“No,” the boy shook his head stubbornly. “We’ll build something new.”
“I’m not sure we can.”
“Grandma said it’s about maintaining what happened. Adding on is fine as long as we don’t change anything.”
Everyone waited. Finally Puppy nodded, breaking out their smiles. He wagged a warning finger. Careful.
Puppy led them inside, trailed by uneasy murmurs. Some of the kids peered under the seats, while a few wandered down the rows. Frecklie clapped his hands once and the DVs snapped back obediently. He nodded for Puppy to continue.
He lifted up a seat, which twisted half off with a rickety groan. Three hands shot up confidently.
Just fix behind home. A better background helps us pick up the balls, Mickey had said, forcing down the black coffee with a longing look for one shot of anything with proof on the bottle. If they were restoring his Yankee Stadium, he’d go on the wagon.
“Navy blue,” Puppy repeated, taking them down to the railing. Frecklie readily hopped over; the rest of the kids held back, shrinking a little. As children, they’d been terrorized by parents and teachers that the demons and ghosts living in Amazon Stadium would get them if they didn’t study hard. Maybe some of them hadn’t studied hard.
Embarrassed, Frecklie angrily pulled the gate open for the faint-hearted. He waited impatiently as the DVs warily shuffled forward, clustering by the fence in case one of those eight-foot, fire-breathing demons swooped down.
Puppy knelt and pulled up the brown weeds. “This too.”
More murmurs.
“I want it green. But we can’t remove anything down there.”
To reassure the uneasy kids, Frecklie rummaged in the grass and pulled up a bullet.
“Old. Useless. Can’t hurt you.” He went around shoving the bullet under each of their noses; a few sniffed.
Puppy flipped a bone from hand to hand. Eyes nearly popped out of heads. “Leave these alone, too.” He didn’t need to repeat that. “Who knows about gardening?”
All fifteen kids raised their hands. Puppy and Frecklie exchanged proud smiles.
• • • •
PABLO RE-CLIPPED THE dental bib around Ja’mal’s neck with an apologetic shake of his head.
“Sorry, Mrs. D’Hedri,” he said to the twelve-year-old’s stout, stern mother standing in the corner of the office. “I can’t find a good dental hygienist. I’ve gone through three of them.”
“Wouldn’t seem to be hard. It’s a good job.” She indicated the problem clearly began with Pablo.
“If you know anyone…”
“I’ve got enough on my mind with this boy.” Mrs. D’Hedri had the warmth of Pablo’s drill. “Chewing all night. Headaches. Grades have dropped.”
Ja’mal considered whether he could escape down the spit sink.
“Let’s see…”
“Seeing isn’t enough.” She joined Pablo in studying her son’s open mouth. “Finding out’s what I need.”
Pablo cleared his throat. “Mrs. D’Hedri, I believe there’s only room for one of us in Ja’mal’s mouth.”
“Why? It’s big enough for him to talk back.”
Ja’mal silently pleaded with Pablo to save him.
“I think it’s best if I examine Ja’mal alone.”
“You’re not going to plot anything like he does with his father?” She poked Ja’mal in the ear.
“I’ll report any subversive conversations.”
Pablo kept a straight face and escorted the scowling mother out of the door; she promised to take a seat nearby. Ja’mal smiled gratefully.
“Okay, man. You were a champion smile-o-meter on your last visit.” Pablo studied this morning’s results with grave disappointment. “What’s up?”
Ja’mal sighed. “Too much external pressure.”
Pablo was slightly taken aback by Ja’mal’s mature response. “In what way?”
“The Academy tests are coming up.”
“Why didn’t your Mom mention that? Those are brutal.”
“You’ve taken them?”
Pablo shook his head. “I didn’t grow up a Reg.”
Ja’mal turned curiously in his chair, big liquidy eyes undulating. “DV, huh?”
He cleared his throat. “Let’s stay on you. When’s the tests?”
“There are always tests.”
“Ja’mal, tests are specifically structured….”
