“Pumpkin left me a squared note. ‘Puppy Lies.’”
Mooshie sighed tiredly. “Sorry. I should’ve asked. Figured I could always replace it easily enough.”
“It was the most important thing in the world to me,” he said softly.
“Now it’s gone.” She snapped her fingers. “Lesson learned. Nothing should be the most important thing in the world.”
“It wasn’t about a thing, Mooshie. It was about you.”
“You got me in person, sweet cheeks.” She playfully slapped his face and glanced at her reflection. Puppy gloomily drew a sad face on his hand with the mascara.
“What would the engagement mean?” Mooshie asked carefully, discarding the red curls for her own cropped hair. She fuzzed it out like a porcupine.
“Nothing. I’d just say I’m officially engaged, now Annette can be.”
“How carefully do they check? Used to be a team of Brown Hats would grill you to make sure you weren’t faking for money, favors.”
Puppy shook his head. “The government’s so happy people are breeding to catch up to the Allahs, they kind of look the other way, I hear.”
Mooshie spiked her hair more, pleased. “Kenuda’s a Cousin, right?”
“He’s a Third Cousin. Commissioner of Sport.”
“They still have the cap on the number of Cousins?”
“There were problems with elitism so they opened it up. No one knows for sure how many. Pablo’s going for Fifth Cousin, but that’s a secret.”
“I’ll probably forget in five minutes, anyway.” Mooshie made a sour face. “There were five Firsts, six Seconds, seven Thirds, eight Fourths and nine Fifths, in the beginning.”
“How do you know?”
Mooshie shrugged, memories like a faucet turned on and off by someone else.
Jimmy rapped on the door. “Five minutes, Dara.”
“Thanks, hon.” She tugged on her needle-like hair. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“What?”
“Get engaged to you.”
His mouth dropped in shock. “You?”
“Yeah me.” Mooshie shook her fist. “But don’t even think of touching Mooshie’s Golden Forest.”
• • • •
THE EARLY MAY night was chilly and the Riverdale streets were deserted. It was a nice neighborhood with well-kept buildings, some dating back to the end of the last century, some built after the first brief clash with Iran in 2033.
They’d moved into one of the newer ones, courtesy of Annette’s parents. He was never sure if they gave them the glorious, already furnished two-bedroom apartment with a river view because they loved their daughter or simply wanted to show up Puppy like hey, you’ll never afford anything like this.
They were right, he had to admit. That’s why he’d decorated the fire escape. Take that, Despicable Ma and Pa Reg. Laid down a thick rug, put out a battery-powered lamp and mini-fridge and cooked SC eggs and cheese on the tiny portable stove. White wine, Van Morrison overseeing the entertainment. They’d fall asleep some nights, even when chilly like now, huddled under the blankets in their spare room, as she called it. Maybe Annette loved it because she wanted to be hopeful, as if the fire escape would breed and take over the rest of the apartment, devouring the stuffy, expensive dark wood furniture and showing her parents how wrong they were.
See how his little stove turned into a real one? How about that two-by-three shag rug growing into wall-to-wall? Munch munch eat that big ol’ eighty inch TV. Back when Annette believed in him. Back when Puppy still wanted to prove her wrong.
Maybe he still did and when would that stop?
At a light, he watched A20s scrub red graffiti off the side of a building. They paused to inspect their work.
“You can still read it,” Puppy said.
The three ‘bots turned sullenly. One of them grumbled and fetched a bucket of brown paint off their truck. It wouldn’t match the building, but it would blot out the KILL ALLAHS message. Third one he’d seen in the past couple days, Puppy wondered, buzzing Annette’s intercom.
“Who is it?” Annette rasped.
“Me.”
There was a long pause as she selected various disastrous scenarios. “What’d you do?”
“I have news. Will you let me in?”
Annette greeted him in a shapeless robe and big tortoise shell glasses, yawning. He had to gesture for her to step aside and let him in.
