street end.

  “I’m going to be three hundred years old by the time you hit one damn ball,” Cobb complained at Mick.

  “Because you’re throwing crap.”

  “How can I have a rhythm when I’m waiting an hour for the ball to be found?” Cobb walked over and flipped Puppy the ball. “Pitch.”

  He swallowed. “I’m good just catching.”

  Ty shoved Puppy aside and gingerly squatted. “Come on, fool, before my knees lock. I had arthritis.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Puppy saw the left side of the fence fill up silently, then the right. More were crossing the street.

  Puppy stopped about twenty-five feet away. Mickey waved him further back. Puppy put up his hands at forty feet. Or four hundred feet. Four thousand. Didn’t matter.

  Eighteen years.

  He squirmed, nervously touching his right shoulder to make sure it was there. He went into his tight, economical wind-up. The pitch died half-way, rolling past Mick. Cobb stepped aside. Once the ball stopped, Ty tossed it back with a dainty, underhanded gesture.

  “Don’t hurt your hand, Gertrude.”

  His next pitch flared on three bounces behind Mick, who didn’t flinch. The ball nestled along the fence.

  By now, all three fences were filled by hundreds of silent DV teens in white shirts, the better to show cleanliness, along with crisp blue jeans, black socks and black sneakers. Like a black-and-white shawl, the kids blotted out the surrounding streets. The toes of their sneakers were wedged into the fences, backs straight, eyes expressionless. Straight across. Up and down. A checkerboard of wariness.

  “Who’s that?” Ty asked.

  Puppy smiled faintly. “The neighborhood.”

  The playground was at the vortex of two high schools: HS 22, where trades were taught so skills like masonry and boot making could eventually be built into businesses to thrive outside the DV, and HS 44, where academically inclined kids, from prospective architects to food engineers, studied and prepared for Reg exams; Puppy’s alma mater.

  At four-thirty, after school and before part-time jobs, DV kids would patiently roam, searching for curiosities to augment their learning. Look at the bum, imagine how his life could’ve been different. Why would anyone have kitchen curtains that color? Is that shop window really going to get people to eat dumplings?

  Ty shook the fence. “This ain’t a public exhibition, punks.”

  Their perfect balance kept them erect. A freckled-faced Asian kid looked quizzically at Puppy as if he was responsible for this bad behavior.

  Puppy grabbed Ty’s wrist. “That’s considered rude. Not that you care.”

  “I don’t want someone watching me practice.”

  “People watched you practice your whole career. Let me handle this.” He half-shoved Ty back toward Mick and approached the teens. “Sorry. Old. Grump.”

  They ignored the shorthand.

  “Baseball.”

  Half the fences peeled off; they’d seen enough. Back flipping in The Arc, or landing straight up using The Pole, they steadily wandered away.

  Puppy focused on the frecklie kid, who had a look of leading himself. No one led others in Grandma’s House; it was all by informed consensus.

  “Baseball?” Frecklie frowned. It’d be rude to comment on Ty and Mick groaning slightly as they played catch. The last thing a DV ever did was show disdai
n for someone’s efforts, no matter how pathetic.

  Puppy used some shorthand for the catching, throwing and hitting gestures, all tightly contained in miniature moves. Frecklie had no idea what he was talking about. More kids left.

  Frecklie stuck out his palm questioningly.

  Puppy gave him the ball, which Frecklie flipped, losing control. He reddened, muttering. Puppy firmly placed the ball back into the teen’s palm.

  “Baseball.”

  The kid tugged down his right eyelid. Puppy acknowledged the sadness gesture of baseball’s demise and pointed at the kid’s chest. Frecklie scowled defensively and ran his eyes back and forth like a ‘bot reading. Puppy arched his eyebrow and indicated the playground with a questioning shrug.

  Frecklie angrily flashed ten fingers ten times to indicate a recent test score. Puppy jutted up his thumb at the academic prowess, wiggling his forefinger like a crawling snail in the air. And tomorrow?

  The boy hopped straight down and walked away to join his friends.

  “Fun,” Puppy called after him.

  “Fun always costs,” the teen said over his shoulder.