“Not for the Academy.” The boy’s voice broke over referencing the main Reg test to determine career strengths and possibilities. And limitations. “It never stops. Prepare, study. I want to be a doctor. Not a dentist, but a real doctor who saves lives.”
“I do my part,” Pablo snapped.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Dr. Diaz.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“But I’m scared.”
Pablo patted the boy’s shoulder. “Everyone’s scared. Your whole life’s ahead and you’re worried one test could determine success or failure.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Ja’mal started climbing out of the chair.
“No. It’s supposed to help you deal.”
“How can I deal if I’m too scared? If I don’t pass, my parents will blame me.”
“They always do,” he said. “You have to tell your Mom you’re worried.”
“You think she’s the type you can talk to?”
Pablo nodded sympathetically. “Would you like me to?”
“But this is all confidential,” Ja’mal panicked.
“I won’t…”
“If you say something, don’t you have to say it all?”
“I can shade things.”
“I thought DVs didn’t lie,” the boy said coldly.
Those eyes, Pablo wondered. Like he borrowed them. Not the ones I’ve been staring into for five years.
“Isn’t it about balancing confidentiality with truth? Have you any experience with that, Dr. Diaz?” Ja’mal shifted; clearly he was conducting the interview. “Duty versus compassion. Where’s the balance? Would you betray a patient to help them? Or a friend to do what’s expected? Is betrayal expected? Is that what you think?”
Pablo rammed a tiny light into Ja’mal’s mouth; the boy gagged. Same teeth. Same slightly crooked molar upper right, number thirty.
Mrs. D’Hendri burst into the room. “What’s taking so long?”
Ja’mal’s eyes lolled. Terrified, he slid onto the floor, ripping off the bib and crying hysterically. Pablo held the boy. glaring at his mother.
“Ja’mal’s grinding his teeth at night. Hence the headaches. He’s clearly enduring a lot of external anxiety.”
Mrs. D’Hendri opened her mouth to protest.
“Let’s try reducing that, ma’am. Help Ja’mal find ways to reduce stress.”
The boy’s sobs subsided and he looked hopefully at his mother, who nodded grudgingly. Pablo shoved a green lolly into Ja’mal’s mouth.
• • • •
ZELDA TOOK THE steps two at a time; at least to the first landing, then one step for the next three flights. Blaring quick-paced music with lots of urgent horns forced her to ring twice. Waiting, she nervously shifted the bottle of wine and packaged dessert between her sweating hands.
“Hello?” A dark-haired female copy of Diego smiled from the open door.
“Hi.” Zelda peered over the woman’s shoulder. Diego slowly entered the field of vision.
“Hey,” he said simply.
The woman stepped aside and touched her mouth toward Diego.
“My sister,” Diego awkwardly introduced them.
“Capri,” she filled in the name.
“Zelda. His girl friend.”
“I was just leaving,” Capri announced, grabbing her plate of food off the table.
“Please, don’t leave….”
“Oh, I just dropped by.” She tossed a fork, knife and a piece of bread on the dish, gulped down half a glass of red wine and rushed past. “Nice t
o meet you.” She blew a kiss at her brother and closed the door. Diego shrugged sheepishly and turned down the music.
“My sister has funny eating habits.” He nodded at the table, laden with steaming food. “Hungry?”
They ate Sherman’s Chocolate Cake in bed, polishing off the Austin pinot noir in between sex. Diego brought some brandy out after midnight.
“This is the real stuff. Captain Lee got a few bottles somehow.”
Zelda squinted to read the label without her glasses. Diego took loving pity.
“From France.” He read the incredibly small print and poured them each three fingers; they sipped, murmuring approvingly.
“Did you mean it about being my girlfriend.”
Zelda nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“What changed from thinking I’m a dumb DV sailor boy?”
“You still are.” She playfully pushed him. “Maybe I need one.”
He grew serious. “Some brief rummaging in the mud fling?”
“No,” she said at his doubtful look. “No. I really like you, remembering my record of only lousy relationships.”
