“Sure?”
“You were watching, too.”
Buca rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Three hours of naked young girls and boys in all sorts of poses and all sorts of sex acts in all sorts of outfits. He hated the night shift.
“Still gets him cleansed,” Layon said with a faint smile about the man’s inappropriate responses to the videos.
Buca grunted. “That’s something.”
Anytime a complainant or suspect was brought in with anything remotely touching on a child, they got The Kurosawa, epic filmic moments of child pornography. Their reactions were charted on the Perv, officially the Pedophilia Scanning System.
Before they’d been banned, psychiatrists had controlled these tests, but the scandals of using results to generate more patients put them on the streets, where they belonged, Buca felt. Now the Brown Hats, the Detectives, ran the men and women through. To be a cop, a Blue Shirt, Brown Hat, required impeccable morals and judgement. If the people couldn’t trust the police, who could they trust?
“Should we send him downtown now?” the more junior Y’or asked hopefully.
Buca considered this for a moment as they returned to their desks in the 34th Precinct squad room. “Keep him around a little longer.”
“I can’t watch the movies anymore,” Y’or pleaded.
The perv protested angrily when he’d been forced into being tested. I was being friendly to a little girl in trouble. I paid for her ticket and she attacks me.
One tough little girl, Buca sneered, giving the guy props for arrogance.
“Why’d he come in?” Layon, only six months into the job, had asked hours ago.
The perv could’ve let it go, gone on home and popped one of the illicit films in an illicit handviewer and who would’ve known. But, Buca had explained, he believed he wasn’t a pedophile and so, by coming forward, he demonstrated, mostly to himself, his own innocence.
Help the children above all else, said Grandma’s Fourth Insight.
Buca waved off the cold pizza floating around the big squad room at five in the morning and rummaged through his desk,
“Where’s the morning update?” he asked.
Layon pushed the report over and gobbled down a slice.
Buca poured another cup of coffee. To please his doctor, who said his prostate would be a beach ball if he didn’t cut down, he only filled the mug half-way, dousing the bitter brew with powdered creamer. He stirred slowly, glancing at the midnight reports from around the country. Stabbing in Cleveland, suspect at large. Woman, twenty, black curls. New Haven, shooting, teenager, blonde and armed, at large.
No, it wasn’t from tonight, he thought, leaning back at his chipped wooden desk, still stirring and thinking.
“Where’s the updates from the previous three days?” he asked Layon, playing with the brim of his brown hat.
“What’s up?” His partner handed over the files.
“Something’s sticking in my head. The girl the perv described.” Buca tapped his cheek.
• • • •
MRS. WASHINGTON SQUEALED with delight at the sparkling gold shoe squeezed around her thick left foot.
“Lovely, dear. Just lovely.”
Annette frowned at the way the shoe and foot battled over who’d give up first.
“I see your former husband all over town now on those billboards. Striking man. You must be so proud,” the pudgy woman acknowledged the role everyone had in their ex’s life, post-marriage, good and bad. “A continuous thread of love, sometimes unstitched, went Grandma’s Thirty-First Insight.”
“Yeah. He’s a big shot.” Annette sighed at the expensive shoes she wouldn’t sell today.
“And that fiancé of his. Dara Dinkins…”
“Dinton. Dara Dinton.”
“That’s it. A stunning voice. We heard her at the Cobblers Club last night. She sang a wondrous medley of oldies.”
“Was she alone?” Annette reddened.
“There were about two thousand of us.” Washington chuckled and returned to her shoes. “You’ve done wonders as always, darling. I’ll take two pairs.”
Two. Crap. “No, you won’t.” Annette yanked off the shoe and Washington yelped. “Sorry, but it just doesn’t fit.”
“It’s only a little snug.” Washington held onto the heel.
“Your feet are too big, ma’am, and I will not sell you a shoe that is missized.”
“But I like it.”
“I’m flattered. But you’re still not getting this.” Annette gathered up the shoe boxes.
“Doesn’t it come in my size?”
“They don’t make them that big.”
