A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

“Yes.” Zelda pounded her fist. “Or on some drug. Kind of how I felt when they took out my appendix and the anesthesiologist counted 100, 99, 98…I always wondered what 97 would’ve been like.”

  Katrina frowned. “You can take more time off, Zelda. I’ll cover for you.”

  “That is so nice. You’ve been so good to me, boss.”

  “We’re friends.”

  “But you went above and beyond. You didn’t just make a call. You went to the trouble of a whole plan.”

  “I didn’t do much.”

  “Come on.” Zelda put her elbows on the desk, eyes narrowing. “First there was the warm convo alluding to your previous, you know, condition. That lowered my guard just enough. Then when I was really vulnerable, the offer to help, the vows of friendship.”

  Katrina reddened. “I meant all that.”

  “Sure you did. Then offering a casual connection. A friend of a friend of a friend. But Dr. Watt’s a bud from U of P. You guys partied it up. Did he get you pregnant? Nah, because you never were.”

  “You’re in serious trouble, Zelda.”

  “No, you are and sit the fuck down, Boar Face.”

  Katrina stumbled against the glass wall.

  “I didn’t go through with it.” She waited for the entire gasp to leave Katrina’s body. “Oh, I know, you’re so disappointed.” Her breaths were ragged. “You set me up. Watt wasn’t using any surgical procedure, only the mistoprene. Get me loaded first. 100, 99, 98. Now 97. Hands clean. How’d Zelda get a hold of an illegal drug? I said sit the fuck down.”

  Boar Face meekly obeyed.

  “Who knows? There’s always a way. You were the kind loving boss. Bet you told more than a few people how you’d taken me under your wing, trying to help. Dr. Watt and the AG nurse, well, they never saw me. Is he even a doctor? How much did you pay Watt? Or was it just in kisses? Baby’s gone, Zelda did it herself, murder, Katrina’s horrified. And you trusted me. Mr. Saul trusted me. Look at Zelda’s erratic record, who can be surprised.”

  “Now I’m out of the way.” Zelda pressed into Katrina’s snout. “You take all the credit for my work, as if I never existed. Salmon’s a dirty business, ain’t it, girl?”

  Katrina kept moistening her lips. “What do you want?”

  “I’d love to barbecue you, but I’m a nice person. So you’ll move me…”

  “A promotion…”

  “No, no, because then I’d be gaining from deceit. Just reassign me to a new unit where I don’t report to you, but to Mr. Saul directly. Sorry, I didn’t hear your answer. I’ll take the nod for a yes. And maybe someday I’ll forget about this. But probably not for a long while, at least until I give birth.” Zelda smiled sweetly, patting her stomach. “Now get out of my office before I report you for violating every business ethics violation ever.”

  She waited a few luxurious moments, feet on the desk, believing that if you could hold your nose, the business world wasn’t a complete cesspool.

  Skipping out to an early lunch, Zelda stopped at one of those sniveling veggie places she wished would burn to the ground, ordering an AG avocado and tofu sandwich and finishing all of it, only gagging once.

  Zelda was still sipping the last of the SC spinach juice, expecting her breasts would turn green eventually, when she walked into Ruby’s. Beth stepped through the beige curtain and stopped, really surprised.

  “You got anything for a fat pregnant girl who only looks good in blue? I have a big deal event in a couple days.”

  Beth smiled impishly. “You want something tailored in forty-eight hours?”

  “Rush it. Money doesn’t matter. I’m betting my old boss will resign soon and I’ll get her job.”

  “Over here.” Beth gestured toward a rack. “And I suggest gold. Goes with your eyes.”

  • • • •

  PABLO SPENT THE morning camped in the Cousin’s waiting room; after one o’clock, Kenuda finally strolled out of his office, grunting at the dentist.

  “I told him you were busy, sir.” With an accusing roll of its eyes, the A10 babbled on about everyone thinking their business was the most important to the poor overworked Commissioner, embarrassing Kenuda, who granted Pablo about forty seconds in the elevator.

  “What is it now, Diaz?”

