“Later.” He smiled gently.
“Mas,” she repeated as if he were the one cowering in the attic.
“Later, child.”
Clary snarled. Azhar fumbled in his pockets until he found a couple sticks of gum, which she chomped into nothing.
He returned to the main dining room in the El Ciudad Orphanage just outside Barcelona. Two bearded, black-robed Guardians looked up from the card game with angry disappointment.
“Where’s the girl?” growled the pock-marked Ali.
“Sick.”
“So? Hamza likes them sick.” Ali grinned lecherously at a portly man with bad teeth, who acknowledged his taste with a crooked, hungry grin.
Azhar wanted to rip the hair from their faces, one strand at a time. He managed a comradely laugh.
“Not like this one.”
Ali shrugged. “Get the new German. Her mouth is perfect.”
That set off another avalanche of vile laughter. Azhar slammed down the coffee cup, turning their laughter into menacing silence.
“Is that a yes, my Guardian, I will do what Allah wants?”
Allah does not want this, Azhar’s eyes fluttered closed. He cannot want this.
“Captain Mustafa?”
But the girl is an infidel. She will be gone soon like the others and all you will remember is she kicked you in the forehead and would’ve cut out your heart if you hadn’t fed her. Still would. She hates you. All the children hate you. As you should hate them since they are your enemies and would gladly kill you and your sons and your wife.
Azhar found enough strength to meet Ali’s suspicious stare.
“My volunteer shift is over, Guardian. I must return to my boat to make money for my family and our people, praise Allah.”
Ali frowned in half-drunken thought, then abruptly abruptly clasped Azhar’s shoulder as if they were old friends. “Go then. Hamza will fetch the German.”
Hamza rose with an eager grin. Mustafa turned away in shame.
13
Anyone could wander into the spacious Cousins Living Room. It was encouraged to the point of being mandated. At least three times during their school careers, children went on field trips to a Living Room, prodded if necessary to ask questions and voice opinions. Coming home and telling your parents you forgot to introduce yourself to a Cousin was the only “unofficial” excuse a parent ever had for smacking their child’s bottom.
The Lobby was open every day from 6AM-1AM; blankets were left in a large container outside for anyone showing up too early or too late, though Blue Shirts often patrolled the area, providing refreshments and pillows or just a friendly nice-to-finally-meet-someone from-fill in the city chat. Inside, a liberal amount of free food and drinks were stacked against a wall, purple lounge chairs scattered neglectfully in the laconically casual manner of a hastily arranged, endless town hall meeting.
Some couples had their wedding receptions there, strident arguments about trusting Canada blending into a wedding dance; many an innocent sibling has caught the bouquet. There could be a funeral service tucked behind a demonstration of the latest SC broccoli casserole stil steaming from Schenectady, an impromptu speech about the need for legislation to govern sidewalk repair or even the occasional fist fight, almost always an attack on a Cousin, at which point visitors would step aside to give them room.
When the Living Rooms first opened in 2066, siblings started taking Cousins directly into their homes to discuss the conduct of the war, the propriety of different haircuts (multi-colored dreads and bleached crew-cuts were hot then), recliner chairs versus love seats, pretty much everything and anything. Helpless about denying someone time, Cousins found themselves eating eight, nine, ten meals a day, wandering around in mismatched clothing gifts, a scarf over a t-shirt, three pairs of socks, sleeping very little.
Grandma put a stop to that during a Sleep Well My Darlings talk. Using dolls (actors were forbidden for anything that might confuse reality with fiction), Grandma patiently explained that everyone had a role in The Family, but your job couldn’t prevent someone from doing theirs. In what became the famous “If Grandpa snores, how can I think?” vidcast, Grandma demonstrated that even though Grandpa was noisy, that was no excuse for Jeddidiah not to study. She had to learn. Grandpa needed his rest. If Jeddidiah woke Grandpa, then he wouldn’t be able to think because he was too tired. Yes, an extra bedroom for Grandpa would be wonderful, but the only way to get a larger apartment would be through better jobs and better jobs only came through hard work and if you were too tired to work…
That saved Cousins from obesity and finding forty hours in a day to do their jobs, but nothing about the crowds; Puppy waited nearly twenty minutes to get past the siblings who’d surrounded a lanky Third Cousin admitting there was consideration to adding another rain shower in the middle of the night pending research on the effects of disrupting children’s sleep. The issue of better railways came from a couple who said they’d spent two days traveling from Ohio for a glimpse of Grandma and well, the facilities weren’t up to their barn. Third Cousin Bunyasarna found that unacceptable without blaming anyone for the inconvenience, except referencing the Allahs, as if they still lurked by train tracks, planting C-4 explosives.