Leaving Washington’s apartment, Ramos angrily swung her bag down the fancy streets of Riverdale past stately, impeccably maintained buildings and into the downtown local green stop. Lost that customer, didn’t you, she muttered darkly on the bench. Directly across the tracks was a long, long, long advert with Grandma smiling and Puppy with his glove and the Whore singing and the damn FORGIVENESS.
Yeah, forgive the Miners and baseball but I’m not about to forgive you, Puppy.
Annette stomped up the steps over to the northbound side, glancing left and right for any meddling assholes. She drew a mascara moustache on Puppy and Mooshie’s faces and hurried back to the street, scowling a teenager off the last seat at the bus stop.
Need more sleep, she mumbled. Annette had waited up for Kenuda until nearly three in the morning when he finally collapsed on the bed, giving no reason to her simple “where the hell have you been” except “on business.”
“With who?” she snapped.
He’d grunted that dismissive “go design a shoe with buckles grunt” and turned over. They were in the pre-marriage phase. They should be having dinner every night and telling each other banal stories about their day and snuggling before vidmovies or having wild sex. They hadn’t had wild sex or lukewarm sex or even a quickie in twelve days. Leaving open the shower curtain and making extra suds, parading about the apartment, wet hair down to her shoulders, bathrobe flung open, her breasts bouncing off the SC scrambled eggs, begging him to lick the yolk off her nipples, what more could she do?
Kenuda was a virile man with an exceptionally large penis that made her giggle, firing off his cannon twice, three times a night back when they were having wild sex. You just don’t dump the gun powder into the gutter. It’s gotta go somewhere.
Business. Making that slut famous. Puppy and Dara. Dara and Puppy. America’s new darling couple. Star pitcher and star singer. Ooh, would they consider making a vidmovie together, one of those breathless women with bad makeup had asked on Wake Up My Darlings this morning. Oh sure, that got Kenuda’s attention over breakfast. No grunting I’m tired, Annette, and my gun powder is dry. Oh no, when he watched Dara his head lit up like bulbs had been screwed into his ears.
“Quite a little report,” he’d chuckled.
“What time will you be home tonight, dear?” she’d asked.
“Usual.”
Usual. Usual. Annette shoved aside the waiting passengers and hailed a cab.
• • • •
OTHER THAN THE faint rumbles of an occasional truck, the only noise in the apartment was the sound of their charcoal pencils scratching across the pad. Zelda would hold up a funny clown face, making Clary smile, then the child would furiously draw her own clown. After a while, Zelda realized that Clary was waiting to imitate whatever she drew.
They’d already drawn the boats; here, the child eagerly took over. One ship with a crescent moon and star flag and the other with a cross. Little children lying around covered in blood. A ‘copter with dashes indicating bullets. One larger figure dead.
Zelda hadn’t asked for the scene on the playa, but Clary had merrily pressed on, sketching a Diego figure, mouth downcast, charcoal smeared on his torso representing blood. A ring in his hand. Zelda bit her lip. The Clary figure had a big smile. Zelda wasn’t sure if that meant Diego died peacefully or whether she’d ac
tually smiled.
The bearded man looking down in all the boat pictures and the beach death scene had a more genuine smile. Wide, warm, with sun rays shooting out of his ears and a crown floating over his head. Zelda wasn’t familiar with Allah mythology; maybe this was Mohammad, haunting the child. She pointed at the mysterious figure.
Clary rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christo.” Looking around warily, Clary grudgingly letting Zelda hold the silver cross. “Jesus Christo.”
“God?” Zelda tried.
“Si, si.” Clary chattered on about Catholicism for nearly five minutes, acting out Jesus on the cross and various devastating lightning storms. Zelda smiled politely, disappointing Clary, who shoved the cross deep into her pocket and moodily curled up on the couch.
Gimme a break, kid. I don’t speak Spanish and I don’t believe in God. Zelda made tea and cookies; eating always brightened the child’s mood and soon they were humming together while Zelda drew a house. Clary followed with an exact replica and waited for Zelda’s approval.
