A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “Like hell I will…”

  “And we’ll chalk this up to enthusiasm. The fans loved it.”

  Fisher and Boccicelli exchanged uneasy glances. The Falcons owner said, “Yes they did. A little too much. We don’t want the DVs all riled up.”

  Puppy frowned. “It’s a baseball game.”

  “We know that. But all the barking. And the applause. Who knows where such behavior will lead.”

  “To a real game,” Puppy said slowly.

  “Or more violence. Riots. Worse. Remember 10/12.” Boccicelli’s mind nearly exploded at the thought of bloodshed and mayhem because of this vicious old man. He calmed down with difficulty. “Your DVs can howl. Seems suitable in a way.” He sneered. “We understand it’ll never be like football or basketball, where the fans innately understand what is proper.”

  “Backgrounds matter,” Puppy’s mouth barely moved.

  “Precisely.” Boccicelli clasped his right shoulder; the pain didn’t register through the anger. “So then, we’re all agreed Ty Cobb is suspended three games…”

  Puppy nudged the cursing Ty away.

  “If he’s suspended, I won’t play. Neither will the rest of the team.”

  Boccicelli blanched. “Are you threatening us, Nedick?”

  “No. I’m just stating a fact.”

  “Then we’ll get other players. That shouldn’t be hard.” Boccicelli looked at Fisher for support, but the Hawks’ owner wasn’t so sure.

  “I bet the fans will love that. You might have to cancel games until you replace us. We have a great advance sale for my next start. That means where they buy tickets ahead of time. We’re talking maybe ten, fifteen thousand fans.”

  Fisher tugged hysterically on Boccicelli’s sleeve, but the Falcons owner waved him off. “I won’t be intimidated by a, a…”

  “Baseball player?” Puppy helped.

  “Daring to strike. Which is illegal no matter who they are.”

  “Who’s striking?” Puppy coughed. “A bad cold is sweeping the clubhouse. Wouldn’t surprise me if the Falcons catch it, too.”

  Fisher covered his mouth with his handkerchief.

  “I’ll bring back HGs,” Boccicelli shouted.

  “I’m sure Third Cousin Kenuda would love that after he approved the museum.” Puppy paused to let Fisher cower behind a chair. “Unless you’d like to hear a solution.”

  “Yes, yes.” Fisher pleaded.

  “We’re a society of laws. In your mind, Ty broke a law. He should be punished.”

  “Hell I will…”

  Puppy waved Ty back into the chair. “Since he hates the Falcons so much, why not have Ty instruct them in some of the finer points of baseball? Might make the games a little more competitive.”

  “You want me to teach those clowns?” Ty roared.

  Boccicelli’s peevish glare cut short Fisher’s laugh. The Falcons owner puffed up and, with an imperial flourish, said, “Since it upsets him so much, that seems fitting punishment.”

  “Yes, agreed,” Fisher said.

  “I ain’t doing it,” Ty shouted.

  Puppy dragged him from the office and into the hallway. “Listen. You’re going to teach them your finer points of baseball.”

  “Fuck I am.”

  “The Ty Cobb way.”

  Ty’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Everything?”

  “Everything. Then who’ll be left to complain?”

  Cobb grinned. “You got brains for a colored boy.”

  Puppy rolled his eyes. “It must be from my alcoholic white father.”

  • • • •

  AZHAR WATCHED A fourth naked girl wander down the hallway. This one walked funny, rubbing her thighs without any self-consciousness. He lowered his eyes onto his shoes, tucked beneath the metal chair.

  “Got a smoke, luv?” She was about fifteen and blonde, lipstick smeared on a surprisingly delicate mouth.

  He shook his head without looking up, which still gave him a view of her slim legs. Moans dribbled out from behind the door. How long can this go on?

  The prostitute lifted his chin. He hadn’t seen another woman’s breasts in eighteen years. In the past half hour, he’d seen eight. All the more magnificent than his wife’s, which were slightly droopy, the left a little larger. This girl’s nipples were perfect. All their nipples were perfect. Their stomachs. Thighs. Asses. Feet. Crusader witches.

  Azhar pretended to fuss with his shoes. The girl knelt and re-tied his laces.