Finally Puppy squeezed up the steps to the Third Cousins rooms, dropping in on a few more conversations between Cousins and siblings on the lack of good painting supplies in Wisconsin, a suspected illegal rodeo in Wichita and an elderly woman who insisted she had proof that Allahs were really Martians; a Cousin patiently read her fifty-three page report with considerable gravity.
Puppy shyly entered the ten-by-twelve foot office dominated by a basketball backboard. A miniaturized football field ran wall to wall lengthwise; footballs and helmets sprouted like cacti on the modest purple rug.
Sport Commissioner Elias Kenuda, well over six foot, broad with a massive head, fired a jump shot into the basket. Hazel sat on the sole chair, legs crossed at the ankles, shaking his head.
“Never touched net,” Kenuda insisted, his long dark hand swallowing up the ball.
“I heard some.”
“You heard voices. Not net.” Kenuda frowned at Puppy. “Did you hear the ball graze the net?”
“I can’t say, Third Cousin.”
Kenuda sighed and concentrated on dribbling behind his back. Hazel watched Puppy with a curious smile.
“I think he’s your next appointment.” Hazel winked at Puppy, as if a Cousin would dare schedule a real appointment with a sibling.
Elias loosened his tie with his left hand and hooked a clean shot with his right. “Grandma’s earrings, that was silent. I don’t want to hear disagreement from either of you.”
Puppy joined Hazel in an enthusiastic nod.
“Good.” Kenuda sat on the edge of the desk, smothered with sports equipment. He fiddled with a football. “What can I do for you?”
Puppy shifted nervously.
“Relax. He’s not nearly as imposing as he wants you to think,” Hazel said.
Kenuda glared in mock severity. “Actually, I’m worse.”
“I’m Puppy Nedick, the baseball historian.”
Kenuda frowned very deeply.
“He works for you, Elias,” Hazel helped out.
“Many people do. I try to know everyone. When have we met?”
“Never, sir.”
Kenuda took this as Puppy’s fault. “Why?”
He shrugged, looking at Hazel for help.
“Because he’s the baseball historian.” Hazel laughed. “Why would you need to meet him?”
Kenuda nodded gratefully. “But now you’re here, Mr. Nedick.”
Hazel gestured for Puppy to talk or be gone.
“I’d like authorization to use real people in this baseball season.”
Elias frowned and looked at Hazel. “What does he mean, John?”
“I think, and correct me if I’m wrong, Puppy, but you want to have more people as players.”
Puppy hesitated t
o correct his new ally. “Close, Mr. Hazel.”
John beamed at being recognized without an introduction.
“I want to use all human baseball players. No HGs. The players hit, run and catch.”
Kenuda burst out laughing; Hazel eyed Puppy carefully.
“Like real athletes?” the Commissioner asked.
“They are.”
Kenuda’s smile faded. “You’re comparing a baseball player to a football player? Basketball player? Boxer…”
“What he’s saying…” Hazel jumped in.
“Let him say what he’s saying. If he can.”
Puppy glanced at the football helmets stacked on a shelf like beheaded ‘bots. “They’re not even close to those athletes. They can just do what they can do. Which probably isn’t much. But it’s the final season. I thought it’d be fitting.”
“It’d be fitting to have them mowed down at the last game.” Kenuda scowled, reining himself in off a look from Hazel. “What would this consist of?”
“Not much difference. I mean, financially. There are enough players. We’d need more gloves. More bats. A few extra balls.”
“It’s already adding up.”
