A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  This’ll teach you to bring kids to my gig.

  “Let my lovin’ fill your glove,

  Let my lovin’ be your pitch.”

  In the front row, Puppy, Zelda and Pablo squealed at recognizing the lyrics, while Kenuda beamed alone at a corner table. But she wasn’t looking at them.

  “Only love lets you keep foulin’ ‘em off,

  ‘Cause you can’t strike out when you feel.”

  At the back, Grandma lowered the little boy, her mind scampering across the packed room. Mooshie scooted to the other end of the stage as if ducking bullets, spinning around and sweeping her hair back and forth in her trademark head flip.

  Here I am, bitch, Mooshie smiled. Surprise.

  Mental fingers probed. She sang louder, her voice drowning out her thoughts, upended like nuts scattered on a table. Grandma frowned, puzzled.

  “Thank you, everyone.” Mooshie bowed to the tumultuous applause. “That was one of Mooshie Lopez’s great tunes Keep Foulin’ Off, from 2060. Who here remembers the greatest baseball player of all time?”

  Strong applause rippled through the room.

  “We got a bunch more of her songs, but I’d like to sing something from a little known singer-songwriter I always admired, Kenny Loggins.” Mooshie sat on the stool; Grandma had yet to blink. “Called I’m Not Hiding.”

  Zelda left after the rowdy, hour-long first set which nearly sent the crowd dancing on the tables, mumbling she was too tired to drink.

  “Don’t you think Zelda’s acting strangely lately?” Puppy asked.

  “Yeah, but how could you tell?”

  “Good point.” Leaning forward, Puppy knocked his glass against Pablo’s, whispering, “So what about Dara?”

  “I’m convinced. This is the third time I’ve seen her perform. Kenuda took me twice.”

  “You sneaky bastard.”

  “Think I’d just roll up like a rug if Puppy barked?”

  “That never happened before.” The two friends exchanged wistful smiles. “I missed you.”

  “Missed you, too, though it’s hard to really miss you with that billboard.”

  “Billboards. Plural.”

  All over America, Grandma smiled beneath FORGIVENESS with Puppy in mid-windup in the foreground, Mooshie singing by his side.

  “It’s finally happening for you, Pup.” Pablo squeezed his forearm. “Kind of amazing.”

  “Yeah,” he answered carefully.

  “You pulling a Zelda and Pablo and looking for some reason to doubt it?”

  Puppy shrugged. “Ty, Mick, now the Moosh. I’m a poster child. My arm goes, but I learn the knuckler and the batters go down down down…”His hand slowly fell to the table. “Seems it’s all too good.”

  “If it makes you feel better, it won’t last.” Pablo gave him a hard stare. “Go out on top. However all this happened, it happened. You did it, Pup. You brought baseball back.”

  He grew embarrassed. “And you, Fifth Cousin?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll stay a humble dentist for a while longer.” Pablo sighed. “I got turned down. The letter came today.”

  “Why?”

  “They don’t say. Just ‘Your possibility has ceased.’”

  “What kind of grammar is that?”

  Pablo laughed bitterly and waited for the waiter to leave the drinks. “I pushed the rules. And stop that oh-not-mister-perfect smile.” He hesitated, finally explaining about Needleman’s, Olak and Kenuda.

  Puppy whistled softly. “Weird about Needleman’s. I was just there last week.”

  “No shit, why?”

  “Cheng took me to discuss my now famous status.”

  “Cheng?”

  “Albie to me. First Cousin Cheng to you.”

  “Cheng,” Pablo said in grim disbelief. “He knew about the place?”

  “They knew him, too.”

  Pablo’s eyes widened knowingly. The lights came down. Puppy draped his right leg over Zelda’s chair. “Zeld’s putting on the weight, huh? We’re going to need a donut intervention soon.”

  Wearing the sparkling black gown and a two-foot high silver crown, Mooshie traveled over the stage in an aerial seat harness, waving a wand at her loyal subjects, standing and applauding. Even Grandma joined in with a faint smile.