“It’s nearly midnight,” she complained, indicating boxes of neatly stacked shoes. “I’ve got a presentation in the morning.”
“And I’m pitching.” This time he wanted to make it out of the fourth inning.
“Oh. Well. Pardon. Want something to drink?” she asked mechanically.
He shook his head.
“I could find some food if you’re really famished.”
“I’m fine.”
Same apartment. Same furniture, paintings, knick-knacks. He’d have thought she would’ve burnt everything and started over.
Annette waited. “I’m not giving you anything.”
“You think I came here at midnight to ask for a painting?”
“Then why are you here?”
“Can I sit down?”
“If you have to.” She yawned again and caught him glancing at her breasts. She flushed and tightened the robe. “I’m tired, Puppy.”
He figured it’d be easy. That’s the point, isn’t it, he asked the painting of Grandma beaming majestically over the Bronx. Very smart to make divorce so difficult.
“I found someone.”
“Someone?” Annette squinted suspiciously. “A partner?”
“Yes. We’re very happy and we’re going to be engaged.”
She scrunched up her face, taking this in warily. “Who is it?”
“Dara Dinton.”
“I never heard of her.”
“And that means she’s not real?”
Annette shrugged. “Where’d you meet?”
“The bar where she sings. What’s it matter?”
“Just curious.” Annette tilted her head. “How old?”
“I don’t know…”
Annette’s eyes brimmed with doubt. “You don’t know.”
“She’s a little older.” If you count the time in Heaven, around seventy-five. “Honestly, I don’t care.”
“Uh-huh.” Annette frowned. “And you’re really engaged.”
“You think I’m lying.”
Annette pursed her lips. “A singer.”
Puppy tossed off a few chords from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A girl. I just said that.”
“Because The Beatles were all boys.”
Puppy flushed. “Are you trying to trick me, Annette?”
“I’m just trying to make sure this is true. A girl. Dara…”
“Dinton,” he helped. “Very nice.”
“Uh-huh.” Annette twisted her fingers nervously. “For real, Puppy?”
“For real, Annette,” he said softly. “You and Kenuda can get married.”
“You’re happy?”
Puppy really didn’t know how to answer that. “Sure.”
“That’s not like really enthusiastic.”
“You want me to jump up and down?”
“I want to make sure this will last.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. “I won’t change my mind, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Or she might,” Annette snapped back. “There is the ninety-day exploratory period.”
“I was married before, I know.”
“I’m just reminding you. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
“Again. That’s what you mean. Puppy screws up getting engaged. Like Puppy screws up everything else.”
Annette’s shrug infuriated him.
“I love Dara and she loves me. Passionately.”
“Well good because I love Elias wildly and he loves me wildly.”
“I’m glad we’re both madly in love.”
“Isn’t it beautiful.” Annette glared. “When are you filing the papers?”
“Tomorrow after the game.”
“Good.” She yanked open the door. “Make sure they send me a copy.”
“I think that’s the law.”
“Thank Grandma’s kneecaps. Good night.”
“Screw you, too, Annette.”
She perched herself on the windowsill and watched him leave the building and head down Riverdale Avenue, then crawled onto the fire escape with a bottle of wine, huddling beneath an old wool blanket. It was too late to tell Elias the good news.
• • • •
ABDULLAH BIN-NASR THOUGHT very highly of himself, which left no room to think highly of anyone else. Even faking obeisance or respect was difficult and often accompanied by a sneer which, when that angered his father, he explained away as a unique link between his mind and his mouth which few if anyone, except perhaps the Prophet Mohammad, could experience.
His father thought it was much shit as he thought much of what his eldest son suggested was much shit. Abdullah thought his father was much shit. He thought he was old and tired and dangerous because the world was forever young, forever birthing. Someone needed to oversee the new. That would be him.
Only one could lead. As had the Prophet.