  “You need to read this, sir.”

  “I’m absolutely swamped…”

  “It’s critical.”

  “Which is what everyone says.”

  “Do I look like the sort of person who exaggerates?”

  They rode up and down for five minutes as the Third Cousin studied the Olak, Inc. certificate, closing the elevator door on visitors and fellow Cousins. He alternated between frowning and staring suspiciously before agreeing to meet around four, which gave Pablo a couple hours to attend to his patients.

  “Susan, where is everyone?” He peered around as if people were hiding amid the HG tooth.

  The A27 sadly shook its head.

  “They could only wait for so long, Dr. Diaz.”

  “I’ve been busy.” He tried remembering the last time he’d been here.

  “They know that, but their teeth don’t.”

  Pablo arranged some pamphlets on the coffee table, glancing at his watch while calculating downtown traffic and rush hour subway and bus schedules for the best way to arrive on time.

  “Can you please get some of the patients on the medemerline to apologize and reschedule?”

  “But it’s not an emergency, Doctor.”

  “I’m a doctor checking on his patients,” he snapped.

  “But they went elsewhere so technically they aren’t your patients anymore. I’m happy to pull up the regulations on the Medical Emergency Line usage, Doctor.”

  “I think I know them,” Pablo growled.

  The ‘bot’s glittering eyes suggested otherwise.

  Pablo spent the next hour sterilizing all his equipment, scrubbing the chair and re-hanging pictures; he tossed his white dental gown on the front desk as he left. “I need this washed, please.”

  “You have a patient tomorrow at eight-thirty, sir,” Susan reminded him.

  Probably his last one, which was the only thought Pablo gave his moribund dental practice as he suffered through an agonizing extra fifteen minutes on the subway; Kenuda grumpily paced outside Needleman’s.

  “Apologies, Third Cousin. The local green line was delayed,” Pablo explained breathlessly.

  Elias winced at the boarded-up warehouses on both sides of the street. “Where am I exactly?”

  “Morrisania.”

  Kenuda didn’t like the way the name sounded. He scowled at the deli. “That’s it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pablo took a step, hoping Kenuda would follow, but the Commissioner held his ground. “We don’t need a reservation, Commissioner.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. But once I go inside, I’ve acted, and before I act, there are questions.”

  Pablo glanced through the scuffed window at the three men at their table, eating the same food, moving their arms the same way.

  “You found the Olak certificate at the Dead Past Warehouse.”

  Pablo nodded, suspecting there was going to be a long line of questions.

  “Which you went to under the Cousins training umbrella?”

  Another nod; this time Kenuda frowned.

  “Though you’ve not been formally accepted into the program.”

  “I’ve not formally been rejected, either.”

  Kenuda darkened. “Are you being smart, son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A BT was present during your search of records?”

  “For most of the time. He had to return to his post.”

  “Wasn’t he supposed to stay with you?”

  “I’m not familiar with BT policy and yes, sir, I was being smart then.”

  Kenuda scowled. “Was he there when you found the Olak certificate?”

  Pablo shook his head.

  “Did you sign out for it?”

  Pablo
hesitated, then shook his head again.

  “Which means you illegally removed the certificate.”

  “I unofficially removed it, sir. I’m not aware if that is illegal or simply a gap in process.”

  Elias wearily accepted that reasoning.

  “And the BT searched me,” Pablo continued. “He didn’t find the document. So I did cooperate in that aspect of the process.”

  Elias peered. “Was it in a place that a frisking would find?”

  “Is that the responsibility of the person being frisked or the responsibility of the Black Top?” Pablo blocked Kenuda from entering Needleman’s. “That’s not significant, sir.”

  Pablo explained what was. By 2036, facial ‘bots had blended into society until they became nearly impossible to recognize, causing mayhem and mistrust. Winning public office, posing as everything from entertainers to scholars, getting humans to fall in love with them using a potent cocktail of perfect emotional adaptability and sexual skills, the ‘bots were hunted down and, in the first wave of panic that society would be taken over, the machines were destroyed.

