A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  The woman nodded grimly.

  Zelda and Beth walked within individually bubbled silence to the bus stop. Beth apologetically held up her watch. “I’ve got to go. Customers.”

  Zelda led her around the corner by a boarded-up barber shop. “I have another favor.”

  “This wasn’t a favor, so ask away,” Beth smiled.

  “What demomination are you?”

  She wrinkled her pretty face. “Denomination, you mean? Like religion?” Zelda nodded. “Catholic.”

  “Is that the same as Christianity?”

  Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I’m just trying to understand.”

  Beth almost asked why again. “We all worship Jesus, but the rituals and some core beliefs are different. What’s this about?”

  “I have a friend…”

  “Do you?”

  “Not me. A little friend.” Zelda held her palm down at chest level. “I think she’s Catholic. I’d like to understand more.”

  “I have a book. And yeah,” she said as Zelda flinched, “it’s sort of illegal to give a book on religion, but not illegal to own it.”

  “Like Puppy’s baseball books.”

  Beth cleared her throat. “I’m happy to help, Zelda.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Tell me what else you want.” Beth cupped Zelda’s chin and kissed her tenderly on the lips; Zelda shivered.

  • • • •

  THE DRIVE UPSTATE took about two hours, most of it stuck in the congestion on the Cross Bronx Expressway. Hazel made idle talk about traffic, the decay of roads, the unreliability of ‘bot workers and how many people just liked hiding in their cars away from the interminable vidnews.

  Mooshie rarely answered except with an occasional grunt. Hazel took little exception, as if he often talked to himself. Finally he slipped one of her old MDs, a real Mooshie musical disc, into the musplay.

  She listened at the smooth texture of her voice dancing off the piano. It was Dead and Dark, from The Dark Depths album.

  “There’s many ways to lie down

  Even fewer to get up

  So don’t leave me baby

  ‘Cause dreams can be real,” Hazel sang along.

  Mooshie clapped sarcastically.

  Hazel shot through a small opening in two lanes, up a ramp and onto a wide boulevard heading north.

  In a few miles, they zig-zagged along narrow roads until finally squeezing down a dusty street beneath sagging brown trees. The car kicked up gravel, coming to a stop outside Singh’s country store. Hazel looked across the seat.

  “You ready?”

  She bounded inside as if about to repossess the store’s contents. Trailing, Hazel pulled a long green candy out of a jar on the counter and, sucking noisily, rang a copper bell in the corner.

  An automated door slid open. Derek and Sun Yen gasped audibly; Mooshie leaned against a glass counter filled with hunting knives, staring back.

  They look so old, she thought, watching the men approach, shaking their heads.

  “Greetings, mi amigos.”

  Derek suddenly yanked on Mooshie’s hair.

  “How’s this possible?”

  She pressed her knee into Singh’s groin.

  “Still like that move?” he wheezed.

  “When there’s something to hit.”

  Derek released her hair and Mooshie lowered her knee.

  “How about we go inside?” Hazel suggested.

  The reporter sprawled over a chair in the office while Derek sat beside Mooshie on the tattered couch.

  Standing in the corner, Sun Yen cocked a shotgun. “Who are you?”

  She almost laughed. “Mooshie Lopez, asshole.”

  “But you’re dead.”

  “I was always tougher than you.” She swiveled towards the scowling Singh. “I came back…”

  “From where?”

  “Heaven, Hell, Grandma’s uterus. I ended up on the floor of a baseball historian, Puppy Nedick. He also had two very old white players named Mickey Mantle and Ty Cobb. They came back, too.”

  “We’re following all that in the news,” Derek said carefully.

  “Then you know I sing as Dara Dinton.”

  “Let’s hear.” Easy snickered.

  “Buy a ticket. This jerk follows me to the 167th Street subway and says I wasn’t killed there. Says he has people who can tell me the truth. I guess you’re it. And yeah, ghosts get hungry.”

  Derek and Sun Yen watched in fascination as she ate a bowl of bread.

  “You expect to see the food go around my insides?” Mooshie growled. “So here I am. I don’t know how. I only care about proving Grandma killed me.”

