Mooshie shook her head. “I got to take chances and stand out.”
“Aren’t there any other singers from that era?”
“None.” She bristled. “Let’s put those four songs on the back end, but push out Bursting at the Seams as a single. Then offer up Barton 3, Dylan, Griebel, Sunshine Cloud and Mooshie as a package to the radsynds.”
Kenuda hesitated. “How about we use the song but list no credit?”
Mooshie darkened. “Out of shame?”
“She was a traitor, Dara. Her songs were banned.”
Lopez spit into the cup, surprised but not. “Banned?”
“I took care of restoring them because I know how important that music is to you. I honestly don’t understand why credits should be an issue…”
“Because artists shouldn’t be screwed. She wrote the fucking songs, she deserves the credit. Look, if there’s going to be a debate every time I want to record a song…”
“I never said that. I’m probably over-thinking.” Kenuda’s mind whirred so quickly his hair fluttered, resentment at Cheng’s patronizing threats buried beneath Dara’s beautiful eyes.
“Please.” She pouted; he finally relented with a weary sigh. “Thank you.”
“I’m very fond of you, Dara.” The Commissioner squeezed her shoulder.
“How can you not be?” Mooshie carefully shook loose as the engineer announced the break was over. “Let’s get back to work. guys. We’re adding another Mooshie Lopez song.”
Kenuda winced slightly. “Try to keep them at a minimum Friday night. You’re singing at the Stanton.”
“Where’s that?”
His eyebrows knitted. “You haven’t heard of the Stanton? It’s on the Grand Concourse. It’s a fabulous new club.”
“Prestigious?”
“Very. The usual open doors, which means Grandma might show.”
“Grandma.”
Elias cupped her trembling chin. “If you’re not ready for that, we can reschedule.”
“Oh no. I’m ready for her.”
• • • •
THE DISTASTE OF the scowling large men for the orphans could fill a mosque during Ramallah. Azhar kept them by the bow, put the pilot on automatic and handed the food out to the children. They lined up patiently, holding out their plastic bowls, then sat quietly at the rear of the large, sturdy ship, afraid to talk, make eye contact, or comment even silently on the vegetables swimming in a greasy red sauce that had long ago overwhelmed the rice.
Except for Clary, who tapped Azhar on the shoulder and pointed at the open, unending sea.
“Three hours, maybe.” He held up three fingers and she smiled. Azhar made room on the seat, but she shook her head. No, my little one, I would not touch you, he wanted to cry at her fear. Crusaders were known for cunning sexual practices. Harlot nuns, rapacious priests. Grandma had many lovers, including women. Homosexual perversions were common. How would this child, these children survive?
Better than in the Caliphate, his thoughts shamed him. No. Not shame. Anger. He glared at the three mute men holding rifles.
Touch one of them and I will kill you.
Three hours turned into just over four, five, the seas swirling, the children asleep, crawled into little balls, hands around each other. Only Clary stayed awake, her head drooping, worried the ship would turn into a prison and the guards would rip off her clothes. Finally she slumped, exhausted with hope, in the corner.
A light flickered in the distance, once, twice. Azhar rapped sharply on the center console, alerting the men. They re-checked the rubber dinghys attached starboard and port. Azhar signaled back to the other ship three times. He turned off the engine.
The orphans woke with a collective uneasiness, tightening their circle, fearful little animals. Clary whispered gently, rubbing a few heads and handing out water, which they greedily gulped. The large boat, probably a sixty-five footer, ambled forward, stopping a quarter klick away.
Say nothing, he’d been told, orders he didn’t care for. What did these people look like? The ship was not the American Navy. No markings, not even a name, number. Nothing to identify them. Neither was his ship, he shuddered, unease deepening. Azhar glanced back at the orphans, standing and holding hands, Clary in front, hands on hips, waiting. His children who he’d never see again.
Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. Americans are pigs. You should’ve let me hide Clary, Azhar thought sadly in the direction of home. We always wanted a daughter. Fool, he grew angry. Too much sentimentality, these bastards are just Crusaders, infidels, the Caliphate is better without them, The Son is wise to send them off. Let their weak souls and perverted genes infect America. Our enemy. These children are our enemies, enemies of Allah, your wife, your sons.
