He jabbed the edge of the book into Dale’s thigh and they wrestled a moment, finally kissing and screwing really quickly, which usually calmed her down for a few minutes. He went back to the Hall of Fame book, searching for an answer among the great pitchers while she pissed.
Returning, Dale dropped by his side, shaking the narrow bed in her narrow room, decorated like the set of an old-time Western with a saddle hanging on the wall and a row of black cowboy hats hooked over the bed. Dale put on a hat and pretended to shoot him.
“Will you stop? This is important.” He held up the book.
“How?” Dale crossed her legs.
“I’m helping Puppy.”
“What if he can’t be helped?”
“He can,” he said angrily. “Don’t you have studying?”
“I know everything.” Dale dismissed the first phase of her Reg exams next week, which would determine whether she could apply for computer engineering school.
“Everything?”
“In the whole world. I fixed the scoreboard, didn’t I? And that was rusted shit stuff. I had to hack out three viruses.” Dale played with her blonde curls. “Should I be a redhead?”
“No.”
“You think I’d look ugly?”
“Yes.”
She slapped him playfully. “What if I don’t go to Bronx University?”
“Then don’t. They have computer engineering courses at Bronx College.”
Dale rolled onto her back. “What if I don’t do either one?”
He tossed the book aside. “And do what?”
“I like what I’m doing at the stadium. I want to do more.”
“What about next year? This is the last season.”
“You said there’d be more.”
“I hope there is,” Frecklie said.
“You’re going to be a baseball architect.”
“If there’s another season.”
“Then I’ll design the scoreboard show if there’s another season,” she said.
“What if there’s not?”
“Then what’ll you do?”
If Puppy couldn’t pitch anymore, then there surely wouldn’t be any more baseball.
“I want to get married, ‘seminate and make demons fly, Rubie,” Dale said softly. “I don’t want to be with the damn Regs at school. I heard some of them talking at the game today…”
“There’s Regs coming?”
She made a disgusted sound at his surprise. “Lots. They sat in the second level. They laughed at the game and said the players are fat and old.”
Frecklie’s jaw tensed. “You sound like my mother.”
Dale tenderly kissed his shoulder. “She’s not always wrong.”
“You say that because she likes you.”
Dale nodded.
He took a breath for courage. “You’re taking the Reg test.”
Dale sat up, glaring. “Are you giving me orders?”
“Yes because you’re smarter than me and if anyone should go to college it should be you.”
“I am smarter than you and are you saying you’re not taking the exams?”
“Only if you will.”
“Fine.”
They shook hands. Dale played with his fingers, peering at the page. “He’s ugly.”
“Amos J’anos was a great pitcher for Cincinnati.”
“Why?”
“Because he fooled batters.”
“How?”
He sighed, annoyed because he didn’t remember much of J’anos. “Read yourself since you’re smarter than me.”
Dale propped the book on her wonderful white thighs and he started getting hard again. “He was a failure in the beginning.”
“Not if he was in the Hall of Fame.” He went to take the book, but she crawled to the other side of the bed.
“His career sucked in the beginning because he couldn’t throw hard.”
Frecklie slid over, curious.
“He hurt his arm and they sent him to play with the rebels.”
“What?”
“Miners.”
“Must be the minors. They used to have them. Minor leagues for younger players to learn the game.” He nearly fell reaching for the book as she danced away, laughing and reading.
“With the minors,” she drew the word out into three syllables, “he learned to throw a knuckleball. Do you know what that is?”
He shrugged.
“Some baseball expert.” Dale smirked. “It doesn’t hurt the arm and he pitched until he was 56. How old is Puppy?”
“Close to that.” He smiled. “Can I have the book back?”
“What do I get for it?” Dale rolled onto her stomach.
• • • •
TWENTY BODIES. TWENTY-ONE pairs of shoes. Cheng locked the small, stiffened black shoe in the lower drawer. Who are you, child, and where are you hiding?