“I’m sure there’s some equipment lying around somewhere,” Hazel said. “So much was seized for evidence. It’s gotta be in a warehouse somewhere.”
Kenuda twirled the football and peered at Puppy. “Why the request?”
Puppy looked at the mute, mocking helmets again. “It’s not a real memory shrine unless it provokes real memories. HGs don’t do that.”
Kenuda glanced at Hazel, who shrugged agreement on Puppy’s point.
“I think there’s more.”
He met the Commissioner’s accusing eyes. “I love baseball. I played, but hurt my shoulder so I couldn’t continue. I guess it’s all wrapped up, somehow.”
“Things usually are, somehow, whether they should be or not,” Kenuda conceded. “Even in this instance. But you don’t have any legal right to ask this. The owners should be coming forward.” He looked at Hazel.
“Fisher and Boccicelli,” John said distastefully.
“Yes.” Kenuda rolled his eyes. “I understand why you came instead of those worms.” He frowned. “I’ll let you know.”
Puppy inhaled. “When, Third Cousin? The season’s already underway.” He felt Hazel’s approving grin.
Elias slowly smiled. “Soon, Mr. Nedick.” He flicked another shot cleanly through the net.
• • • •
TY LAID HOTELS on his yellow properties with an imperial flair, sneering around the table. “You’re getting squeezed, senorita.”
“You wish I’ll squeeze you, Gramps.” Mooshie rattled the dice and ignored Zelda’s pointed stare, as she had for the past hour since Zelda had first come in, gasped slightly and sat on the couch, eating through a bag of Popping Popcorn.
Blushing, Ty angrily turned to Zelda. “I’m sorry, but I would not.”
“What?” Zelda kept staring at Mooshie.
“Mix the races.”
Puppy warned Zelda to stay put, and tapped Mooshie’s arm. “It’s your turn, Ms. Lopez. I don’t mean to rush you.”
“You rushed us,” Mick complained.
“Because we ain’t famous,” Ty snarled.
“You are. Just not as famous as me.”
Mooshie rolled a six, slowing her silver plane down as if about to crash into a bridge. Ty’s smile went around to the back of his head.
“Now look at this.” Ty chortled. “Look where the great Moosie…”
“Mooshie,” Puppy icily corrected him.
“Mooshie has landed. On Park Place. On a hotel. Owned by whom?”
“It’s yours, Ty,” Mantle said helpfully, who had only an empty six-pack and twenty bucks.
“Mine. Mine. Mine.” He waved a fistful of dollars. “Pay up, senorita.”
Lopez grudgingly counted out the multi-colored dollars; Ty licked the tip of his fingers greedily.
Mooshie finally returned Zelda’s stare. “It’s me, honey.”
Zelda tilted her head, mutely studying Mooshie for the fiftieth time. Lopez angrily gestured Zelda and Puppy into the bedroom, slamming the door.
She grabbed her groin. “She going to do this all night because otherwise I’m leaving.”
“Zelda’s a little…”
“Zelda has a voice,” Jones said evenly. “Zelda’s just a little curious, because Zelda is not quite the hopelessly romantic gullible…”she couldn’t think of another adjective…”person like Puppy.”
Mooshie sprawled onto the bed, leaning on her right side. “What do you need to know?”
“Who you are.”
“Here I thought you were a big fan.”
“Do your Mooshie for her, Zel,” Puppy encouraged.
Lopez grinned. “Go ahead, chickie. Do me.”
Zelda gave Puppy a dirty look. “And then I return to my questions.”
“Sure, sure.” Mooshie showed more gum.
Zelda hesitated, then squirmed her shoulders side to side. She leaned forward, right hand on right knee, foot pawing the pitching rubber. A sneer curled her face like a fist; Mooshie chuckled. Then Zelda scooped up imaginary sweat from her chest, licking it off droplet by droplet before kicking her leg up and firing a fastball, howling and clenching her groin in the trademark gesture of Mooshie triumph. Or disdain.
Puppy applauded lustily.
“Not bad.” Mooshie smiled. “Your girlfriend is kind of cute.”
“I’m not his girlfriend.”
“Still cute.”
“He had nothing to do with it.”
