Don’t give me your shit, man
Love her or love me.”
The old man started tapping his feet and clapping his hands. Mooshie hopped off the bar, blasting it out.
“You lied and you lied
For the love you revived
Don’t give me your shit, man
Love her or love me.”
Mooshie ran her hand along the old-timer’s bald head, her voice dipping seductively.
“Cause I can love for a day
Or a lifetime, just say okay
Just don’t give me your shit, man
Love her or love me.”
The old man applauded wildly, whistling so hard he nearly shot his teeth across the bar.
Mooshie returned the microphone. “I’ll work for vodka until you’re sure.”
Jimmy searched her. “Law says I gotta give you something.”
“If you insist. One more thing. You let my friends Ty and Mick back in.”
The bartender’s wisps of hair swayed. “Damn bums nearly wrecked the joint fighting.”
“Because they were bored by the music, hot buns.” Mooshie smiled. “I promise they’ll be chaperoned.”
Jimmy reluctantly nodded. Mooshie glanced out the window.
“Last request. Got any idea where I can get a Lifecard? I lost mine.”
• • • •
DIEGO ACTED VERY professionally as he helped Zelda up the gangway onto the boat, stopping just short of saluting.
“Ms. Jones. Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, Diego.” She blushed. “Am I on time?”
“Five minutes to spare. Would you like to sit below deck?”
Zelda followed him down the four short steps. She settled onto the battered cloth chair.
“I appreciate you doing this on such short notice.”
“We catch fish. That’s really short notice.” Diego grinned. “Be underway soon, Ms. Jones.”
Zelda hated his smug smile as if she’d crawled along the dock moaning “Diego, Diego, take me back.” Her letter, squared neatly and tucked in his doorframe, explained she needed to do more research and hoped their past relationship wouldn’t impact their business dealings.
Boar Face wanted to go along, but Zelda finally persuaded her that it was a small boat. Zelda was now the most extraordinary employee ever at Saul’s Salmon, her supervisor had bleated. Or some such insincere nonsense, Boar Face mooing that she adored Zelda personally and professionally, and that she brought the sort of creativity she, Boar Face (real name Katrina Munson), had long wanted but had been denied by Mr. Pietro, a nice man but, between us, an egg shell on the floor.
Zelda wasn’t sure about the intellectual properties of egg shells, but assumed they weren’t high. Her mission was to focus on “being a salmon or whatever fish they called salmon” and come up with all the sketches and ideas she wanted. Then Boar Face (Katrina) would whip them into proper and masterful marketing and, if Mr. Egg Shell (Pietro) failed to see how this would break out of market, she, Boar Face (Katrina) would go to Mr. Saul Ribe (The Boss) himself. Yes, that Saul, whose kindly, myopic face stared back from the package of every Saul’s Salmon as if he were the father of all fish.
Zelda balanced her sketchbook, plugging mentally into the boat’s engines. Even the loud humming couldn’t conceal the Captain’s angry shouts. Lee stomped downstairs, apologetic and irritated.
“Ms. Jones. You’re not supposed to be on this ship.”
She reached for her authorization. “Diego said…”
“Yes, he did.” The Captain reddened. “But this is my ship.”
“Sorry. I’m doing a marketing campaign.”
“Blast the salmon. Stay out of the way and never come on my ship again unless I personally greet you. Saul can shove his business.”
Zelda slumped in the chair, too angry to sketch. After a few more minutes of one-sided yelling, Diego dropped down, flashing his winning smile. “Seems I messed up a little.”
Typical DV shit. Show how smart you are because it’s assumed you’re not. She’d done that her whole life. Abandon ship, girl.
“You couldn’t just tell the guy?”
“I was afraid if the Captain said no, you’d think it was me talking.”
Zelda leaned against the wall. “You’re an idiot.”
“Sometimes.” Diego abruptly kissed her on the lips, hard and just once. She reluctantly shoved him away.
“Idiot. Are you in trouble?’
“A little.” He grinned. “A lot. You’re worth it.”
“No I’m not, moron. You can’t lose jobs at your age. I lost three by the time I was twenty-five.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
Too young, Zelda. Too naïve. Too cocky.