This was overlooked, Admiral Tiridad had apologized. We miscounted in the rush to destroy the boat and the bodies.
What about the bodies of the sailors who found them?
Everything has been cleaned, First Cousin.
Except you, little one, he thought, hurrying to the underground security tram three levels below. Two Black Tops flanked him, Rochester machine guns casually draped across their thick pants. Eventually they surfaced beneath a clump of trees nestled in the northern sector of Van Cortlandt Park.
He chased the HG squirrels around the trees before another team of Black Tops arrived in an armored truck; they drove into a tunnel concealed beyond some stumps, running beneath the House.
More Black Tops left him inside Grandma’s living room. He hadn’t ordered this level of security since the war ended.
Grandma looked worn as she sat down with a distracted smile.
“Have you been taking the bio-vits?” he gently scolded.
“I must’ve forgot.”
“Lenora….”
“Don’t worry.” Her smile faded. “I’ll live to see a world where Muslim and American children play together.”
His face tightened in disgust.
“Despite your qualms,” she said.
“I’ve moved past that, Grandma. I only insist one last time that this meeting with the Son be HG.”
She shook her head violently. “No. I can still feel the filth of his father’s fingers on my palm. That has to be washed away, Albert. If I can’t touch his skin, feel the warmth and the comfort of true partnership, a new real beginning, then…”
He imagined her in the same room with this Camel, shaking hands and giving away their country. Albert sighed. He glanced around for the cookies and tea. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d forgotten to serve.
“Any ideas for where?” Grandma asked after a few more minutes of silence.
“I like meeting in Cuba.” With a raised eyebrow, she indicated for him to continue. “Cuba’s sort of forgotten after the Allahs violated the Truce and we drove them back, so in their arrogant minds, it doesn’t exist. Their nearest base is Caracas, but intel says it’s in bad shape. Rotting fleet, undertrained Marines. The whole Camel Latin American occupation is flimsy. Their forces can’t try anything.”
Grandma smiled. “We can actually defend ourselves somewhere? I thought it was all cardboard ships.”
His mouth tightened. “You can be protected and rescued if need be given the nearness to Florida.” And we have stashed some nukes in Miami you don’t know about. But I prefer to save them.
She nodded, staring off. He cleared his throat to regain her attention.
“I know Tomas has handled this from the beginning,” Cheng said.
“And he’ll continue,” Grandma said sharply.
“Of course. But given the need for cooperation with the military, it’s imperative I participate fully.”
Grandma’s weariness deepened. “You want to contact Abdullah directly?”
“I need to be a part, is all I’m saying.”
“Bringing you in could scare t
he Son off, especially after his people attacked our children.”
“If it scares him off, how committed is he?”
She considered that, finally nodding. Grandma watched him fidget. “Is my First Cousin suddenly shy?”
“Never. Just careful.” He took a deep breath. “I’m worried what’ll happen here when you announce a real door has opened to Islam.”
“People will be upset.”
Upset. He stared, more worried than angry. She hasn’t thought this through. Just show up on the vidnews and say all is forgotten, and Americans will rejoice. Forget the sullen parades, the cremated bodies, crippled men and women, childless families. Forget the smoke of Los Angeles and the ruins of Washington, the skeleton of Manhattan. Forget the shame. The thirteen million. Let’s dance with the murderers.
Peace is not a real concept without victory.
Albert squeezed her thin wrist. “Lenora, they’ll be more than upset.”
“I’ve prepared them with the Story,” she answered indignantly.
“But you need more.”
She fluttered searchingly inside his mind. “Baseball?”
“Indeed.”
Grandma walked away. She never did that. “Baseball, Albert?”
“They’re up to twenty thousand a game, perhaps more.”
Her eyes widened. “You told me there was just a few hundred fans…”
He shrugged, also a ltitle baffled. “It’s hit a chord. The last season and all. Like a big party. They’ve even opened up the scoreboard. That witless Kenuda has managed to do something good for once.”