  “Who you with?”

  “A businessman,” he said simply. Abdullah traveled as a Saudi mining expert, Azhar, his assistant. Allah protect them if either were asked a question about a cave.

  She finished and tapped his shoes as if he weren’t paying attention to the curve of her white back. “Tell your boss if he still has pop, number ten is special.”

  “I will tell, certainly.”

  The girl laughed, deeply amused, scratching her vagina and returning to her room. They are all so wanton, he thought. He couldn’t imagine Jalak here, he shuddered. Ever, despite any privations. Or her sisters, ugly as they are. But Jalak’s world was not wiped clean. Then embrace a new one, he grew angry at the Crusader prostitute’s stubbornness. Learn a new way, find Allah. Or fight back. Instead, they spread their legs.

  Azhar yawned, eyes down as a chubby naked man strolled past with the happiness of a well-done blowjob. Abdullah had warned against any eye contact.

  Then why are we here? His anger returned. This is the great mission? A cesspool, this city. Perhaps the Son required fortification, but must they be so young? Worry yourself not. The Crusaders, they deserve this. No they don’t, he suddenly thought, ashamed. Clary could just as easily be in one of these rooms.

  Azhar fingered the silver crucifix, deep and safe in his pocket. While waiting for the Son to finish meetings, as he had waited all day since docking last night, he’d wandered down Great Jones Street in the Crusader shopping district. Infidels edged aside on the street; he’d done his best to seem haughty and privileged, only he was embarrassed. He’d hurried into the nearest shop, a small jewelry and antique shop called The Dead Past, glass cases filled with silver artifacts.

  The elderly owner moved silently by his elbow.

  “Just looking,” Azhar said gruffly.

  The man disappeared without vanishing. Azhar peered at a row of crucifixes. Same size as Clary’s scar. Should he call it a scar? Mark. Savage, bestial mark. Azhar squirmed inside his own thoughts, glancing at the owner to make sure his anger was private.

  “A cross, sir?”

  Azhar snorted disdainfully. “How can you sell these?”

  The man pointed to the sign on a wall: The Collectors. “Throughout Europe, we’re allowed to sell remnants of the disgraced Judeo-Christian world to remind everyone how well our lives have improved under sharia.”

  Azhar returned the bow; neither was sincere. He pointed to a small cross in the top row. The owner slowly removed the necklace, as if to give Azhar time to reconsider. Mustafa snapped his fingers impatiently.

  Same size. It could fit exactly into the mark. You’ll never see her again, why are you doing this? Azhar had paid the owner and quickly left, continuing to sightsee, though without any enthusiasm.

  The whorehouse door finally opened. Abdullah nodded briskly as if he’d done nothing more the past two hours than linger over a meal. On the staircase, the Son adjusted his tie, using the wall for a mirror. He is a Mufti’s son. Naturally he can see himself in brick, Azhar thought sourly.

  “Are you sure you don’t need anyone?”

  Mustafa thought of the blonde girl in number ten, careful not to answer in any way that might suggest disapproval. They went into the alley and Azhar drove the small Italian car through the dark streets of the Caliphate of London.

  Muslims in traditional garb wandered along the well-lit streets of Islamic shops. Side streets, the Crusader shops, were dark; the curfew had started three hours ago. Infidels were shot without warni
ng or question. Mustafa steered around a figure lying in the road, hopefully sleeping.

  “Shall we go back to the hotel?” Azhar glanced into the rear view mirror. Abdullah sat in stony silence.

  Azhar eased through London, past the shattered half of Big Ben and the shell of their Parliament, the crescent moon and star waving over the aged buildings which looked like decrepit, once proud old women. Animals grazed on the lawn of Buckingham Palace. Just like the pictures, Azhar thought wonderingly. Jalak and the boys would love a souvenir. He sighed and drove along the Thames, London Bridge brimming with tourists snapping photos.

  The Son shoved a flask over Azhar’s shoulder.

  “No thank you, my lord.”

  Abdullah grunted and noisily swigged. “Is vodka not to your liking?”

  “I’m driving, sire. I wouldn’t want to get into an accident.”