“They see a pattern. Less is expected. Soon nothing will be offered.”
“That how you ended up here?”
She shoved him into the wall and he laughed, uncertain if she were playing or insane.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly. “I better get back on deck.”
She wasn’t sure if she were allowed to join him, but chanced it anyway. Standing by the center console, the Captain gruffly ignored her, while Diego winked a few times, attending to straightening the inside of the hatch. Suddenly the young man let out a loud yelp, windmilling his arms. Behind the wheel, Lee nodded calmly.
Zelda joined Diego at the prow. A thirty-foot boat drifted aimlessly, chasing its own tail. As the ship neared, a greasy-faced man waved from its deck.
“What’s the problem?” the Captain asked over the loudspeaker, slowing down his vessel.
“Engine trouble,” the man blandly replied.
“Want a tow?”
“Already called the Coast Guard.” He gestured at a medium built man in a bulky overcoat and gray hat, clearly dressed for different weather. “He needs a lift.”
“To where?” Lee frowned.
“Where you’re going.”
Diego flashed a wary look at the Captain, who leaned over the railing, hands clasped, motioning for Zelda to step away.
“How do you know where we’re going?” he asked.
The other captain pointed at the registry on the port side: Bronx, New York.
“What’re you doing so far out?” Lee asked firmly.
“Going there. Engine gone. If you don’t want to, don’t.”
Lee thought a moment. The man in the bulky overcoat waited patiently as if at a watery bus stop.
Strange, Diego shorthanded.
Very, Lee shorthanded back.
“Okay. We’ll call the Coast Guard, too. They’re awfully slow.”
Diego flung over a rope and secured the boat, then balanced a wooden gangway between the two ships. The man half-stumbled onto the salmon boat. He doffed his hat with a slightly bewildered look.
Diego brought the new passenger below deck where he settled into a chair, knees stiff, coat still buttoned, hat resting on his lap, as if he wanted to be prepared the moment the journey ended. Diego mumbled about Lee cracking the whip and hurried up the creaky steps.
Zelda introduced herself, but the guest merely smiled dimly. She even chattered on about salmon, but he maintained that distant expression, examining the nautical decorations. Finally, he managed to ask “Where is the bathroom” in a heavy accent, “w’s” morphing into “v’s”.
Once the ship docked, the Parisian Collector casually doffed his hat, mumbling thank you with each tip of the hat and disappearing down the dock into a crowd of partygoers.
Zelda slung her bag over her shoulder. She’d sketched nothing useful except Diego without his shirt. She tossed the crumpled paper overboard.
The Captain stopped her by the gangway. “Sorry I blew my top.”
“I understand. He can be infuriating.” She shook her head at Diego, double-checking the knots in the ropes.
“I’m not supposed to pick up passengers.” The Captain hesitated. “I should’ve turned around when I saw you, but I d
idn’t want to screw up the schedule. And that would’ve got bird brain in trouble. As for our guest…”
Zelda squeezed his hand. “I never saw anyone on board except us. And you authorized my passage.”
The Captain sighed at Diego’s forged signature. “You really like that kid.”
She sighed. “Yeah. A lot.”
Lee tipped his cap, about to leave, then stopped. “The Coast Guard never got a report from that ship.”
Strange, she shorthanded.
19
Two DV teens in baggy suits and glistening shoes falling off at the heels waited patiently by Gate Six. With a knowing paternal air, Frecklie introduced Aito and Estes to Puppy, the famous baseball historian. Frecklie shorthanded so quickly that Puppy missed a couple words, though he was pretty sure he was referenced as a genius at handling mothers.
That greatly relieved Aito and Estes, who evidently also had mothers ruining their lives. The kids eagerly rushed inside the stadium, eyes popping wonderingly. Frecklie assumed the role of tour guide, this mural was hit by machine gun fire and over there was a store selling souvenirs, camel brain they’re items you buy to remember the game, and over there was a restaurant named Planet Hollywood specializing in real meat hamburgers.
