“Let her sleep,” he said.
`“Here?” Jalak shrieked.
Clary recoiled like a cornered animal.
“Yes. Here.” Azhar finally persuaded Clary to slide under the sheets, sending Jalak raging out the door.
“Sleep.” Azhar smiled. “You are safe.”
Clary didn’t believe him, but she was so tired.
Mustafa hurried past Omar, dressed for the morning prayers.
“What’s going on, Father?”
“Go back to bed.” Azhar followed his wife down the steps.
Jalak kicked the basement door closed, shaking with fading self-control. “Who is this girl?”
Azhar deliberated how much to lie. Be with those who are true in word and deed, says the Quran. How could that apply to a wife?
“I found her in the car.”
“She was stealing it?”
“Does the child look like she can drive? The poor thing was sleeping in the back seat.”
“Why?”
“Why, why, why? So many questions. Do I know? Allah knows. Ask him.”
Jalak fluttered her lips angrily. “Don’t hide behind Allah. She has run away.”
“The girl is here. That is enough. She’ll sleep and get well.”
“What do you mean get well? She cannot stay. Call the Warriors.”
“No.” Azhar grabbed her wrist. “No.”
Jalak stared suspiciously. “You know who she is.”
Mustafa sighed. Jalak would wear him down eventually. “She is the girl I told you about from the orphanage. The sweet Spanish one.”
“An infidel lies in my bed?”
“Oh shut up. Do you think Allah cares about your linens?”
Jalak went white. “They will look for her.”
“They might. Or not. There are many children there. The sex traders came last night, Jalak. They would’ve taken her.”
“That is not my concern.”
“It’s mine,” he said defiantly, almost proudly. “I don’t want her violated by those pigs.” He shuddered. “She’ll be sold in the market as a whore.”
“So? That is what she is,” Jalak said obstinately.
“No. She is eleven years old. And scared.” Jalak pulled away. “Would you want a Crusader to send back Omar or Abdul if they’d escaped?”
Jalak spat contemptuously on his bare feet. “Never compare my children to one of them.”
“All children get frightened, damn you.”
Jalak ran up the basement steps. The front door was ajar. Omar was hurrying along the street, glancing guiltily over his shoulder at his father in the doorway.
No, Omar. No.
“What happened to my bicycle?” Abdul yelled from the garage.
18
Derek Singh held up his hand until the skittering feet on the roof of his country store passed.
“That a squirrel?” asked his former teammate Easy Sun Yen, squirming uneasily; he’d never taken to the woods. Sunken tubs filled with gin and brunettes, always on the hefty side, that was his idea of fun. Sometimes Derek had joined him. Once, so did Mooshie. The Three Amigos singing and splashing each other.
2062, Singh smiled nostalgically. An August road trip to the Midwest. Damn hotel in Cincinnati banned them. All the damn hotels in Cincinnati banned them. Hell with them. They rented an old mansion and partied 24/7. They were the Yankees. They could do whatever the hell they wanted.
“Nah,” Derek said playfully. “Spaceships. They land every day around this time. Little green men.”
Sun Yen frowned. Somewhere he’d lost his humor. Age’ll do that, Derek thought, rocking in the chair and sipping the brandy. They sat in silence as two old men do, remembering what they couldn’t have anymore.
“And this guy Hazel said nothing?” Sun Yen was a little disappointed, having traveled from Boston, where he still could find an occasional hefty brunette to share a bathtub, to this forest of squeaking animals and smelly trees.
“Acted as if I should know.”
“Maybe you forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“What you were supposed to know.”
Derek scowled. He only forgot the small things nowadays though sometimes the big things drifted away, too, like the battleships who abandoned them on the beach.
“He gave me the damn Miners wig around a lot of crap and that’s it.”
“Well no one knows who he is.”
“How many you ask?”
“Many as still have a pulse. Tekkie Donaldson recalls someone named John in North Africa.”
Singh sighed wearily. “He’s too young to have served with us.”