“And jobs?”
“Yes, thanks. Jobs, too. Pretty much everything except my friendships with Puppy and Pablo.”
He took a cautious sip. “Ever do it with them?”
She firmly shook her head to strengthen the lie. “Just best friends.”
“That’s important.” Diego thought a while. “Love’s love.”
“Not according to Grandma.”
“I think loving a friend helps you love a lover. You see what you can’t get away with and then you don’t try that with someone you love romantically.”
She turned on her side, impressed. “Insightful. But shouldn’t you be able to do anything with someone you love romantically?”
“I never have.”
“Me neither.” Zelda flipped on her stomach and squeezed his hand.
“I got a job coming up,” he said carefully.
“Great, where you going?”
He poured more brandy. “Captain Lee said we can’t discuss it. Like really can’t discuss.”
“I can’t stowaway?” she grinned impishly.
“Seriously, Zelda,” he said with alarm. “I might be gone a while and didn’t want you to worry.”
“Or think you went off with some other girl?”
“Yes,” he continued gravely. “Especially since you’re like my girlfriend now.”
“Not just like. Am. You are the bahm diggity.” She rolled onto him, spilling his brandy.
23
Mrs. Hayden twitched as if just informed there was a vaccine for immortality. She tiptoed back behind home plate and waited for Puppy to guide her toward the stands. She shuddered, but the dugout wasn’t any more enticing.
“I cannot allow the Hayden brand to go here. I’m surprised at you, Puppy. You seemed to have more sense than that.”
“That’s the beauty of the idea, Ms. Hayden.”
“Your lack of any fundamental notion about business?”
Hold your ground, soldier. He dug his worn black shoes into the slightly yellowish-green infield grass. “Of course, Amazon Stadium is weathered.”
What would she have thought before they painted the seats in a semi-circle from third to first. Which cost money. Which cut into Fisher and Boccicelli’s bottom lines. Which meant Puppy had to find alternative resources.
“Weathered isn’t the word I’d use. Try gloom. Despair.” This from a woman who had dead people living in her basement.
“Yes.” He raised his finger. “That’s my point. Gloom. Despair. That’s what your, our,” he risked using the pronoun, “clients feel.”
Mrs. Hayden considered using Puppy’s skull as a salad bowl. “I bring them light and joy.”
“In the beginning they don’t know that.” He steered Hayden’s arm back toward the field, hoping the rest of her body would follow. “Amazon. Ancient. Old. Like death. That’s what people see. But you don’t.”
She narrowed her eyes impatiently. “I don’t?”
“Only Basil Hayden Funeral Homes sees through the gloom and brings happiness and relief to such a sad, mournful place of such sad, mournful memories.”
“There’s no other advertisers.” Her serpentine tongue lashed at the faded façade of the second levels. “What went there?”
“Verizon Wireless.”
“Cell phones.” She laughed coldly. “When’s the last time there were any advertisers?”
“October 12, 2065.” She reached for her coat. “You’re the trail blazer, the person who looks into the future. Doesn’t it bother you that you can’t get into NFL or NBA games?”
“I’ve tried. But they’re always sold-out.”
Puppy leaned with intimate urgency against the railing. “Are they really? Or don’t they want you, Ms. Hayden? Oh, we’re too happy to have funeral homes. We bounce and kick a big fat ball you can’t miss.”
“Maybe,” she conceded. “But I don’t want this. It’s beneath death.”
“You don’t want to reach your fastest growing customer?” That got her attention. “Who comes to baseball games?”
“No one.”
He risked a digit by wagging his finger. “DVs. Baseball’s fan base was always more DVs.”
“Miners,” she sneered.
“DVs, ma’am. Poor health. Stress. You know they die in greater numbers than the rest of the population. Haggard DVs shuffling to their seats, coughing, bones brittle, vitamin deficiencies, alcoholism, mental instability, sexual deviation, moral predators deservedly toppling on the edge of death. Hordes of shapeless, overweight, thrombotic, diabetic fans barely able to stay alive through the end of the game, wondering what happens if they don’t make it, who will make sure they’re not wrapped up in a big garbage bag, who will comfort their emaciated loved ones who will also probably die pretty damn soon.”