“I’m glad you kept me informed,” she said coldly.
“Because I knew your reaction.”
Grandma conceded that with a nod.
“There’s an opportunity for a theme.”
“Baseball and revolution. Where’ve I heard that before?”
“No. Baseball and forgiveness.”
Grandma stared into her hands, the sounds of 10/12 thundering in her mind. “You want me to publicly endorse treason?”
Some would call what you’re doing treason.
“Forgiveness. We must move forward. Isn’t that what this summit is about? Enemies can be friends. Why not our own people?” Grandma flinched. “Ironic how we’re switching sides…”
“Yes, isn’t it?” She frowned.
“I’m expanding on your vision, Lenora. You want me to support you, then let’s really do this right. We can talk about this being baseball’s last season and honor the memory of those who died and those who played…”
“Traitors.”
“I was on that goddamn Cubs team that day, Grandma. My uniform was splattered with your blood. Don’t insult me and the men and women who were true Americans.”
Sighing, Grandma nodded slowly. “Go on.”
“We’ve already restored some of Amazon Stadium with plaques and tributes…”
“Have you?”
“You’ve been busy. And I knew you wouldn’t like this.” You’re not the only one who can keep things, he thought sullenly, easily brushing aside her mental probes.
“Can’t you think of something else?”
“There is nothing else, Lenora. The incidents are rising. Abandoned churches were burnt down in Cincinnati and Atlanta, criminals shouting they were mosques. There were protests in Kansas City, San Francisco and Minneapolis against the Story. Parents have pulled children out of the school districts where you introduced the new curriculum. They’re calling you a liar.”
“Once the education plans fully phase in…”
“Hate always trumps education, Lenora.”
“That goes against everything I believe…”
“Which doesn’t change the facts, damnit. We can’t make this reality into a pretty little hologram. Over a thousand people have been murdered since the Story because they looked like Allahs.”
Grandma was horrified, slumping into her thick chair. “Why do they always…”
“You really ask why?”
“I must try.” Grandma activated a small vidmural of children splashing in a pool, silently watching. “Do you really think baseball could work?”
“Baseball fans were the cesspool of resistance, the sewer of nostalgia for the days of the American Empire. Embrace that base with your public approval and we’re building the foundation for peace.”
“You sound like you suddenly believe in this summit.” Grandma patted his cheek, while quietly searching his thoughts.
“If you believe in something, then I do.”
“You’ve always been there for me, Albert.”
His eyes watered. “Yes I have, Lenora.”
They kissed tenderly on the lips.
“I assume you have a plan as always?” she asked.
“You might not like everything.” She grunted. “But we have the perfect role model. Actually, two perfect role models.”
31
In the corner of the empty shadowed playground on Clay Avenue, Frecklie peered over Puppy’s shoulder at the open Hall of Fame book. Puppy tapped the side of his head with the ball to teach his brain to grasp the concept, flipping the pages over and over; Frecklie squatted, catcher’s glove sadly perched on his head.
Five knuckleball pitchers in the Hall of Fame and not a single word of advice. Dancing faintly in his memory was the notion that a knuckleball was not thrown with the knuckles. Frecklie had strongly disagreed, being sixteen and still believing in such ideas as words meaning what they said.
Puppy’d tried pressing the ball against his knuckles while his right thumb provided a foundation, but the pitches just flipped up apologetically or darted left and right; if baseball were redesigned with a moving batter’s box, maybe it’d work.
There had to be a simple answer somewhere. That was why people once had the world wide web, he realized, if only it hadn’t offered tips such as how to make enough chemicals to destroy Manhattan.
Frecklie pointed again at the photo of J’anos’ winding up. “Fingers into ball.”
Hoyt Wilhelm and Phil Niekro and Tim Wakefield and Kendall Atkins and Amos J’anos and now Puppy Nedick. And your other option is what, exactly?