The boat blinked twice. The large men dropped the dinghys into the water and lowered the children. Clary helped guide her friends down. She was the last to leave.
The folder with all the orphans’ files tucked under her arm, Clary wiggled her fingers good-bye. Azhar sunk to his knees and held out his hands. Clary’s face twisted in violent debate, eyes watering. Finally, she just nodded, wiggling her fingers for a last time and climbing over the side.
“Gracias, senor,” she said, disappearing into the dinghy.
Diego’s mouth dropped as the little boats pulled alongside.
“They’re children,” he said to Lee as if discovering fire.
“What’d you think they were?” The Captain jerked his head toward the coffins lined up in the rear of the boat.
“We’re killing them?” Diego asked, his horror increasing.
Lee disgustedly shook his head at the boundless stupidity of his first mate and leaned over to help the children onto the boat. As they boarded, the youngsters’ eyes locked onto the coffins. They were terrified.
Clary scampered up last, growling at Diego’s outstretched hand. She swung her legs onto the deck in a slight crouch, looking between her orphans and the coffins.
“Que es esso?”
“Para esconderse de Allahs,” Lee surprised Diego with the foreign response, directing the words to the group. The frightened children waited for Clary to answer. She nodded brusquely and opened one of the boxes, pulling out a tiny blue pillow which she shook mockingly; the orphans laughed nervously.
“Tienes hambre?” Lee gestured at sandwiches on a small table.
Clary cracked the air with her fist, stopping the children from chowing down. “Esperamos hasta llegar a Estados Unidos.” She peered at Lee. “Sera abuela estar alli?”
“Finalmente.”
The children murmured excitedly about meeting Grandma. Clary clapped her hands for quiet. The captain hesitated and gestured to the coffins. “Por favor, usted sera mas seguro.”
Clary lifted each of the coffins and made a gesture of breathing deeply; Lee showed the air holes on the sides.
Diego finished counting heads and nudged Lee. “There are twenty-one of them, Captain.”
The orphans tensed at the low suspicious whispering.
Lee bowed politely at Clary and pointed at the coffins. “Veinte.” He waved at the orphans. “Veintiuno.”
“Si.” Clary pondered this and pointed toward the heavy tarpaulin in the corner.
“Excelente,” Lee said, grinning.
Clary motioned for him to be patient as she guided each of the children inside the coffins, whispering gently as she closed the lids. She burrowed under the tarpaulin with a loud, contented sigh.
“That girl’s gonna break a lot of balls and clits when she gets older.” Lee laughed, poking Diego to get underway.
The Allah ship still watched them. Lee waved and received a wave back. Their engines eased into low gear and turned steadily north by northwest. He heard the Allah boat move in the opposite direction.
Lee passed Diego, still shaking his head.
“Where’d you learn Spanish?”
“Who was talking Spanish?” he raised his eyebrows in shock. “That’s illegal,
ain’t it? Now get us rolling, we have to deliver the coffins back to Hayden’s before sunset.”
The Captain was deliberating over an AG chicken sandwich when the whirring of blades exploded overhead. Bullets riddled the deck, soaking the food with Lee’s blood. Diego steered wildly away from the trio of black ‘copters, but more bullets lacerated the ship, ricocheting into his side. He screamed at the children to stay in their coffins, but they popped up like dolls in an amusement park shooting gallery, falling in rows, draped over their wooden boxes.
“No!” Mustafa screamed at the flashing tracers and turned the boat around.
“What’re you doing?” One of the large men grabbed the wheel.
Azhar whacked him in the forehead with a crowbar and headed directly toward the smoking Crusader ship. Hovering impatiently, the ‘copters poured a last round into the slowly sinking vessel.
“Tarak hadhih almintaqat ealaa alfawr,” bellowed a voice over the loudspeaker.