  In 2040, a broad-based committee of concerned scientists, backed by corporations eager for profits, persuaded the government that it was short-sighted to get rid of the ‘bots; their faces were removed and their use restored. After the war, the loyalty of ‘bots was recognized and they were permitted to have names, rarely acknowledged by humans, and given limited responsible positions; the Little Extended Family was established and strict anti-robot prejudice laws were enacted.

  Now Pablo was convinced that was all a sham.

  Kenuda waited by the unattended register to be shown to his table.

  “Anywhere,” Ruffian the waiter shouted gruffly. Pablo led them to his familiar table opposite the counter.

  The waiter dropped the menus down and walked away. Pablo was about to call him back so he could launch into the welcome to the glorious world of deli food, but Kenuda impatiently cleared his throat.

  “Do I have to eat?” Kenuda sneered at the menu.

  “He gets a little touchy if you insult the food.” Pablo squinted at the waiter’s face, where a slight cut squibbled along the jaw.

  “I wouldn’t want to offend anyone. If that’s the correct pronoun.”

  Pablo ate a sour tomato. “Olak was part of the robotics program, sir. You saw the certificate.”

  “I saw that it ended per the edict banning ‘bots with faces.”

  “Except this place.”

  Kenuda looked around, wishing he were elsewhere.

  “It should’ve been closed down, but it wasn’t,” Pablo continued. “The other restaurants were shut, which I checked, but not this one.”

  “Let’s say they forgot,” Elias said carefully. “The world was tense. Things slipped through the gap.”

  “Why keep this open and not the others?”

  “I just said. It fell through the cracks.”

  “For sixty years? Look at them.” Pablo nodded at the bored waiter and sour-faced old men at the table. “Robots of that era weren’t so sophisticated. The details of their physiogomy are astonishing.”

  “That’s why they were outlawed, because they were so lifelike.”

  “And because they were lifelike, they had limited life spans. Twenty years, tops. You can’t make money if you don’t have to replace your product.”

  “Grandma fixed that unpleasant little bit of capitalism,” Kenuda said.

  “Obviously these are not the original models from 2034.”

  Elias thought for a moment. “Unless the original models were better than we thought. The democratic government lied egregiously back then.”

  Pablo nodded for him to continue, but Kenuda threw up his hands.

  “Without more research, I don’t have anything else to say.”

  “But you think it’s strange.”

  “I think it might not be any of our business. Certainly not mine without more proof.” Kenuda tossed aside the menu and got ready to leave.

  “Third Cousin, it’s your mandate to investigate irregularities of all kinds. Whether they come under your area or not.”

  Elias scowled. “Are you telling me my job?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes blazed. “Investigating without proof is foolish.”

  “It can be. It’s called taking risks. That’s why I wanted to join the Cousins program. To be a leader.”

  “You don’t even know if they’re really robots.”

  Pablo fired a pickle, which slammed directly into the waiter’s face.

  “You just threw one of these cucumbers at an old man,” Kenuda shouted.

  The customers at the front table turned toward the commotion. Pablo threw sour tomatoes, all of them plopping into the old timers’ heads. One of the men flung back a pickle, which sprayed brine onto Kenuda’s pants, intensifying his anger.

  “Now you threw green vegetables at more senior citizens. What’s wrong with you, Diaz?”

  The waiter angrily chased Pablo, doused by a canopy of pickles from the yelling men, onto the street, where he caught up with Kenuda.

  “Listen to me, Third Cousin. They replaced the robots.”

  Kenuda whirled. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “But you think these mysterious theys are part of some conspiracy?”

  “Damnit, they were robots two days ago. I’m sure of it.”

  Kenuda stared coldly. “And I’m sure after my report, you won’t be in the Cousins program, Doctor, so it no longer matters. Good day and best of luck.”

  The Commissioner abruptly shook Pablo’s hand and disappeared down the subway platform at the end of the block.

  Pablo brushed his jacket clean and slumped next to a fire hydrant, baffled.