Lopez roared. Zelda’s resolve weakened slightly before the incomparable, distinctive laugh.
“You’re a good actress,” Zelda persisted.
“Thanks. I got nice notices in those two flicks. Need the names or you’ll say anyone could look them up?”
“Hills over Hell and Mr. Patricio Gets His,” Puppy referenced the two starring vidmovie roles at the height of Mooshie’s career, quoting the dramatic last line of Hills. “I’m going down that hill and killing me some Allahs. Who wants to join me?”
“They were good.” Mooshie rolled easily off the bed. “But nothing I say is going to mean anything to Zelda.”
“Because you’re dead. One million people attended your funeral.”
“That’s all?”
Barricades were trampled. Blue Shirts retreated in fear. A simple casket triggered riots across America with curfews in just about every city.
Zelda scanned Mooshie again, finally turning to Puppy. “It could be wonderful facial reconstruct.”
Mooshie suddenly poked Zelda in the chest. “I’m losing my patience.”
“Truth isn’t easy.”
“What do you know about truth?”
“That when you’re dead you’re dead.”
“Except I’m not. And don’t ask how because I don’t know.”
Their heated faces were inches away.
“Turn around, Puppy,” Mooshie said firmly.
He shook his head, worried. Both the women’s fists were cocked. Zelda might be carrying her blade.
“I said turn around,” Lopez hissed.
Puppy obeyed.
Mooshie slowly unbuttoned her blouse. “If you’re such an expert on Mooshie Lopez, then you probably saw all my vidmovies. I mean all of them.”
Lopez’s blouse landed by Puppy’s feet.
Oh shit.
“Like the ones I did underground near the end. What were they, Puppy?” Mooshie’s hand reached behind for her bra clasp.
“Passion Play and Dark Depths,” Zelda said, stopping Lopez from undoing her bra. “I don’t want to see your tits. Maybe just a little. Let me hear you sing first. Not the theme songs. The one where you’re putting your clothes back on in Passion. Mooshie Lopez never missed an opportunity to entertain an audience.”
Puppy risked a beating and turned, convinced someone landed a gut punch. Mooshie’s hands
came to her heart, palms rubbing. Her dark eyes fluttered half-shut.
“When they say they want you
“They really want this.”
Her voice lashed out in pain. She tossed aside her bra and grabbed her large breasts, legs spread defiantly, hair flipping side to side, back and forth.
“Because I will never let them have this
That is mine.”
Mooshie’s hands fell to her side and she waited. Zelda’s mouth trembled. That was the voice, the anguish. She’d played that song over and over, falling asleep to it, waking up to it. An anthem of adolescent agony. If Mooshie could have her heart broken, maybe she could survive, too.
“I sound like shit,” Mooshie rasped.
“Well, you’ve been dead for thirty-two years,” Zelda said softly, slowly clapping.
Puppy stood by his dresser, hands clasped, trying not to stare at Mooshie’s incredible breasts. He’d also had his own anthem of adolescent needs.
14
Mooshie wrapped Puppy’s bulky jacket tighter around her waist, trying to stop the shivering as she hurried past the unfamiliar buildings she should recognize along the desolate Grand Concourse.
165th Street. 166th Street.
She looked around cautiously before approaching the 167th Street subway entrance. Rotting wooden boards covered the staircase. Lopez slid sideways around and underneath; her legs gave out and she stumbled down the last few steps, landing hard on her wrists and knees. She vibrated, standing slowly.
You’ve been dead for a while. Take it easy.
The dark couldn’t conceal the stink. Lopez lifted her slim, muscular legs over discarded bottles and down another flight of steps. She stopped, peering at the platform.
Nothing. Just the cold.
Mooshie tripped on the cracked floor, wincing. Pain feels good, she smiled shakily. She stood there waiting for a memory, finding nothing but a wary passing rat; they’d clearly sent out the word to avoid the crazy human.
Even in the inky stillness, she could see the edge of the platform ten feet away. Mooshie walked gingerly and stopped, waiting again. For what? There’d been a sensation. A knee? The back of a chair, a thick cushion, a shoulder, some touch.
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