“Give me your name again.” He crossed his small ankles; Abdullah was barely five-three.
“Azhar Mustafa.”
“A fine man,” the Imam said.
“As you mentioned.” Abdullah gestured for Azhar to stand; Mustaka thanked Allah silently for steadying his creaky knees. “That was a strong story of courage with that Crusader girl, Azhar.”
He forced out the words. “I did what needed to be done.”
“Which unfortunately, many don’t. They can only do what they’re told. Can you do what you’re told, Azhar?”
He nodded.
“What if you’re not told why you’re doing something?”
“I assume my lord knows better.”
Abdullah frowned. “You know I am superior.”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
Azhar peeked over to the Imam for guidance, who waved his hand in vague encouragement.
“You are a great man.”
“Am I?” Abdullah smiled. “Well, yes. But why?”
Mustafa grimaced. “Your charities resonate throughout the Caliphate.”
“That is governed by the teachings of the Quran. Have I anything to do with that?”
“The Word must be put into practice, my lord.”
Abdullah shifted in his wide chair, intrigued. “And you think some don’t?”
He looked again for guidance from the Imam, who shook his head.
“I think some don’t. Following Allah is difficult.”
“Some fail?”
“Yes.”
“Like who?”
Azhar looked directly at Abdullah, alarming the Imam. “Only Allah knows.”
“Yes, he does,” Abdullah was amused. “Clearly so do you.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“You’re allowed to mean, Azhar. You’re allowed to have thoughts. Because understanding Allah is, as you say, difficult. Many believe they talk directly. Do they talk to Allah or do they hear themselves thinking they are talking to Allah to justify what they believe and how they behave?”
Azhar’s mind scrambled to follow.
“Who is to know that?” Abdullah shrugged. “God must speak to many. Do you think he speaks to Crusaders?”
Mustafa vigorously shook his head.
“But what if a Crusader wants to know Allah?”
“They must study and accept Him in their heart.”
“What if they share the ideas of Allah but in their own way?”
“I don’t think that is possible.”
“But we share our holy books with the Crusaders and the Jews. Moses. Jesus. People of the Book. Why can we not share our minds and remain true? If our beliefs are so strong, our Prophet so strong, what should we fear by the thoughts of others?”
Azhar wanted to dig an escape hatch. “I don’t know the answer.”
The Son squeezed both of Mustafa’s wrists. “No one does. Except me.”
“Blessed be,” the Imam murmured, eyes glistening.
“With help.” Abdullah smiled. “I’m told you’re a good sailor.”
He nodded. “The best, my lord.”
The Mufti’s son laughed. “We will get along well, Captain.”
24
Hazel waited at the corner of Decater and Bedford Park, the glittering colors of the HG Bronx Botanical Gardens an Earth-bound rainbow a couple blocks away. Hazel smiled at the families strolling past in the mild May evening, jolting a few memories of being ten, an older orphan struggling to lose his French accent, and his parents Greta and Gail, long dead, taking him for hours and hours through the Gardens. He never realized the flowers weren’t real.
Hazel felt a slight pinch in his neck. When he woke, the black hood was still around his head, hands tied in the familiar Navy Seal clove hitch knot. His legs were free, allowing him to stretch the Gelinium.
Derek Singh pulled off the hood and Hazel blinked rapidly, a little angry.
“Was that necessary?”
Singh grunted. Easy Sun Yen reclined in a thick easy chair as if waiting for a vidmovie to come on. Three old, muscular men stood with arms folded, yawning; they were beyond menacing stares.
“I come to your planet in peace,” John quipped. Singh nodded and someone yanked off the knot. Hazel rubbed his wrists. “Any poisoned drinks or you’re saving that for the ride home?”
Derek used his heavy boot to slide a tottering chair by Hazel. They were in the back room of a store, probably Singh’s. John waited with a faint smile.
“What do you want?” Singh finally asked, straddling the chair.