  • • • •

  FOUR SHIMMERING DRESSES reclined on their bed, joined by a pile of six shoes, watched by three wigs on heads sitting on the dresser. For a moment, Puppy had to remind himself that he was the only living thing in the room.

  “Which one?” Mooshie circled back around the bed; he wasn’t sure if she were asking him or the clothes.

  “They’re all beautiful. Beth does good work.”

  Mooshie grinned mischievously. “You like her.”

  He blushed. “Just her work.”

  “Sure, her work.”

  “She’s a wonderful dressmaker, that’s it. Believe me, I’d have to sleep with a gun under the pillow.”

  “I have,” Mooshie said vaguely; she held a blue dress to her neck before the long mirror.

  “And are you and Commissioner Kenuda also correct befitting our stations as engaged people?”

  Mooshie dismissively tossed aside the dress and held up the black. “He undresses me.”

  He had visions of Annette rumbling down the Grand Concourse in a tank. “That’s not acceptable, Moosh.”

  “With his eyes, brain dead. I like the black dress and if you don’t, say nothing but agree.”

  “Which wig am I liking?”

  “The blonde.”

  “You on your own about the lipstick?”

  Mooshie glared. “Think you’re hot shit because of your little pitch?”

  “The one which struck out twelve?”

  “Fat clumsy people.”

  Puppy laughed. “Is the great Mooshie Lopez jealous because the humble and low Puppy Nedick fanned the most hitters in major league baseball since 2064?”

  “When it was the major leagues and not this crap so get out of my dressing room.”

  “I have to dress, too.”

  She pushed him out the door. “You got a bathroom. And I struck out sixteen so match that, cripple arm.”

  Mooshie waited for Puppy and the Two White Grandpas to head off like three cowboys at a rodeo before she finished dressing. Mooshie Lopez didn’t walk into a club with an entourage. Mooshie Lopez walked into a club alone. Especially when she was this nervous.

  She huddled in a corner of the local s
ubway, cold eyes warning anyone who might recognize her to stay away. As the train pulled into the Westchester Avenue stop, she draped herself in front of the sliding doors and pulled aside her thick wool coat, posing.

  “Dara Dinton tonight, darlings, at the Stanton.”

  The passengers stirred, surprised.

  “Come on down and join me.”

  Mooshie flipped a handful of tickets into the train, setting off a scramble and, with a whooshing sweep of her coat, rushed down the steps and along Burnside Avenue.

  Like a number of the fancy supper clubs, the Stanton hid on a quiet street where, according to zoning regulations, there were no residential buildings; families couldn’t be disturbed.

  Mooshie remembered the first of the supper clubs back in 2063; Grandma was desperate for distractions. Recreating that frivolous atmosphere with table lamps and big bands and sultry singers and properly suited up guests served by beautiful waiters struck a warm chord, a door opening for a trapped, starving, terrified country. Soon tuxedos were the fashion along with cigarette holders, elegant wave hair styles and glittering jewelry. Mooshie cut a record just of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman songs. She wouldn’t be singing them tonight, she thought grimly, pressing through the crowded backstage with the aloof rudeness all celebrities were inevitably accorded, whether outlawed or not. Talent was still a seductive hypnotic.

  “Two minutes, Miss Dinton.” A voice rapped on the door.

  Mooshie quickly re-applied her bright red lipstick, nudging aside the three dozen red roses in blue vases. She didn’t need to read the card.

  A murmur spread beyond the small window like a stream gnawing into a river. Mooshie watched Grandma outside the club, waving over siblings on their way home. This was what she did wherever she went. If the event, the movie, the play, the music, was good enough for her, then she certainly had to share it with her darlings. No special screenings or concerts for Grandma. They were all one happy fucking family, Mooshie almost spit down, but there were too many wired-up security guards, some up on the roof; a rifle aimed her way sent Mooshie back into her dressing room.

  Grandma hoisted a little boy onto her shoulders and led the crowd inside. Mooshie grabbed her black silk scarf, waited for her intro, the band cueing up, then another couple beats before thrusting out one long meaty leg beyond the satin curtain, curling up her knee and growling huskily.