Who are they? Puppy pulled Frecklie aside.
Hard workers.
For what?
With a big wave, Frecklie happily embraced the entire crumbling ballpark. Everywhere.
The boy found a broom for Aito, who danced along the floor merrily attacking dirt as if it were the 22nd Arab Legion outside Prague. The other new janitor Paquette approached from the north and together they surrounded piles of dirt in a masterful flanking maneuver. If only the Allahs had been so cooperative. The helpless Arial stood with head bowed before his dusty barren stand, glumly rolling a bag of chips back and forth, fearing he’d been fired before he started. To the rescue came Mrs. Balinksi, the other big surprise of the morning.
Lugging a rickety shopping cart bulging with trays and pots, Balinski stopped tentatively, making sure she was in the right place because there were oh so many baseball stadiums clustered along River Avenue.
Once she saw the famous baseball historian, Balinski rushed over, the shopping cart tipping dangerously, and babbled on about her food stall and how wonderful Puppy was to give her this opportunity. Determined to find his place alongside these titans of sports culinary wizardry, Estes offered his services with a polite bow, his skills at cleaning forks seconded by Frecklie, and soon an ancient folding table was dug up, literally, under part of a wall.
Balinski and Paquette scrubbed the table while Aito swept away the excess soap; it looked like they were trying to row a boat. When the pierogis and kielbasis came steaming out of the containers, Puppy felt it was safe to hurry off to the Hawks clubhouse.
A very quiet clubhouse. Except for Mick’s snores.
Eyes collectively downcast, the team followed Ty’s clomping spikes around the bare concrete floor. If you watched just the feet, you could see Ty’s foot grinding down threateningly micro-inches from toes and heels.
“I ain’t never seen such crap in my life.” Ty circled warily, the players pressing into their lockers. “You are the worst pieces of dog shit players ever. Ever.”
Puppy cleared his throat. The team looked up gratefully as if his harrumph were the sound of a hammer being laid down near their half-finished gallows.
“We have kielbasa for sale today.”
The players jumped up, believing breakfast was on the way. Cobb threw a ball against a locker and it ricocheted crazily around the room, settling in the corner, split open.
“No one moves. No one eats. We got a goddamn game today at this goddamn ungodly hour.” His scowl heaped blame on Puppy for disrupting his sleep patterns. “But you ain’t going anywhere until I see some sense of understanding how badly you sucked.”
The team lowered their collective eyes, eyelashes grazing the floor. Of course they sucked.
Cobb slammed a bat by Jackson’s foot. The catcher jumped a few inches. “Have you ever caught a goddamn game?”
Vernon shook his head.
“So I got a catcher who can’t catch. Fielders who don’t know how to put their gloves on and throw like this.” Ty made mincing steps. “What are you pieces of shit going to do about it?”
Shannon raised her hand. “Practice more.”
Ty raised his hands skyward. “Finally. Of all of you, the colored girl’s the only one with sense.”
Shannon smiled, unsure how complimented she should be.
“Yes. Practice. Practice until your goddamn feet swell like balloons in the desert.” Ty stepped on Dmitri’s foot and he howled. “Practice until you got callouses ten inches thick. Bleeding, infected, disgusting callouses.” Ty held out his hands for a glimpse of their future. “Practice until you don’t think and then practice some more until you can. Do all of you get me?”
Mick snored louder. Ty kicked the stool from under him and he landed, awake and retching, on the floor.
“These are wonderful words, don’t you think?” Puppy asked the clubhouse. Ty’s furious glare sent him back a foot. Puppy cowered next to Vernon. His presence gave Jackson courage. The catcher raised his hand.
“But we won.”
Vernon had said something so profound that Ty was speechless. He leaned over, his nose rubbing between Vernon’s eyes.
“Say that again, fatso,” he said hoarsely.
The team averted Jackson’s helpless stare. “We won. Isn’t that good?”
Ty’s nose pressed deeper into Vernon’s face. “Is that what you think?”
Vern wasn’t sure what he thought. He wasn’t sure of his name.