“Oh.” Sun Yen frowned again.
“I figure he signed up early 70s in the last wave. I wasn’t going to ask too much so he didn’t think I cared.” Derek stretched out his good leg. Sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference. After sixty all the aches hurt the same, mechanical and otherwise. “Probably not.”
“Probably not what?”
“Probably no one would know him no matter,” Singh said.
“Then why’d we ask and take chances?”
“With who? No one cares about us anymore.”
“They’re caring about something,” Easy said. “Else why did this Hazel come out of nowhere?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure,” Derek said impatiently. “Made a point of his knee.”
“How so?”
“Gelinium.”
Sun Yen arched an eyebrow. “On the beaches of Sicily?”
“Don’t add up. Our asses were flying across the Channel to England by then.”
The last desperate attempt to stop the Caliphate ended on the British beaches in 2072. There was no Dunkirk this time because there was no one to rescue them; the American Navy was nearly gone. The entire 7th Army surrendered, hundreds of thousands of soldiers kneeling for days in the sand, watching the feet of the Allahs march past, England invaded for the first time since William the Conqueror in 1066. Once fully ashore, the Grand Mufti’s armies, the Second and Twelfth Arab Legions, confiscated every boat that could float and sailed them down the Thames, their ships blackening the water like bugs, each sail fluttering with the crescent moon and star.
“Maybe he served and got it elsewhere.” Sun Yen thought a moment. “Only other way is if he were in the riots. Handed them out there like a whore’s tit.”
In the late 70s, nearly twenty thousand veterans across the country had been killed, protesting for respect. Not food, not money, not socks. Respect. Remember us with a stamp. A day. An hour once a year on the vidnews. But America couldn’t show respect to someone it was ashamed of. Much easier to shunt them aside. Or find a pretext to slaughter them. To finish the job the Allahs started. The job the soldiers were supposed to finish. Around and around the circle went.
“They only gave the Geliniums to soldiers.”
Sun Yen’s eyes narrowed. “And Black Tops.”
• • • •
ZELDA PROPPED HER eyelids open with her thumb and forefinger. Actually she thought of propping open her eyes with the blades she and every former DV kept taped to their ankles. Her fourth meeting of the day. All about salmon salads. How was that remotely possible? She glanced at the thick twenty-six-page marketing deck emblazoned with striking yellow letters intended to shock the room into ecstasies of creative fervor, lips drooling ideas, blood-stained imaginations streaming out of their ears, hearts throbbing and pulsing with memorable moments in marketing history.
The woman in a long-sleeved black dress stared around the table. If Zelda recalled the stupid thing called the org chart, which she had first thought was a joke with its arrows pointing up and down and sideways like a bad drawing, this lady with the face of a boar was her direct supervisor, not Pietro, who was manager of the entire Bronx office.
Boar Face didn’t like Zelda. Perhaps, like all wild creatures, she had that cunning sense of enemies in the jungle. Or woods, wherever boars roamed. Boar Face instin
ctively felt Zelda’s diffidence, her inner laughter, how she took none of this corporate shit at all seriously. What was a thought-starter, Zelda had almost asked an hour ago before her brain oozed into a peanut butter-crusted glaze. Upselling propositions, positioning and then branding. Boar Face dribbled on about branding, branding, branding; if Zelda shoved her fingers down her throat, maybe she would knock down the woman with a heave and end all their misery. Only she seemed the only one miserable.
Grandma, you banned all languages other than English, how about banning marketing lingo?
“Jones was on a boat.” Boar Face pointed. “Would you like to share those insights?”
Zelda faded back into the room from the little sweet alcove starring Diego’s smile. “No.”
“Excuse me?”
The conference room of twenty-one people simultaneously looked into their laps. One of those cartoon balloons on the animatevid would read “uh-oh.”
“I mean that I just found out there may or may not be salmon in the Atlantic yet,” Zelda said quickly. “But it was very valuable. We go to greater lengths for our fish.”