  • • • •

  WHEN CLARY GOT hungry, she crept out of the woods and into a town, always making sure she stayed near the road saying Nuevo York, only traveling at night. Americans were especially unfriendly at night. A nasty boy with pimples followed her along the grocery store aisles so she couldn’t steal anything. Another store turned out to be a bar, where the owner, who also had a gun over the register like all of the Crusaders who must be very scared of Allahs, chased her out; but not before she sipped some warm beer.

  She had a few dollars left. The shoes she’d stolen fell apart. What cagar. Her father and mother had beautiful handmade shoes with leather that smelled so good you wanted to eat the toes. But these said good-bye yesterday morning. Suddenly rocks bit her heels and the bottom of the shoes were waving see you Clary, I had enough of this walking. She wrapped a torn piece of shirt around her feet and bought a pair of shoes in Linton Town, making rasping noises and convincing the fat owner that her throat was sore. The owner was like any Crusader and didn’t care if she talked as long as she had money.

  After buying the pretty green shoes and an ice cream cone, she had only two dollars and coins left. She had a feeling she would need to take a bus or a train; she probably couldn’t figure out how to steal a car. So she kept to the woods until her hunger made her dizzy and she had to steal food. Between the polizia and the Crusaders that was hard. She took some cookies in a store by pretending to be sick and moaning “Mama Mama” so the owner would let her run out without checking her pockets. That also worked in a pizzeria. When the waitress asked for money, Clary gagged and managed vomit; the Crusaders preferred no money to a girl poisoned. They were also afraid of polizia.

  She was nibbling on a sandwich some Crusader left on top of the garbage when the train hooted noisily, calling her. She threw away the disgusting food and ran down the road, following the train, pulling up carefully by the tracks. Many Crusaders were climbing on, dressed in nice clothes. It would be easy to join them, but she needed a ticket.

  Clary squinted at the sign by a clerk’s window inside the train station. The words were small and there were many numbers. She poked her head over the counter.

  “New York?”

  The clerk shrugged. “Roundtrip?”

  Clary slid her two dollars and coins under the bottom of the metal frame.

  “Roundtrip’s $43.20, one way’s $23.50, which it’ll be?”

  The annoyed clerk pushed the money back while an ugly woman behind made impatient noises; Clary wanted to pull out her tongue. She pocketed her money and hurried along the track near two disgusting Crusader men. They stepped aside to let her on; she curtsied and calmly took a seat in the middle of the car. It had lots of heat and felt very good.

  She fell asleep, but not for long. A train conductor with a stupid Dia de los Muertos hat poked her shoulder and held out his hand. She shook it and he smiled.

  “Ticket, honey.”

  Clary held up her finger as she searched her pockets. “New York?”

  “Fifth stop.”

  “New York Bronx.”

  “Fifth stop. Ticket, honey.”

  She held out the same two dollars and coins, along with an empty candy wrapper. The man sighed since getting money from eleven-year-old girls wasn’t a pleasant part of his job.

  “One way’s $26.75 on the train, but I’ll give it to you for the regular $23.50.”

  Clary mimed that was very nice, but she’s happy to give him the two dollars just the same. That didn’t please the conductor so she tried acting sick and moaning “Mama, Mama,” which caused some alarm among the passengers, but no one gave her more money and the conductor didn’t care, holding out his hand again.

  �
��If you’re sick, you’ll have to get out at the next stop. I’m not cleaning up.”

  A man with gray hair across the aisle handed the conductor a card. “I’ll take care of it.”

  The conductor shrugged, swiped the card in a little box and left her alone. She watched him go into another car.

  “It’s okay.” The man smiled. “Your ticket’s paid. New York Bronx.”

  Clary curtsied.

  She sat with the gray-haired man, who chattered in English for a long time until the forests disappeared and huge ugly buildings jumped up on both sides of the tracks like they were waiting to scare her. The man laughed as she pressed her face against the window, New York Bronx getting bigger and dirtier.

  The train went into a dark echoing tunnel and came out slowly onto a track surrounded by lots of trains and lots of people. The gray-haired man pointed out the many trains and the escalators and the posters of happy Crusaders eating cereal and drinking beer, and then all the many stores in what she finally learned was Bronx, Terminal.