Shaking her head, Zelda drew a stick figure, pointing at her chest and gesturing for Clary to follow. After a few moments, the girl reluctantly drew herself, abruptly adding a cross on the figure’s face. Zelda reached for Clary’s pad; the girl reacted with a feral growl.
“Allahu Akbar,” Zelda said softly.
Clary glared at the pad.
“Allahu Akbar,” Zelda repeated.
The girl cradled the pad onto her knees, but that wasn’t enough privacy so she hopped onto the chair. She scribbled furiously, glaring at Zelda. She finally handed over her drawing.
Bearded men with hooked noses and long penises surrounded the Clary figure. The little girl calmly tapped the page.
“Allahu Akbar.” She laid on her back and spread her legs, panting, then flipped onto her stomach, wriggling with pathetic moans before rising onto her knees, mouth bobbing.
“Jesus Christo.” Clary’s mouth trembled, saying quietly, “Donde es Jesus Christo.”
Zelda tried hugging her, but Clary ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. No sobs; shortly came the sound of a screeching vidgame. Deep in thought, Zelda carried the pad to the ringing door; she’d already received two get-well-soon flower deliveries from Boar Face. Food would be nice, dear Katrina.
“Hi.” Annette brushed past into the living room, where she considered the mess as typical and whirled around to face Zelda. “Look, I know you’re not happy to see me.”
“That’s a deep understatement.”
“I tried your office but they said you were sick.”
“No chocolate to perk me up?’
“Looks like you’re not depriving yourself.” Annette sneered at Zelda’s drooping belly. “I’ll make this brief.”
Zelda wrapped her bathrobe tighter. “I hope so.”
“I know you hate me for the way I treated Puppy.”
“As well as your general warm qualities.”
“I’m sorry I’m not your type.”
Zelda glowered. “What the hell do you want, Annette? I’m under the weather.”
“I need your help.”
“From someone who hates you?”
“It’s for Puppy. I’m sure if I collapsed and started bleeding, you’d wait an hour to contact the medemerline.”
Zelda shrugged.
“His fiancé is screwing my fiancé. Even someone with your morals understands that violates the law. If Puppy knows his fiancé is screwing my fiancé, he is as guilty as his fiancé.”
“Dara.”
“Yes. Dara the great singer Dinton. She’s screwing my fiancé.”
“Elias the great Commissioner Kenuda.”
Annette gave her the finger. “You don’t care about me, fine. I don’t care about you, fine. But you care about your little Puppy who you always had a crush on and I’m telling you to tell him to tell Dara Dinton to back off or else.”
Zelda stiffened. “Or else what?”
“Well.” Annette laughed coldly. “Or else I will tell The Couples what Dara is doing. And then good-bye to America’s Sweethearts…”
Growling like a wounded animal, Clary leaped over the couch and rushed at Annette with a kitchen knife. Zelda yanked her away, but one of the girl’s kicks found Annette’s shin. She groaned and kicked back to cover her retreat.
“What is that thing?”
Clary let loose a torrent of Spanish rage.
“Get out,” Zelda screamed.
Annette wagged her finger. “Do it. Or else.”
Clary bit Zelda’s hand, breaking free for another charge; Zelda caught Clary as she chased the screaming Annette down the hallway.
• • • •
ALBERT CAREFULLY STUDIED the mess of paper clips and pencils on his desk as if they could reveal where Grandma had gone.
“Any ideas?”
Tomas shook his head. Grandma was the only person in America without a Lifecard to track.
“What about near Nantucket where she went last time?”
Tomas explained the beach house had already been searched.
“Perhaps she was kidnapped.”
“No one gets through my security,” Stilton said; Cheng raised an eyebrow. “Grandma did this on her own.”
“Yes, she did,” Albert said sadly. “Without telling you, her most trusted aide. Or me, who has been with her since the beginning.”
Of the Original Eight, only he and Lenora remained. Dell and M’akio died of cancer young; Ellie and Atter, on 10/12; Viktor and Ramon at their homes, the bioregens only able to sustain their wills for so long.
You and I, Lenora. We started this and we’ll finish it. One way or the other.