“Same thing as you. To finally finish the job.”
Singh shot a quick glance around the room. “It’s a little late for that. War’s over. We have peace and prosperity.”
“Not unless you live under Allah rule, which is pretty much the whole world except for North America and the neutral zones in the Caribbean.”
“And China.”
“Xinjiang and Gansu are long gone to the Allahs. They’re still fighting in Yunnan and Henan.”
Yen shrugged from deep within his chair. “Their problems, not ours.”
“We’re just retired siblings,” Singh said.
“Dabbling in commerce,” Yen added. “Me with my haberdashery. Derek the country grocer.”
Hazel turned, waiting for the others to chime in, but they just stared. “Sicily?”
The one on the left with the crooked scar on his forehead nodded.
“Me, too. 238th.”
They didn’t do more than peer. Hazel sighed inwardly. “You heard Grandma’s Story.”
“Yup,” Singh replied simply.
“The Story’s the first step to redoing the curriculum. She backdoored this apology instead of letting it get debated in the Cousins Council. Children will learn lies.”
“Like they haven’t all this time?” Yen snapped; Singh shot him a warning look.
“Why do you think she’s doing this?” Hazel looked around.
“Clearly you got the answers.”
“I think she’s paving the way for a rapprochement.”
“That an English word?” The ex-Marine with the crooked scar drawled.
“No. French. Like me. They rescued my ass.” Les enfants de transport aerien, back in 2063. Tens of thousands, shivering on the beaches at Dunkirk, waiting for the planes. The Allahs had finally developed a sense of history not about themselves.
Singh leaned forward on the back of the chair, staring at Hazel. “We all know the history. We were there.”
“So was I,” Hazel tapped his Gelinium.
“238th. Sicily.”
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“That’s right. May 2069.”
“Bloody awful.”
“Damn straight.”
“Your rank?”
“I’m sure you already looked me up.”
“My memory’s fading.”
“Lance corporal.”
“Medals?”
“A few. I tossed ‘em at the White House during the memorial ceremony.” Millions of vets from all over American came that day, asking one more time for respect.
“Medals to the rubble. One pile of shame,” Yen recited their chants that day before the Black Tops crushed them. Literally crushing bodies, vets hobbling away on one leg, falling onto one arm, flattened beneath the huge blood-splattered wheels of the armored vehicles.
“That’s right.”
“But you got away,” Singh said.
Hazel unbuttoned his shirt. “Not without leaving with this.”
Singh stared expressionlessly at the three inch scar just above Hazel’s heart. “Knife?”
“BT hook blade.”
“Nasty shit.”
“Yes it was.”
“Could also be a razor twist.” Yen stood and rocked his left wrist side to side.
“I wasn’t a DV.”
“No, you were adopted by Fifth Cousins.”
“And happy about it.”
“They brought your ass over in the de transport aerien,” Singh’s voice dripped venomously, “and then let you enlist?”
“Some Cousins still believed in fighting.”
“Not many.”
“Mine, did.”
“Dead now.”
“That’s right. Sorry you can’t interrogate them.”
Derek pressed his nose inches from Hazel’s face. “What do you want?”
“Remove those in the way. Same as 10/12. Except this time, do it right before Grandma turns America into a mosque.”
Singh nodded and two of the former Seals flung Hazel onto a cot, where he was quickly strapped down. The one with the scar pulled out a long, glowing prong while Yen tied down Hazel’s right leg.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Hazel shouted before they stuffed a tissue in his mouth.
“Vets got the Geliniums. So did the BTs. Theirs have trackers.”
Hazel felt another pinch in the neck and stumbled into the darkness.
• • • •
THE LAST WHINING and annoying patient didn’t leave until after seven; Pablo controlled his compulsiveness so he only finished half the paperwork, glancing as much at the clock as the retina-numbing forms. He wrapped Puppy and Dara’s engagement present twice because the bow was uneven, then shaved again.
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