  Bronx New York, the man made her practice and she felt like a Crusader for the first time, repeating Bronx New York over and over. She showed him the address, hiding the ring, and he led her into a small car.

  The nice man was taking her right there. She almost wished she could ride on the trains rumbling overhead, but the car was also warm and he played soft music and she fell asleep, this time for much longer. When she woke, the man had parked the car in an underground garage and was fixing her jacket. She flinched, uneasy. He gestured it was cold outside. She let him zip up her coat but didn’t like the way his mouth went wet as he zipped right to her neck.

  He took her hand onto the street. It was almost dark and he pointed to a building two blocks away and she understood that was his home. He gestured about eating and she nodded warily. His hand got wet and his lips got wet and she thought of the Allahs with their wet lips and wet hands. He wasn’t an Allah but he kept looking down at her as if imagining.

  Clary knelt to tie her shoe. She balanced on her hands and kicked back into the man’s knee. He yelled and bent over. She kicked his face and he fell. She didn’t stop to see if he got up because she was running so fast.

  She was proud of finding the right building without any more Crusaders trying to rape her. It was very dark by the time she curled up on the steps, deciding to wait until morning before breaking in. But these Crusaders never slept and someone was always stepping over her; she shoved the name and address at them, but they shook their heads. No one even offered her a blanket.

  Someone shook her awake. Clary jumped up, claws out.

  The chubby African frowned. “You can’t sleep here.”

  Clary handed her the address and name. The woman looked whiter.

  “Who gave this to you?”

  Clary studied her carefully. She’d come all this way. She wanted to get it right. Crusaders weren’t trustworthy.

  “Zelda Jones?”

  Zelda nodded and, when Clary just stared doubtfully, she handed over her Lifecard. Clary compared the ID and note a few times; the African grumbled.

  “I’m fucking Zelda Jones and I really have to pee so tell me what’s going on.”

  Clary tugged at the woman’s coat, but she slapped her hand away. Clary slapped back, sticking out her stomach. The stupido African suddenly understood and slowly unbuttoned her coat. Satisfied, Clary handed Zelda the jewelry box.

  “New York Bronx,” Clary said.

  33

  Zelda closed the bathroom door and slipped on the ring, crying as Clary warily searched the apartment, opening doors and closets and drawers. After she had no more tears, Zelda replaced the ring in the box and found the child cradling a plate piled high with AG cold cuts, drinking milk from the bottle.

  Zelda made tea and sat across from Clary, whose bandage had fallen off.

  “What happened?” She touched her cheek.

  “Allahu Akbar,” Clary said casually, wrapping bologna around cheese and then ham around both, happily dipping the concoction into mustard.

  Zelda sighed and pointed. “English?”

  “Espanol.” The girl made another breadless sandwich.

  “Espanol.”

  “Si.” Clary peered hopefully. “Hablas Espanol?”

  Zelda shook her head. “Hablas Ingles?”

  Clary shook her head and they continued chewing and sipping. Finally, Zelda couldn’t stall anymore and held out the slip of paper. “Dead? No more?”

  Zelda collapsed on the couch, miming choking noises, then fell still. Clary nodded, applauding.

  “Boat?” Zelda tooted a horn and shuffled around the living room. When the best response was Clary staring dimly, Zelda waved a sheet from the linen closet as a sail. Another dim stare. You couldn’t find someone smarter to die around, Diego?

  Zelda made salmon sounds, flapping her gills. Clary smiled.

  “Pescardo.”

  That she gets?

  “Diego estaba en el barco.”

  Zelda frowned. Clary emulated the sail-waving. “Diego. Barco.”

  “Si. Barco, barco.”

  “Diego murio en la playa.” Clary made rowing gestures, dragging a couch pillow along the floor before cradling it. “Muerte. Diego.”

  Zelda started crying again; the girl coldly ignored her grief, holding out the empty plate, which Zelda refilled with the last of the cold cuts. She returned from the kitchen and tapped her chest. “Zelda.”

  The girl brightened. “Clary.”

  “Diego on barco.” Zelda made an exaggerated face of wonderment, palms up, then traced a question mark in the air.