Everyone’s heads perked up slightly to see if Boar Face would lash Zelda with the long wooden stick she carried around like a riding crop. Boar Face frowned.
“What lengths?”
“Pardon?”
“Lengths. You said a word. A word can be dynamic. It can change perceptions. That doesn’t mean it’s the right word. We have to determine that. Lengths. What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
Boar Face twirled the pearl necklace around her fleshy neck and turned to the other side of the conference table.
“But you’re right about the words,” Zelda plunged ahead. “I, um, kinda think we haven’t listened carefully enough to you.”
The twenty-one people in the room poured silent venom. Oh too bad, you wish you were getting out of trouble this easily. She flashed a quick sneer around the table.
“Obviously.” Boar Face rapped her stick. “Go on, Jones.”
“I don’t know the word. But maybe we should come up with a few words rather than all the art and videos and tag lines. Something that says salmon salad. But that also says be.”
“Be?” Boar Face frowned.
“The salmon.”
Zelda ducked past colleagues, alternatively snickering and looking for places on her skin to pinch. When she got back to her office, the memo was already flashing on the tiny digital directive boxes on their desks, which comprised the sole electronic means of communication.
“Each of you will submit one word per my suggestion at this morning’s meeting. Deadline is eighteen minutes.” A clock started ticking down like a bomb.
Zelda had a lot of words. The memo said one word. Would she be better off if she did only the one word and demonstrated she could pay attention and follow orders like the other headless imbeciles, or should she be bold and submit several words, showing how creative she was. Business environments were just so dumb that she had to waste her time considering these alternatives when she should be expending her limited attention span/interest on answering the question. Meetings, offices, memos, all this make-work so someone will eat salmon salad.
And keep this job, stupid girl, she scolded herself.
Boar Face twirled her necklace, feet on her desk. Zelda had sat for about three minutes since being summoned, taking in all the self-proclaimed award-winning marketing campaigns plaques that proclaimed her boss as a “champion of creativity,” according to an award from the Marketing Alliance of The Northeast.
Boar Face twisted her pasty face. “Eight words.”
“Yes.”
“Better. Tasty. Luscious. Classy. Prime. Delicious. Powerful. Fin-tastic.” Boar Face paused. “Is that a real word?”
Zelda shook her head. “I made it up.”
“But not the others?”
“I think those are established and acceptable English words.”
“I know. I went to the University of Pennsylvania,” she said haughtily.
“I went to Bronx Arts School. I think we used the same English.”
Boar Face looked as if she’d found a scabrous insect in her tea. “I shouldn’t have to do your work for you. Pick a word. Stand behind it. Fight for it.”
Zelda peered at the woman’s silvery sheened shoes. The damn shoes just pissed her off. People shouldn’t wear silver sheened shoes with silver buckles. It was dumb. Insulting in some way to people who would never wear shoes like that and yet had to sit here in an office, on the subway, street, anywhere, and be reminded of how stupid those shoes were and what kind of world they lived in where people like Puppy’s ex-wife Annette sold shoes like that and people like Boar Face wore shoes like that.
Zelda vowed to stay late one night and carve up all the shoes she could find in Boar Face’s office.
“They are pretty crappy words,” she said.
“You admit that?” Boar Face pawed the ground, already tasting Zelda’s flesh.
“Well sure. Those idiots around here have never done anything creative. The whole campaign is off.”
Boar Face lowered her ridiculous shoes and walked around the front of the desk, fussing with her short blonde hair. “My campaign?”
She’d be cleaning fish by the end of the day. “It should be more personal. I wanted to give the salmon personality.”
“Personality? Like a person?”
“Except like a fish. But Mr. Pietro said no.”
“Pietro,” Boar Face nearly spat the name. Pietro, the boss. Pietro, a simpleton. Pietro, who made four times her salary when she went to the University of Pennsylvania. “What did he say, exactly?”
“I don’t know, exactly.”