Tomas finally answered, “She has her reasons.”
“Everyone always does, Major. The worst creature on the face of this planet has the best logical basis for what they do, from political and religious extremists to schizophrenics hearing voices. The Mufti had tracts of Quran reasoning to justify the murder of innocents and the enslavement of most of the world.”
The Major’s dark face turned inky with anger. “Are you comparing Grandma to that pig?”
“No.” He almost added, not yet. “But then why is she sneaking off to meet his son?”
Tomas had no answer.
“This is not about our loyalty,” Albert softened his voice. “That’s not in doubt.”
The Major nodded wearily and pointed to the Mid-Atlantic coastline on the map.
“She’d have to meet Abdullah nearby. Otherwise it’d be too complicated, even for her.”
“Could she have help from someone else?”
Stilton shook his head. “She wouldn’t trust anyone but us.”
They exchanged ironic nods.
“Any tracking of enemy ships within our waters?” Tomas asked.
Cheng hesitated how much to say. “Our radar’s spotty, when we can risk that because it violates the Surrender. Usually the Allahs look away. But Abdullah is as rogue as Grandma.”
“So he could’ve sailed right into an American port without us knowing?”
“Your Collector did, Major.” Albert smiled faintly.
“A European, not an Allah. Two Allahs.” Tomas said as Cheng frowned. “He’s probably traveling with this Captain I met. That’d be too much to hide, no. I think she’s gone beyond our waters. No matter what she’s thinking, Grandma wouldn’t chance letting the Camels inside America.”
Albert nodded grimly while Tomas remained focused on the map. Three miles of The Family and then the crescent moon and star. “She’d take a ‘copter.”
Cheng’s eyes narrowed, recalling Lenora leading a wing attack in ’60 in the Sinai. “Can she really still fly?” He had trouble walking up the steps some days.
The Major nodded. “Enough.” He paused. “The spare one is missing.”
“What spare ‘copter, Major?”
Tomas hesitated. “In Westchester.” He hesitated again. “There’s also backups in Albany and Pittsfield, Massachusetts.”
“And?” Albert asked impatiently.
“The underground train to Nebraska. The old NORAD headquarters.”
Cheng considered the tip of another pencil. “Is there more?” He noted how quickly Tomas shook his head. “Are we in this together, Major?”
“Yes sir.”
“No more secrets?”
Stilton nodded glumly. “None. If you make sure I’m involved in every aspect of the search.”
Cheng’s white teeth flashed. “Of course. We’re partners now.”
• • • •
ZELDA LOCKED THE windows and the door, but she knew that Clary would find a way out of a vault under Grandma’s butt. For distractions she’d left food in every cupboard and every shelf in the fridge; the girl was systematic, like a dog hunting down a bone.
Clary disdainfully waved off Zelda’s offer to load more vidgames, demonstrating she’d already figured it out. Good. Just stay put.
Puppy was already at Santo’s, talking baseball with two tables pushed together to accommodate his admirers. After a tight hug, he introduced Zelda as a former star second baseman who let artistic dreams ruin a promising baseball career. She spent a couple minutes making up some shit about owning him at bat until the tables settled back, satisfied.
“You look nice,” he said, waving Pablo over with a breadstick, followed by another round of hugs and kisses.
Zelda ordered deep fried mozzarella cheese, which earned arched eyebrows. “You don’t see me for two weeks and you play the how fat have you gotten game?”
“No,” Puppy said gallantly. “We’re referring to your voluptuous E sized cups.”
Her scowl sent his attention toward a pretty blonde in the corner; he doffed his cap.
“Will you take off your damn Yankee hat?” Zelda growled.
“Okay, evil princess.” Puppy laid it lovingly on his lap.
She hailed a waiter. “Can I change my order to a salad? Any fake crap food will do.”
Zelda gulped her water as the men watched, worried.
“So. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s obvious,” Pablo said wryly.
“I am. Look.” She pulled apart her mouth.
“Job promotion?”
She smacked Puppy. “Would I be this happy if I got a promotion, which I did anyway?”
A Mound Over Hell Page 51