She stared, turning the hairs on his neck into needles. “Talk more.”
“I have the person who can answer all your questions.” He turned toward the Hawks dugout, repeating loudly, “I have the person who can answer all your questions.”
Ty popped onto the field dressed in a smart new suit and tie. Puppy dragged Hayden over.
“Ty Cobb, meet Adona Hayden, owner of Basil Hayden’s Funeral Homes. Ms. Hayden, Ty is player-manager of the Hawks. ”
“And a Hall of Famer in the first eligible class,” he added, leering slightly.
Hayden sniffed at Ty, frowning. “That smell.” She frowned again. “It’s formaldehyde.”
“No, Jen and James Cleaning Fluids.” Puppy laughed several octaves higher than normal. “We keep everything very sterile around here, including the players.”
“I think I know formaldehyde,” Hayden insisted.
Ty grunted. “Enough chit-chat. We here to do business or are we gonna stroke long ones all day?”
Hayden actually laughed like a human being. “Wouldn’t that be nice? My marketing guy here has been selling me the beans.”
“As they do.” Ty winked. “Them’s who can, don’t.”
She nodded uncertainly. “What would be the costs?”
Ty pulled her aside with a disdainful look at Puppy. “Look around. It’s a barn.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Like finding an unkempt piece of land in the swamp. A piece of land that might be valuable. Dirt cheap. Buy before it’s popular. That’s how I made a mint with Coca-Cola.”
Her tongue darted greedily. “How much is a mint?”
“Millions.” He poked her ribs and she giggled, light-headed from counting that many numbers. “They’re desperate. They figure a heavyweight like you buys in, everyone else’ll be interested. Hayden leads, the world follows.”
“Yes, of course. But will anyone really see the ad here?’
“Attendance is up 650 percent this week. This week alone. And you wouldn’t shoot only for this dump. Television, radio.” Ty spit ‘bacco juice over
her head.
“Do you mean vidnews and vidrad?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Adona stared. “I’d get good terms?”
“Best possible. Full creative control. Plus two spokespersons for the price of one.”
“Oh really.” She paused playfully. “Who would that be?”
“I’m one of them.” Ty beamed. “Long as you use those fluffy velvet pillows, honey. I don’t want neck pain from eternal sleep.”
• • • •
MOOSHIE DRAPED THE straight black hair wig over the foam mannequin’s head, unnerving Puppy slightly. She adjusted a thick red curly wig, resettling onto the stool in Jimmy’s office, now her dressing room. Three shows per week. Last night, standing room only.
“I don’t feel comfortable interfering, handsome.”
He peered into the end of her red lipstick. “It’s important.”
“And Zelda’s personal life isn’t? You want her to give up a guy she loves so your crazy ex-wife is happy?”
“It’s larger than that.”
Mooshie laughed so hard she had to re-apply her lipstick. “I ain’t asking her. I like Zelda.”
“And I love Zelda.”
“Maybe she loves you, too, moron. Ever think that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Loves you. Like she wished you really meant to marry her.”
Puppy dropped onto the desk. “She said that?”
Mooshie shook her head. “Just a feeling from the way she looks at you.”
He studied her. “What, you’ve got some ghostly insights?”
“Damned if I know what I got,” she said into the mirror. “Memories all fused together. I think I know something and then suddenly I don’t. Pisses me off.”
“So you won’t talk to Zelda?”
She smacked his forehead with the heel of her palm. “No. You should be able to find someone. You’re not bad looking, although a romantic charmer you ain’t.”
“Well I can’t, okay? I need someone I trust. Someone who’ll really go along with this. In three days.”
“Isn’t this against the rules?”
“Like stealing someone’s prized autographed baseball glove to buy an illegal ID from the Pumpkin?”
“How do you know?”
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