“You don’t remember what your bosses say?”
“I don’t pay that close attention.”
Boar Face snorted. “Try to remember.”
“I had sketches of salmon as kind of people, so we could show an organic community. Mr. Pietro didn’t want happy salmon in evening clothes dancing. Something like that.”
Boar Face perked up. “Do you still have those sketches?”
“I save everything.”
“But you don’t pay attention to your bosses.”
“Well no.” Zelda frowned, puzzled by the repeated question. “I would if they said something interesting.”
• • • •
MOOSHIE POPPED SOME nuts onto her curled tongue, avoiding her reflection in the glistening mirror behind the bar. Her purple eyeliner was set off by rouge cheekbones and bold red lipstick suggesting her mouth would leap off at any minute. The official honeymoon night kits still used the whore makeup, she thought, rolling her eyes. All girls at fifteen got one; boys at the same age, along with shaving and grooming needs. Nice of Zelda to lend me hers along with the cheap-ass jewelry and sweater three sizes too big. Maybe two, Mooshie grunted unhappily. Gotta find some real clothes. I am Mooshie Lopez.
“What can I get you, ma’am?” Jimmy leaned on his elbows.
“Schaeffer Ale.”
Monroe frowned. “Ma’am?”
“You don’t serve that anymore?”
“For like thirty years.”
Next time just order what’s on tap. Mooshie selected an IPA from Jersey City. Jimmy poured and wandered away down the bar.
“Excuse me, bartender.”
Monroe came back, wiping the counter, which couldn’t gleam any brighter.
“You still got live entertainment?”
He gestured at the large black speakers hanging from the four corners of the ceiling. “Just the tapes and if there’s ever something on the musicvid. With the new crap they play, mainly the tapes. Can’t beat real rock and roll.” Jimmy thoughtfully wiped away the circle near her glass. “But you’re right. They used to, long before I bought the place.”
“When was that?”
His eyes retreated suspiciously.
“I’m not a cop.” Mooshie tapped her eyes and pointed a
t his. Monroe kept his cold stare. “I’m a singer prowling the neighborhood to see who might want a hot crooner. You interested?”
“No thanks.”
“Brings in business.”
“I make enough.” Jimmy caught her glance around the nearly empty bar. “It’s early.” Grumbling, Jimmy left to serve a forlorn old man. Mooshie slid onto the adjoining stool.
“How are you, sir?” she asked the wizened old guy, who muttered into his shot glass. “Bet you remember when Monroe’s had live music?”
“Don’t remember nothing.” He downed the drink, smacking his lips. Mooshie gestured for Jimmy to refill; the man smiled gratefully.
“My mother told me there was a small stage over there.” She pointed near the foosball table. “They had great acts, top names would pop in suddenly and gig it up. Nellie Charles, Monte D’Ang, Big Bob Button, John Griebel, The Seafarers.”
The old-timer took his whiskey to a table.
Jimmy smirked. “That one of your fans?”
“I’m more charming with a microphone.”
Jimmy yanked the plug on the music, muted the vidnews about the upcoming National Spelling Bee in Des Moines and reached behind the cash register, handing her the microphone. “Charm me.”
“Any requests?” she asked.
Jimmy folded his arms skeptically.
Mooshie balanced on her left hand and hopped easily onto the bar. Jimmy stepped back, surprised by her agility.
“Thank you everyone.” Mooshie reclined on one hip, draping her legs over the bar. “Good to be back at Monroe’s. This hunky behind the bar asked me to sing a song for the late morning crowd. Here’s one from that great singer, Mooshie Lopez. One of her best. Love Her or Love Me.”
She took a deep breath and sang softly:
“When the heart goes still
All’s I have is my will
Don’t give me your shit, man
Love her or love me.”
The old man’s eyes lit up, slowly standing as if strings were attached to his ears.
Mooshie picked up the tempo:
“You went down on your knees
And bled your palms into peas
A Mound Over Hell Page 21