Azhar froze for a moment before his rage melted all reason. He continued forward at top speed. The ‘copters fired five feet in front of the bow. Azhar veered to the right and both large men flung him across the ship.
“Assalamu alaykum, assalamu alaykum,” the men cried, waving their arms pleadingly. The ‘copters deliberated before firing a few rounds well off starboard and merging back into the clouds, leaving only the sound of their fleeing ship’s engines, Azhar’s sobs and something that could’ve been the wail of a dying child.
29
On August 5, 2073, the day World War Three ended, Grandma met the Grand Mufti at the Louvre to sign the Truce, insisting on a private ceremony to preserve some dignity. The Mufti had insisted on the site of the Martyrs Slaughter on the Rue de Rivoli, where National Front partisans had executed and burned more than two thousand Allah children.
They compromised on a quiet spot in the Tivoli Gardens. Just the Mufti, his mob of smiling black-robed murderers, herself, Cheng and Tomas. The terms were harsh: America and the protectorates of Canada and Mexico isolated on all sides, no foreign trade, no remilitarization, the United States could keep its nuclear stockpile, the little left after the unilateral disarmaments of the 2030s and 2040s.
The round table was populated by a tea pot and a few cups. Cheng and Tomas stood off, flanked by the Holy Warriors. Grandma moved slowly, as if hoping somehow the Atlantic and Mediterranean and Pacific Fleets would rise from the depths, captained by a zombie Navy, the sky would blacken with the Air Force and the beaches would part and Tomas’ many friends would climb out of their graves and this unthinkable loss would turn into a mere nightmare.
All she had left was the pen to sign The Truce. The Surrender. Cheng looked sick, Tomas stoic.
“Let us hope our peoples can live in peace now, Allah willing.” The fat Mufti, who looked like a rotting Jack-o-Lantern, had smiled through his blackish teeth.
Grandma scribbled her name. Her face hardened and she flung the pen aside, grinding it beneath her sturdy shoe. Tomas figured he could take out about five Warriors and hoped Cheng could handle the other two. Grandma could easily disembowel the Mufti if it came to that. A last temporary victory.
But the Mufti merely sneered with the graciousness of the victor and handed the broken bits of pen to Grandma with a chivalrous air. “Your souvenir, Grandma.”
Not since that day had Tomas seen the hatred return. He was relieved. Maybe some sense was right behind.
“Should I continue?” Tomas held up the report.
Grandma nodded sadly and curled up a little tighter on the couch in her private study, tiny with bright purple rugs and cheerful paintings of children and families.
“The Coast Guard encountered the first debris at approximately 2200 hours…”
“How long after?”
“The rendezvous with the Allahs was scheduled for 1400 hours.”
“Could there have been survivors if they’d received help immediately?”
“We couldn’t chance any official presence,” he stiffened.
Leonora pursed her wrinkled lips. “We should’ve had some ships in the area as backup.”
“That wasn’t the deal.” The twenty orphans had been released by Abdullah as a sign of good faith in the peace process.
“And this was?” she rasped.
Tomas held his breath. When you deal with the Devil, he thought carefully. She nodded for him to continue.
“The bodies of the twenty orphans were all recovered.”
She stared hard. “Were they abused?”
He shook his head. “Just murdered.”
Grandma’s eyes fluttered. “What were the ages?”
“Is that really necessary?”
Grandma’s stare cut across the top of his head, making him queasy.
“Eleven girls, nine boys,” Even though he’d memorized the report, he faked reading just to avoid her stare. “Ages six to twelve from various parts of southern ME.”
“Give me some histories,” she whispered.
He didn’t have to read these. “Deloras Villafane, seven years old. Her parents were part of the Resistance. She was given a hysterectomy to ensure she didn’t breed.” His voice broke. “All the girls were given hysterectomies.”
Tears slid down Grandma’s cheeks. “What where their names?”
“Lenora…”
“I want their names,” she said harshly.
Tomas flung aside the folder. “Read them yourself. I won’t torture you. That you can do.”
Grandma read aloud all twenty names, stumbling over pronunciations, then tossed the file into the fireplace and watched it quickly burn.