  The girl raced around the room wildly re-enacting Diego and the barco, popping her mouth with loud explosions, keeling over as if dead and pointing wildly to the sky. Zelda brought out Della’s cookies so Clary could, a bit slower, tell the story again. She slumped onto the couch and held up ten fingers twice, tapping her face.

  Zelda pointed up. “Airplane?” Clary frowned and Zelda buzzed around, arms extended in wings. Clary countered by rotating her hand upward, whirring.

  Whirring? She repeated her ‘copter impression; Clary whistled approvingly and finished the milk.

  Zelda really wished she had given up alcohol tomorrow. “Allahu Akbar?” She stood on the chair, miming shooting.

  Clary shook her head. “Crusaders.”

  Zelda swallowed, something clicking. “Crusaders?”

  The girl angrily babbled in Spanish. All Zelda got was her repeating Crusaders again and again.

  Clary fought sleep for a while, eyelids drooping and bulging open in fear before a glance at Zelda comforted her enough to drift off. Zelda covered her with several blankets until sweat beaded on the child’s forehead.

  She made more tea, carefully pulling out four kitchen knives protruding from Clary’s pockets.

  • • • •

  LIEUTENANT YASAKI WAS deathly pale. He swallowed, unable to respond until Captain Parnassa poked him again.

  “She just disappeared, sir.”

  Tomas pressed his lips together. “That’s not a report, soldier.”

  Parnassa shoved Yasaki.

  “Grandma turned south ten feet out of the Stanton’s supper club. I, I was on her left.”

  The Captain added, “I was five feet ahead.”

  Tomas nodded for Yasaki to continue.

  “And she vanished.”

  “Any sounds?”

  “She didn’t scream.”

  That wasn’t what Stilton needed, but he couldn’t push it. “How much time did it take for Grandma to disappear?”

  Yasaki made as if he were counting. “Three seconds, I think.”

  “You’re not sure?” Parnassa growled.

  “Three.” Yasaki nodded. “Three, sir. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “He reacted quickly, Major,” Parnassa defended her charge with a hand on Yasaki’s shoulder.

  “I’m sure he did.” Tomas glanced out of the jeep at the surround
ing ten-person detachment. “Keep the shooters on the roofs, ‘copter Allie circling, and return ‘copter Billie home.”

  Parnassa saluted. “As if she were still here, sir?”

  Tomas nodded, wincing.

  “What happened?” Yasaki persisted innocently, earning a painful smack from his Captain.

  “Sometimes Grandma likes to just get away, son.” Tomas smiled reassuringly.

  He waited until the last shooter left before heading onto the four train. The final subway of the night clattered lazily through the dark skyline. Tomas sat in the last car, eyes ahead, mind empty in case she contacted him. But she wouldn’t.

  Stilton jostled a sleeping drunk out before the subway police arrested him for vagrancy, hurrying along East 205th Street past brooding empty buildings. Protocol AF3E had only been used once, and that’d been way on the other side of the Bronx in a modest walk-up with quiet neighbors. Why Grandma had changed to an abandoned building, he didn’t know. He sensed his way up two flights, counting steps.

  Tomas stopped at fifty-seven and felt for the door handle. Still locked, thank her painted fingernails. He twisted off the handle and crouched forward, gun drawn, into the bare room which had an extra shroud of darkness. Twenty-three paces at two o’clock bumped against another closed door. Another violent twist inside, then eighteen steps toward twelve o’clock.

  He slipped a thin key into the lock and opened the door. A perfect funnel of light streamed onto the A2. He gasped slightly. Except for her real more pronounced wrinkles along the eyes, it was a perfect resemblance. No one would know. Except him.

  Tomas fumbled for the switch, unable to look away from the robot. He calmed himself into remembering the code. Lenora 2. Just punch it in. Your job’s to protect her.

  Or is your job to protect your country? Maybe Cheng was right. Maybe they weren’t the same anymore.

  • • • •

  WATCHING BEHIND THE long glass window, Detective Tad Buca pushed back his brown hat in disgust as the gray-haired man wobbled toward the door, back bent from the exhaustion of proclaiming his innocence.

  Buca nudged his partner Layon Y’or, who grumbled in disappointment.

  “56 percent,” Y’or said.