“Is that what you all think, you sniveling, whining useless lumps of crap?” Ty swung the bat and they ducked. “You won because the other team sucks worse than you. Not because you’re good. You’re not even good enough to be shit. You’re beneath shit. I wouldn’t feed you to a hog.”
Ty considered making Vernon an exception. The catcher gulped.
“Now we’re going out there today and you’re going to hustle. You’re not going to run across the mound on your way to third base. You’re going to touch second base first. You’re gonna learn left and right field. Which are on the sides of center field.” Ty kicked Mick in the ribs, waking him again. “You’re gonna look like goddamn major leaguers. Now kneel.”
Cobb took the right knee to the ground and clasped his hands. “Are you all Hebes? Get down on your goddamn knees.”
Puppy gestured for the team to kneel and clasp their hands. Everyone was fairly confident that Ty was going to behead them with their bats.
“Lord Jesus Christ. I hope you ain’t given up on us yet.”
The players’ eyes widened in alarm at the illegal praying. They started standing; Puppy emphatically waved everyone to remain kneeling.
“These godless heathens ain’t worthy of you. But I know your heart is large and I’m hoping you’ll find room for them. They’re stupid and they’re useless and they will be a real test for you, Lord. So whatever you can do, send it along because this goddamn country is going to hell.”
Ty did something weird with his hands, waving left to right across his torso as if chasing a fly, then touching his forehead and chest.
“Amen.” Mickey belched.
The manager waited for Puppy by the entrance to the dugout, blocking the door with his arm, smiling shrewdly.
“You’re pitching BP.”
“Excuse me?”
Cobb pressed the ball into his hand.
“Ty, I can’t…”
“I can’t, I can’t.” Ty danced daintily on his toes around Puppy. “Get your worthless ass out there, Mabel. I can’t pitch BP too.”
Cobb shoved Puppy up the steps. He stumbled onto the field. A glove landed just over his head, followed by a fluttering Hawks cap.
“I don’t have a uniform.” He tried one last act of defiance.
; “Fatso.” Ty called over to Vern, busy examining the bats. “Give Mary Jane your t-shirt so she feels like she belongs.”
Self-consciously covering up his belly rolls, Jackson flipped his shirt to Puppy.
“Any other excuses ‘cept you’re a gutless coward?” Cobb sneered, hands on hips.
That’ll do.
Puppy walked toward the mound. The players quieted down, watching. At least there weren’t a lot of fans. He counted four so far. Five stadium staff. Perfect. He pawed at the pitching rubber, looking around the wrecked stadium. It hadn’t looked quite so shabby when he stood here in 2081 for the city-wide championships. Basically the Bronx and the north end of Queens were represented, Staten Island still underwater, Brooklyn finally drying out, Manhattan containing pockets of civilization.
His Bronx College played against the traditional Reg-infested Bronx University. Here. Right here, except there were about 10,000 fans, the contents of both campuses and families, friends, swarming behind both baselines. Annette had sat off to the left of the home dugout. Row 12, Seats 2,3,4, only her hotshot lawyer parents Cara and Nadi never showed; Annette was a Reg from Philly and for all the admonitions, insights, endless lectures, a DV however dipped in bright paint would eventually rust. All those people cared about were climbing up and out of their holes like rats with a new hairdo. Course he’d want to marry our daughter.
But Annette had believed in him back then. Hell, he believed in himself. Cocky bastard. He’d gone 14-2 with a 2.45 ERA, striking out about ten a game. And hitting around .250, too. The things you think you can do when you’re twenty-one.
Like tear down records in your senior year of college. He just didn’t want to win the championship, he wanted to be the best ever. Mooshie’s record of 14Ks in a single game held for decades; he was going to rip it down.
First inning, struck out the side. Second inning, someone managed a squib to second, next two batters swished and missed. Third inning, struck out the side; Annette’s boobs nearly bounced out of her blouse. Grandma’s clit, he loved her so much then. Fourth inning, two more strikeouts.
His fiancé found a piece of blank cardboard and a magic marker and held up the sign. Puppy 10, Mooshie 14, brandishing it high over her head and parading up and down the aisles so everyone could see.
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