  Singh and Sun Yen’s eyes flittered back and forth.

  Hazel sighed angrily. “Just tell her.”

  The men looked away.

  “It can’t happen unless you’re honest.”

  “About what, mi amigos?” she asked.

  “We killed Mooshie Lopez,” Derek said softly.

  Her fingers dug into the couch. “Now we’re even. I don’t believe you.”

  Singh silently ordered Sun Yen to lower the shotgun. “Lopez was a lump in everyone’s throats. She had tons of fans who still loved her, despite her drunken babblings. She criticized the government and became a rallying point.”

  “And we didn’t need that,” Sun Yen added. “Enough innocents were rounded up and sent north to detention camps in Nova Scotia.”

  “As long as the great Mooshie Lopez was out there saying there had to be a reason for 10/12, that the war was badly run, we were being betrayed, well, the heat was on both sides. Everyone wanted to hide.” Derek gestured around the cozy office. “We had our shot and missed. We had millions. Tens of millions of followers.”

  “Still do,” Sun Yen grumbled.

  “Every goddamn ex-military, all the baseball fans who wanted this country back to where you could sing God Bless America and not be called a racist. Yeah, we fucked up on 10/12 because we didn’t kill Grandma. If we had, then we could’ve dropped a few tactical nukes and got the Camels’ attention and given us time to really re-arm. But we didn’t get Grandma and we didn’t need Mooshie Lopez pissing into the open wound. No one did.”

  Sun Yen poked Mooshie in the back with the shotgun. She spun around, bending the weapon over her knee and flinging it into the corner, knocking two pictures off the wall. The men’s mouths dropped.

  “You bastards. You were my friends. My best fucking friends.”

  Singh slowly smiled. “It is you.”

  Mooshie clenched her groin in disdain.

  He gently put his hand on her shoulder. Mooshie twisted his arm.

  “What the fuck do you pricks want?”

  Despite the pain, his smile widened.

  “We need you to help finish the job.”

  • • • •

  THE DWARF TOOK pleasure in making them rehearse over and over, especially dabbing the Son’s face with powder. Abdullah would blush and the dwarf would shriek about looking like clowns and dab more powder. Finally Grandma sent the dwarf back behind his camera where he made unpleasant noises, dragging the recording process out over hours.

  Azhar fell asleep on a cot in the abandoned building a few blocks from the diner. Light peeked through the window and he panicked, running around the grayish floors until he found the Son snoring in a chair in a cramped room.

  Grandma burst in with that recyclable energy and served them breakfast. Once they finished, two portions each, she proudly explained that the eggs, called SCs for so-called, were all bio-agra generated. This is how you’ll feed your people.

  Abdullah had sat before the empty plate with a mild sense of guilt before he made a long speech about the class system in the Caliphates, the rulers and the wealthy and the privileged and the connected. He went on for nearly an hour, Grandma listening politely although Mustafa would’ve sworn before Allah that she was snoring.

  The dwarf or midget, Mus
tafa could see no difference since he’d never seen either, reappeared, announcing the genius of Ian Schrage had triumphed once again and crowded them into a screening room to show the announcement.

  Grandma beamed and even Abdullah seemed pleased; he made a slight suggestion about a camera angle. The little one turned into a moody rock, folding his arms petulantly until Abdullah apologized for his amateurish remark. The tiny person grudgingly finished the screening and wouldn’t smile until they applauded.

  Was he making the history or were they? Another bafflement of this baffling land. When they finally left the studio, the dwarf disappeared down an alley. Abdullah and Azhar waited for the proper transportation, but Grandma waved down a small black taxi. They crowded into the back seat.

  A robot turned around to greet them good morning and Azhar nearly lost his bladder; the Son gripped his wrist in fright. The thing had no face, just eyes and a sort of mouth, but it seemed very cheerful, mentioned its name was Andrew to its friends, and chattered on like a real human all the way through the many secret pathways around traffic only it and it alone knew.