Frecklie trotted a few feet away, pounding the glove.
Puppy waved briskly. Too far.
The boy fluttered his fingers on his chest. Too much pressure?
Puppy angrily motioned him further back and dug at the concrete, emulating a mound. Using two fingers digging into the ball, he threw ten feet over Frecklie’s head. A slender little old man seemingly came out of the ground to grab the ball.
“What’re you trying to do?” the man asked.
Even thirty feet away, the gruff voice was unmistakable. Puppy tipped forward in a neck bow, nudging the baffled Frecklie to follow. Cheng walked over, flipping the ball with a loving smile. Frecklie kicked the book under his coat.
“Is this ball regulation size?”
“Yes, First Cousin Cheng,” Puppy said. “We used the supplies in the Dead Past Warehouse on Bruckner.”
Cheng chuckled. “I think I hit this one in the ’62 Series.”
“First or fourth game, sir?”
“Right. You’re also the historian.” He looked at the trembling Frecklie. “I’m only a First Cousin, son. No need to be rattled. Now be impressed by this guy, he’s averaging ten strikeouts a game.”
Puppy tipped forward again at the compliment, his mind racing about what a First Cousin was doing in a deserted DV playground at dusk.
“So why are you learning a knuckler? I’m figuring that’s what you’re trying unless it’s some secret new pitch.”
“I’m improving my repertoire, First Cousin.”
Chang sniffed. “Are you planning on throwing it properly?”
“We don’t know how,” Frecklie admitted gravely.
Albert laughed. “So I saw. This way, Puppy. Use the four knuckle grip.” Cheng gripped the ball with four fingers pressed downward into the middle of the seam. He gestured for F
recklie to back up, letting the boy stop about fifty feet away. His pitch danced merrily halfway before tiring and rolling to Frecklie’s feet. The teen was afraid to pick it up and acknowledge Cheng’s failure.
Cheng did a little jig. “Pretty damn good for an eighty-three-year old shortstop who hasn’t thrown anything for more than thirty years.” He slipped on Puppy’s glove. “J’anos taught me the knuckler. We were in Chicago on the Hyde Hotel rooftop. And soused on rum, back when I could drink.” Another nostalgic sigh. “We kept throwing and hitting balls onto the street until the Blue Shirts stopped us. Took five of them,” he recalled proudly. “Those days they didn’t arrest celebrities. It’s much better now, equality before the law.”
Cheng reluctantly returned Puppy’s glove, staring carefully. “You have some time to talk, son?”
They hadn’t even settled into a rear table at Needleman’s before the waiter hurried over, smiling a row of perfect white teeth.
“Albert Cheng, good to see you again.”
The First Cousin squinted. “Who are you?”
“Ruffian Slatz, of course. The usual?”
The First Cousin turned up his palms at Puppy. “For both of us.”
“Who’s he?”
“Puppy Nedick.”
The waiter grunted at his outstretched hand. “Never heard of you. But this man. The grace, the skill. The greatest player of them all.”
Cheng beamed. “We know that. Bring some knishes, too.”
The waiter shuffled away with an extra bounce in his step.
“I used to come here a lot, a great little after hours place for some real food. Bring the dates over and ply them with pastrami and give them a bit of the old Bronx.” Cheng frowned. “The waiter was old then, if I recall.”
Puppy took in the faded décor. “Nice.”
Ruffian returned, standing patiently until Albert nodded approval of the coffee. “Two sugars as always.”
“Yes, right.” Cheng smiled thinly. “If you’ll give us some privacy, please.”
“Still a prick, I love it.” The waiter chuckled.
Albert stirred his coffee. “You don’t trust me, do you? Why should you?” He paused. “But do you trust Grandma?”
“Of course,” he said hoarsely.
Cheng inched forward, twirling a pickle. “Why?”
There could not be a good answer to this question, he thought, buying time with another sour tomato.
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