  “But a job pays.”

  Frecklie narrowed his dark eyes and raised an empty right palm. Some more kids also turned, raising up their palms. Puppy grinned.

  Some shit never changes.

  • • • •

  ZELDA YAWNED UNDER her desk. Diego hadn’t left until three in the morning and then she couldn’t fall asleep. He’d brought quasi-illicit coffee from Mexico; she was still flying on caffeine. Why didn’t the planet conquer the Universe when we had real caffeine for fuel, she wondered, her musings about the failures of the human race cut short by Mr. Pietro’s legs passing by. She unraveled and followed him down the hall.

  “Mr. Pietro, sir. Can I walk with you?”

  “Only as far as my office.” He reluctantly considered her. “How was your field trip?”

  “Very enlightening.”

  “I can imagine an afternoon at the ocean would be,” he said sourly, hoping to lose her by abruptly veering down a corridor.

  She kept pace. “I have great ideas for the new campaign. Don’t worry. No singing or talking salmon.”

  He walked a little faster.

  “Our New Home Will Come to Your New Home.”

  Pietro slowed down with puzzled deliberation. “What does that mean?”

  “The new home of salmon. The migration from Alaska to the Atlantic.”

  “Migration?”

  “Of the fish. You know how the war threw off the eco-systems?”

  “Did it?” he asked sarcastically.

  “One of the consequences was salmon relocating.”

  “Like the refugees from Los Angeles?”

  Something about his tone troubled Zelda. But if she worried about annoying people she worked with and knew and socialized, she’d be a mute.

  “Without the radioactive quality.”

  Pietro led them into a conference room, closing the door.

  “Why did you ask to go on the boat?”

  Zelda hesitated. “So I could do my job better, sir.”

  “Which is drawing, Ms. Jones. That’s your job. To help lead the charge so salmon salad can overtake tuna salad after centuries of second-class citizenship.”

  “What if the salmon don’t show up?”

  “Where?” He was flustered.

  “In their new home. My slogan is catchy, needs work, but it means nothing if the salmon doesn’t come this way. The boat didn’t catch anything. Since all the Scottish salmon stays with Muslim Europe, what happens if the Alaskan salmon got lost? A continent is huge and I mean, salmon is tasty, but how good a sense of direction could they have?”

  Zelda pressed his hand so he couldn’t open the door. Pietro’s look wasn’t friendly.

  “It’s important to understand all aspects of our jobs, Mr. Pietro. As you must know, one of Grandma’s favorite songs is Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall. We can’t ever be bricks in the wall, not questioning and challenging and growing.”

  Pietro wasn’t happy about her referencing Grandma. He was even less happy when Zelda began singing Another Brick in the Wall complete with brisk dance steps. A curious crowd gathered in the hallway. When Zelda finished, her new colleagues applauded lustily. Pietro’s glare sent them scurrying back to their desks, returning to Zelda.

  “I don’t have any answers to your questions, Ms. Jones. Except there is one answer to mine. According to your employment history, this is the fourth job you’ve had in three years. If you lose this, you would be officially labelled questionably employable. Do you understand it’s in your own best interest, whether it makes salmon happy or not, for you to keep this job?”

  Zelda remained alone for a few minutes. A gray-haired woman popped her head inside the conference room.

  “I love that song, Zelda.” She winked. “We have karaoke outings once a month. Maybe you could be on my team.”

  “Not if you want to win,” Zelda said glumly.

  • • • •

  LIGHT GLINTED BRIEFLY in the clouds. Sometimes Tomas thought he was the only one who could see the trace of her ‘copter. But he knew he wasn’t. That’s why three stealth ‘copters followed her. That’s why ten armed men, two with bazookas along with a SAM team, fanned out around the landing field, with five more snipers on rooftops flanking the entrance to Van Cortlandt Park.

  Except there were only four snipers today. Running across West 239th Street, Tomas reviewed the orders, his orders, changing every three hours, ten hours, occasionally not at all, predictability was an enemy. Five.

  He messaged Artito. Northeast rooftop now. Serve tea elsewhere. Tomas slowed, avoiding attention, then limped around the corner, the Gelinium throbbing.