  Grandma was very pleased by a robot driving a taxi and explained that in Georgia, where her visitors were from, people still drove cabs. The robot remarked it wasn’t the brightest wiring in the socket but that seemed a waste of human skills.

  Abdullah muttered inaudibly.

  The taxi skipped down a hill and then a ramp, rolling into a subway tunnel. Grandma tried explaining why cars went in a subway tunnel but the robot named Andrew kept interrupting, launching into the history of the Allah attack on Manhattan, the quarantine period and the riots of survivors in ’72.

  The Son turned brooding, refusing to so much as nod when the tank crew stopped them at the end of the battered tunnel and asked for papers. Grandma, who called herself Lenora Chin, breezily explained her friends were exhausted from sightseeing. The helmeted crew member peered suspiciously at Abdullah before waving them through.

  And now here’s the Bronx, Andrew announced, zipping up hills and down side streets. At least here there was normalcy, Crusaders walking along, shopping, well-dressed, smiling. Like home. Azhar felt a twinge of sadness, wondering how Jalak was, if she missed him, whether Abdul had scored goals in the last game and if Omar still hated him.

  As they passed by a large very green park, Grandma instructed Andrew to bypass the other cars lined up at the main gate and head down a narrow path bordered with artillery and jeeps. Andrew stubbornly swung its metal head back and forth until Grandma handed the robot a wad of purple money, which made its head clang.

  From both sides of the lane, two tanks rolled out of nowhere along with a dozen armed black uniformed soldiers, who surrounding the cab with pointed weapons.

  “Good morning, my darlings,” Grandma said happily. “I think one of you needs to call Major Stilton.”

  Tomas’ mouth twitched as the Allahs entered Grandma’s House, through the front door yet. The security detail lowered their guns in shock as they escorted Grandma and the Camels up the public elevator; fortunately it was too early for any school tours.

  Grandma sat them all down in her modest sitting room and poured tea.

  “You gentlemen already know each other.” She made the introductions anyway.

  “I didn’t bring any of my wife’s lamb this time.” The Captain smiled.

  Tomas grunted.

  “Apologies for my dear friend.” Her smile contained a warning. “The Major’s a little upset about my disappearing.”

  “As are my people about my vanishing.” Abdullah bowed slightly.

  Tomas’ sneer showed what he thought about those people.

  “Grandma, may I have a word?”

  “Eventually, my darling. For now, you need to get Abdullah and Azhar back to Iceland. Is that what you eventually decided?”

  She spoke to them as if they were friends; Tomas’ stomach churned.

  The Camel nodded and spoke quickly in Arabic to the Captain, who said little, nodding. He again smiled at Tomas, who edged behind Grandma.

  “This is irregular,” he whispered.

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Please, Grandma. Please.”

  She sighed wearily, excusing herself into the adjoining room. Before she closed the door, Tomas gestured to the eight man detail in the living room.

  Shoot if they move.

  “You’re being impolite, Tomas,” Grandma said with mock severity.

  He stared coldly.

  “I’m sorry for the deception about meeting in Cuba. Truly.”

  “I deserve better.”

  “Yes you do. And I deserved your faith.”

  “I have never…”

  “Yes, you did. But we have jobs and yours is to accompany them beyond our territorial waters. I can’t risk anything happening. Is that very clear?”

  He nodded as if his neck ached. “May I first ask what has been decided?”

  Grandma’s face sagged with exhaustion. “No. Is the spare ‘copter in the park fueled? Or did you tell First Cousin Cheng about that one, too?”

  35

  Zelda dozed on the bus and missed her stop, walking back five blocks along Bruckner Boulevard but never fully waking up; the kiss lingered. She’d smacked her lips together, licked with her tongue, half swizzled a berry drink and still the warmth of Beth’s mouth remained. Women and men kissed differently, but this was special.

  Still obsessed with her mouth, Zelda barely noticed the two Brown Hats politely waiting by the front door of her building.

  “Ms. Jones?” The taller one smiled. “I’m Detective Buca, my partner Detective Y’or. May we have a word?”

  “What’s this about?” Hands on hips, chin out, the portrait of aggrieved innocence.