  A displeased grunt was followed by another noisy sip. “You’ve never been to London?”

  “I’ve never been outside the Caliphate of North Africa until now, other than on water.”

  “Haven’t you been curious?”

  “No, my lord. My family provides enough wonders for me.”

  Abdullah laughed heartily. “What are your impressions so far of the great world beyond your dining room table?”

  Azhar hesitated. “A triumph.”

  Abdullah’s drunken breath laced his ear. “Of what?”

  Allah, please find me in this wretched place. “God’s will.”

  “All Allah’s doing.”

  “As is everything.”

  “Which you believe?”

  Azhar nervously gripped the wheel. “Yes.”

  “All this,” the Son banged on the window, “is because we are devoted to Allah?”

  “Yes.” He prayed at a red light.

  “If the Crusaders believe in God, and many of them were fervent, then why did we win?”

  He should’ve listened more to Omar’s bleating at dinner. “Our faith is stronger. Our religion stronger.”

  “Our God stronger. Only there is just one God. Unless you believe in polytheism?”

  Azhar wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

  “Many Gods,” Abdullah helped. “It was the Jews who first said, one God. To which we agreed.”

  “Yes,” he mumbled uneasily.

  “Then the Jews had something to offer? If they did, why did we eliminate them? Oh, don’t worry.” He clasped Azhar’s shoulder, “I won’t ask for any explanation.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Son smiled. “Life is much simpler when we don’t think, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “When we accept. Stop.”

  Abdullah staggered out while the car was still slowing. He weaved toward the gleaming mosque as Azhar sloppily parked at an angle and followed.

  “Do you know what that was?” Abdullah pointed to the tall building. “St. Paul’s Cathedral. More than four hundred years old. Holiest of holy, Azhar. Their great Crusaders are buried there. Were buried. We dug them up and dumped them in the river. The Thames. Come Azhar.” Abdullah dragged him by the wrist, but he stiffened, afraid.

  “Come Azhar,” the Son hissed. “Come see what we did. What we extinguished. What we remade according to our law for there is only one law and it is Allah’s. That is what I believe. That is what you believe. But if we believe that, then what does Allah say to Jesus? Isn’t he in Heaven? No, course not.”

  The Son smashed the flask on the floor. “Only true believers. I’m a true believer. You’re a true believer. Believe in what we believe, Azhar. This is what we believe.”

  Azhar gasped, aware of the heresy, the sacrilege, puzzled by the riddles. Allah would strike them down. He closed his eyes, waited to be extinguished, briefly regretting not touching the young blonde’s breasts before he died. Abdullah burst out laughing at this sorry statue of fear.

  “Nothing happened,” the Son said softly.

  Allah is wise. He will wait for the best time when my guard is down.

  “Nothing will happen.” Abdullah took Azhar’s sweating hand. “Come inside and see. Take a picture to someday show your family. For someday we will return this church to its rightful owners.”

  Azhar knew whatever he did would be wrong.

  • • • •

  ZELDA FINALLY RAN out of conference rooms to hide in. She had started in 102A, which smelled a little stinky from all the fish samples curling up on a plate from the night before. The eight-thirty meeting almost left as soon as they arrived, thinking she’d booked the space, but Zelda made a big pretense of acting distracted, up late working, must be the wrong room, don’t we have someone to clean up?

  That worked for a while in 106B, where she dully studied a power point on sales plans for the Southern region. Knoxville seemed an especially big market along with Little Rock. On page five of the plan, she noticed one of her salmon characters, Diego.

  “Catch me if you can.” One of his big brown eyes winked and her heart sank before off she went, apologizing to another group.

  In 110C, she forced down some almost tasty SC fruit, pocketing half a blueberry muffin as she nodded knowingly to the nine-thirty meeting colleagues carrying their power points and pads and pens and gossiping about where they went last night and all the fun they had.

  She threw up around nine forty-five, an excuse to hang out in the coffee alcove, waiting for the earlier meetings to bring their leftover food to share. Two sesame bagels later, she summoned the courage or, really, just ran out of hiding places, and headed toward Katrina’s office.

  Get it over with, Zelda told herself. She tugged down her white blouse and rounded the corner.