“What about the crew?” she asked over her shoulder.
“They retrieved the Captain’s body.” He paused. “But not the first mate.”
Grandma whirled. “Where is he?”
“I’m sure he’ll be found…” He paused. “Unless the Allahs took him prisoner.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they’re animals.”
“That doesn’t explain everything, Tomas. Though I wish it did. Make sure Admiral Tiridad clamps down on the Coast Guard. We can’t afford any leaks.”
“I already did.” Tomas hesitated. “Captain Lee has no family I’m aware of, but Diego Vasquez, the missing sailor, had left a contact in case of emergency.”
“No one’s to know, Tomas,” she said sternly.
“His family will worry…”
“I said no and that’s a damn order. Get word to Abdullah.”
He smiled malevolently. “How about something very simple like go fuck yourself, you filthy Camel.”
“This tragedy doesn’t change our plans. He wouldn’t have done this. There was no reason. He had nothing to gain. Nothing,” she said as if trying to convince herself. “These were rogues, people from his end who want the negotiations sabotaged.”
His mouth dropped. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Grandma slapped him hard on both cheeks. “Never forget yourself, Major. And never forget I decide the future of this nation. Take a couple days off. You’re worn out and no good to me.”
• • • •
HER APOLOGY FLASHED on his beeper during the second round when he changed from beer to whiskey: “I’m so sorry. You know I can’t do without you. Sleep well, my darling.”
Tomas had this theory about apologies. That it’s all well and good for someone to say they’re sorry, but the apology doesn’t wipe out the original blast. It wasn’t like some demon had taken hold of you. Whatever you said was inside. Maybe you regretted it. Maybe because it was wrong or because it hurt someone’s feelings or hurt you, in some way. But you said it. You meant it at that time and that time is what we are, strung together. Reflection’s a waste of a breath, left in the past, lost.
He paid for the drinks and hailed a cab outside Monroe’s; the place hadn’t changed in thirty years. The ride uptown dragged on through the endless traffic and he jumped out at Ogden Avenue, c
losing the distance quickly on foot.
The woman answered sleepily on the second buzz, coming alive when he said Diego sent him.
“Can I get you something?” the chubby black girl asked.
“I’m fine, Ms. Jones.” He took in the messy, well-thought-out apartment filled with colorful art hanging on walls, sketches taped to mirrors, all different styles; the girl changed her mind a lot.
She smiled as he scanned the living room. “You like art?”
“Don’t understand it, ma’am.”
“Zelda.”
“Zelda. I still don’t understand it.”
“That’s the great secret behind art.” She playfully pressed her lips. “No one does. No one ever did. All this great parade of endless bullshit when all the artist cares about is displacing some pain.”
He shrugged politely.
“So Diego sent you with some message?” Zelda offered him cookies. When he declined, she nervously stuffed one into her mouth.
“I don’t even know him.”
Zelda laid down the plate and pulled a razor from her slipper. “Who are you?”
He squeezed her wrist and kicked the falling blade across the room. “I had to get inside. Sorry. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
“With Diego?”
Tomas hadn’t played out the story. Too damn angry. Or drunk. “There was an event at sea. The ship sunk and Diego’s dead,” he said flatly. Show emotion and it only deepens their hurt.
“Dead.” The word tasted horribly. “Are you sure?”
Tomas nodded. Either he’s stuck at the bottom of the ocean or camel appetizers by now.
Her fingers dug into his forearm. “Sunk how? What about his body? What was he doing?”
“I’ve nothing more to say. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
She yanked his arm as Tomas turned to leave. “Or you can’t say? That’s it. Diego was doing something secret.”
“He told you?”
“He’s the father of my fucking baby. Are you with the government? The Black Tops?” Zelda sniffed to find his identity.
“Listen to me.” Tomas held Zelda’s face very tightly. “Diego listed you as his next of kin. Obviously you meant something. I did you a favor by letting you know. Now forget this visit for your sake and the sake of your child.”
A Mound Over Hell Page 42