  They heard it all before, stepping aside from the building entrance until she took the hint. As Zelda unlocked her apartment door, she wished Beth had already given her that Catholic book; she prayed to Jesus Christo anyway, hoping for some first time luck.

  The apartment was a smelly mess with plates and glasses scattered high and low, hinting at food turning bad under the couch. The vidnews looped around in a banal report about SC sheep recipes.

  “Sorry, I’m, you know.” She spread apart her jacket. “Pregnant. Just got back from my Parents meeting. I have a certified slip…”

  “That’s not necessary, but certainly helpful,” Buca replied as his younger partner casually snooped around the living room.

  Zelda flung her jacket and purse over Clary’s drawings on the couch, then bundled them into the hall closet. “And I have to pee every five minutes. Is it okay if I go to the bathroom?”

  “Of course,” Buca said with fake warmth.

  Zelda said another prayer in made-up Spanish. This worked; Clary was asleep on the bed. As Zelda closed the door, the girl bolted up, instantly alert. Zelda pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “Polizia.”

  Clary nodded grimly. Zelda went to the bathroom, peeing with vigorous singing and returning with a bright expression as if she dumped out a gallon of unwanted waste products.

  “Sorry to keep you gentleman, but I see you’re making yourself at home.” She took a doll from Y’or, gesturing at its siblings on the bookcase. “I collect them. I’d offer you food or drink,” she brushed cookie crumbs off the table into her palm, “but my increased allotment is only for me and Diego Junior.”

  Buca asked if they could sit, like she had a choice. The Detectives took the couch, hats in laps. Y’or opened a notebook while Zelda flopped onto her chair as if without a worry in the world.

  “I’ve never been visited by Brown Hats,” she finally said.

  “Hopefully it won’t be unpleasant,” Buca answered. “A recent orphan to America has wandered off. Reports say she’s in this neighborhood. Perhaps you’ve seen the news.”

  “I don’t pay attention to such things.”

  “Children don’t interest you?”

  “Just this one.” She protectively cov
ered her stomach.

  Buca nodded approval, Y’or’s pen scratching along the page. “The girl’s parents are very worried, obviously.”

  Zelda shrugged for him to continue. Buca held out a drawing of Clary, the cross disappearing into her scalp while her mouth twisted angrily.

  “Why are you smiling, Ms. Jones?”

  “She’s a funny looking kid.”

  “All children are precious.”

  Zelda indicated she shared that belief by lovingly rubbing her stomach again.

  “Do you recognize her?”

  “No.”

  “You positive?”

  “Yes. I mean, maybe I saw her on the vidnews, but that’s it.” Zelda caught the quick doubtful look between the Brown Hats.

  “As you must be aware, Ms. Jones, anyone with knowledge of a missing child must come forward immediately.”

  “Okay.”

  “Failure to do so is a very serious offense.”

  Zelda tipped her neck forward respectfully.

  “There’s all manner of reasons why someone would do that. Particular among them is pedophilia.”

  “Watch it,” she snapped.

  “I’m not accusing you.” He furrowed his forehead. “And that was wrong. Sometimes reciting is insensitive. After twelve years on the job, I should know better. Of course I have absolutely no reason at this moment to suspect you of such a vile crime.” Buca bowed stiffly.

  Zelda stood unsteadily. “Then why are you here? If you look up my records, as I bet you have, you’ll see getting along with children wasn’t my strong point as a teacher.”

  Buca frowned. “Past behavior isn’t always the best prognosticator. Regular, non-sociopathic people arc and change.”

  “Maybe I don’t arc as much as others.”

  “We’re trying to help, Ms. Jones,” Buca said firmly. “A pregnant woman, a single vulnerable woman who’d suffered the loss of her lover, whose maternal instincts were stirred, it would be understandable.”

  Buca and Y’or waited patiently.

  “I don’t know her…”

  “We have a witness,” Y’or blurted out angrily.

  Buca gave his partner a reproachful stare and sighed. “Yes, we do.”

  Zelda cringed. That bitch.