  “Here she is.” Boar Face snatched Zelda by the elbow and into the office. “You must’ve heard us talking. Thinking about you. That’s the way a business runs. Zelda Jones, please meet Saul.”

  Wizened Saul Ribe politely tipped his white-haired head. “A pleasure, young lady. There’s nice things being said in your direction.”

  “Thank you.” Zelda flashed a grateful smile at Boar Face.

  “She was the key in the lock, Saul,” Katrina explained.

  “Salmon could be a mystery to some. The whole concept of fish. Who are they? What do they want? What do we want from them?”

  “To eat ‘em,” Zelda cracked.

  Saul roared. “But to do it in a nice way so the salmon aren’t upset.”

  “Nor the customers,” she added. “Eating living things is disgusting but we do it, so we might as well do it with humor.”

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” Boar Face beamed.

  Saul leaned against the door, absorbing Zelda’s extraordinary insights into the world beneath the sea and how it relates to the world on land and how that generates money.

  “Katrina said she found you in the education world.”

  Zelda glanced curiously at Boar Face, snorting slowly. “I was an art teacher, but I didn’t get along with the school authorities.”

  Katrina hugged her. “They didn’t understand her mind as I do.”

  “Understanding’s important,” Saul agreed.

  “The parents and kids also didn’t…”

  “But I saw enormous potential,” Boar Face continued.

  “Finding good workers is so difficult,” Saul said.

  “I actually started with Mr. Pietro.” Zelda smiled sweetly.

  “Ah,” Saul said sadly.

  “Yes,” Boar Face agreed solemnly.

  Zelda tensed. “Is he dead?”

  “Moved on,” Saul explained as Katrina’s eyes twinkled triumphantly around Mr. Pietro’s corporate carcass. “Fortunately we have Katrina and her remarkable gift for discovering talent.”

  “I only had to give Zelda direction, show her my vision and then harvest.” Katrina reached up to an imaginary fruit tree.

  Saul studied Zelda as if she were an apple. “What were some of Katrina’s best ideas?”

  “Giving personality to the salmon
, right, Zelda? You loved that one.” Katrina pawed the ground with her high heels.

  Zelda squirmed in the tight skirt. Deep breath, balloon girl. You don’t want to find out what happens to unemployed single pregnant women.

  “Actually I think…” They waited. “The dancing came first. Singing and dancing salmon gave birth to the personalities. Diego was your best character.”

  “Yes, Diego.”

  “You came up with him on the bus, right?”

  “Oh yes. The uh…”

  “The bus driver was the model. And then she turned to me. I’m good at executing other people’s ideas.”

  Boar Face smiled like she’d just gobbled down a monkey.

  “Keep it going. I won’t rest until tuna salad is an afterthought.” Saul shuffled down the hall as if suddenly very bored.

  “Wonderful man. Genius, actually.” Katrina picked up a thick folder. “Good, Zelda. Knowing how to talk to the boss is very important.”

  “Especially knowing what to say.” She smiled coldly.

  “That’s my job,” Katrina returned the frosty look, hued with warning. “Stick with me. You might actually learn something.”

  I don’t have a choice, Zelda realized sadly. All her life, failure had given her real options.

  27

  Derek motioned Yen down so they could catch their breaths. Neither would admit that sixty-five-year old men playing soldier in the middle of the night needed naps.

  Yen grunted gratefully and lay on his stomach, hoping the forty armed men who had crept along the desolate country road were all in place. They had no communications devices that wouldn’t be detected.

  Singh glanced at his watch and signaled two minutes. Yen rolled over on his back, staring upside down through the electrified fence. At thirty seconds, sparks flashed one, two, three, done. The men exchanged pleased nods and Yen rolled back onto his elbows, cradling the Bannister C20 rifle.

  Singh finished slicing the wire and slid forward, rising to hands and knees and then a bent back trot. On all four sides, khaki-uniformed men and women hurried forward. Yen peeled off slightly to the left, waiting around the side of one of the long horseshoe shaped cottages until a Black Top guard strolled past on his two-fifteen patrol. Yen cut his throat and motioned for Singh to follow.