  On way, Artito messaged back.

  Tomas kicked in the door of the apartment building, scattering glass and horrifying a family of residents. He hit the elevator button and bounded up the old staircase.

  Seven flights. His knee throbbed, his breaths came shorter; he pulled his gun. The door to the rooftop was open a few inches. Tomas crouched and burst in, firing off a few rounds.

  “It’s me, Major,” Artito yelled, hiding behind a chimney.

  Tomas stayed low. “Did I prefer blondes or brunettes in London?”

  “You screwed everyone, Tomas. There’s no one up here.”

  The Major rose carefully to hip height and waited for Artito to come around the corner. The Lieutenant held his gun up, irritated.

  “You going to examine my cock next? Sir.”

  Tomas scowled. “Where’s Dano?”

  Artito’s dark face creased.

  “He’s supposed to be here.” Tomas moved around the rooftop. “Did you check to see if he’s dead?”

  Artito’s eyes lowered briefly. “He’s off, sir.”

  “What do you mean he’s off?”

  “Orders had only four rooftops covered.” He hesitated. “Yesterday was five. Today’s Tuesday.”

  “I know what fucking day it is.” Tomas continued searching the rooftop, ashamed a small part of him hoped to find a piece of Dano lying butchered. “He’s not here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I screwed up.”

  “Happens, sir.”

  Not to me. It can’t ever happen to me. Yet it just did.

  Artito smiled reassuringly. “Your message was encrypted, sir. No one will know.”

  “Loyalty and all that.”

  “Only a few of us left, sir.”

  “And that excuses you not correcting me when a decision is made based on erroneous information?”

  “No, sir.” Artito stiffened. “That was wrong of me.”

  “Damn straight. There’s a broken lobby door downstairs.”

  “I’ll handle it, sir,” Artito saluted somberly.

  When Tomas returned to the original landing site, a small two-door car waited, exhaust fumes seemingly generated as much by the anger of the elderly man
behind the wheel as from the Chevy engine.

  Off a sigh, Tomas walked around to the driver’s side. Albert Cheng slowly rolled down the window.

  “Morning, First Cousin Cheng.” Tomas tipped his head forward slightly.

  “Good morning to you, too, Major Stilton.” Cheng’s wrinkled face twisted scornfully. “Where is she?”

  “We investigated a security breach and altered plans.”

  “Was there one?”

  Tomas hesitated. “The information was investigated and rejected.”

  “Meaning you forced me to reschedule my meeting for no good reason.”

  “Dismissing a security concern regarding Grandma is always a good reason,” he replied coldly.

  Cheng didn’t care for that answer. “Where is she landing?”

  “I can’t say,” Tomas answered, happy to respond like that. “I’d suggest you reschedule or wait. First Cousin.”

  Cheng scowled, looking like a doll left in the dryer. He abruptly drove forward, running over the tip of Tomas’ left boot.

  That’s the Gelinium leg, General Cheng. Not that you knew anything about that from behind your desk, Tomas nearly mockingly saluted.

  • • • •

  ZELDA SLID INTO the seat at the rear table of the brick-walled restaurant. Pablo had been waiting for half an hour. He stared sullenly into his tomato juice.

  She kissed him apologetically on the cheek. “Sorry, gorgeous.”

  Pablo pursed his lips peevishly.

  “If this had been in the ancient days, I could’ve just called you on my portable phone.”

  “Cellular.”

  “Or sent a message by the world wide web.”

  “No one longs for narcissism. Much better this way.”

  “Like having you in a stinky mood, throwing down tomato juices, pigging out on breadsticks, instead of saying, hello, darling.”

  He sucked on a tomato-drenched lemon wedge as if he needed to sour up more.

  “Do this with your upper lip and see how it feels.” Zelda lifted up her mouth in a hideous smile.

  He wasn’t amused. “You’re forty minutes late, Zelda.”

  “I was getting lashed by my new boss.” She made whipping noises, cringing in mock agony.

  “Already?”

  “I have been there almost a week. My inquisitive mind takes getting used to.” Zelda worked on the new breadbasket. “How’s the master of the dental world?”