“Like the Grand Mufti.”
The Allahs mumbled “Allah be praised.”
Tomas pressed back the bile. “A man of astonishing vision.”
“May His Most Worthy Successor have an ounce of that.” The Imam raised his hands skyward, looking shrewdly at Tomas. “He reveres the Grand Mufti.”
“As he should. As would any son.” Tomas couldn’t resist.
Abboud considered Tomas’s veiled insolence. “And your grandmother?”
“Grandma is well and sends her blessings to His Most Worthy Successor.”
“He is grateful for the thoughts.”
Tomas shifted uncomfortably. How long would he have to continue this?
“But…” Abboud abruptly continued. “Such thoughts are natural from everyone to his Most Worthy Successor. He wonders what other thoughts your grandmother…”
“Grandma,” Tomas said coldly.
The Allahs in the chairs stirred enough so Tomas could see the outlines of their guns. The Imam calmed them with a wave.
“Grandma.” He smiled. “Apologies. That is disrespectful. She has sent you a considerable way without food and drink. Someone very trusted. Her most trusted friend. To here, a place of your enemies. His Most Worthy Successor wonders why.”
Tomas placed his elbows on his knees, releasing his lower back with a pleasant twinge. “She would like to discuss the future.”
“Why not with the Grand Mufti whose courage created it?”
Tomas took a deep breath. “He lives in the past.”
Abboud tossed another wave at the bristling Allahs. “A glorious past.”
“Yes.” Depending where you sit, you prick. “But Grandma believes it’s time to move forward.”
The Imam’s face curled in curiosity. “Why would His Most Worthy Successor feel that?”
“Because he is a son. And a son must look ahead to his own destiny. Forged by his own greatness. ” Tomas smiled quickly. “I could use some water.”
The Imam snapped his fingers. Tomas waited until he took a few sips before beginning.
• • • •
SITTING BEFORE THE wide, sooty window, Mickey stared off blankly as fellow patients nudged past his wheelchair like exhausted bumper cars. Mick’s mouth chewed as if forming words. Lost words, floating out and away. Puppy thought he could see them like the bubbles he blew out of a bottle as a child. Empty bubbles.
He saw a lot while watching, hands crossed at his waist. No one bothered him, asked for ID, what he was doing there, planning on cutting the throats of any of our patients, sir? If so, take your pick, we don’t want them.
Outside the boundaries of the DV, homes like this were called Backyards, places where grandma and grandpa and ol’ Uncle Eduardo rocked gently in the hammock. Dozens, hundreds of hammocks, swaying in a soft breeze where sunshine reigned for more than four hours, visitors lined up because it was a great honor to meet people who had contributed so much to their country and the Family.
Here in East Tremont, it was called just The Facility, a place of embarrassment. No hope to advance, even mentor, hand down any important bits of last-minute wisdom. This was the ultimate disappointment, hopefully they’ll move on soon, within the hour, counting down one, two, three, and take their fleshy old hairy butts on to wherever you wanted to believe someone went anymore; Heaven and God and religion had been out of fashion for a couple decades.
Puppy clasped Mick’s shoulder. The old guy kept staring through the windows, half spears of rusted metal protecting the outside ledge because this would surely be the number one destination for any thieves inclined to scamper up five floors.
“Where the hell you been? Food’s worse here than your dump,” Mickey growled.
Puppy signed him out, the diffident nurse perking up at all of Mickey’s many possibilities for happiness now that he had a home with his nephew. Puppy studied the checklist about health and exercise and mental acuity as they walked back toward his apartment, Mickey sadly shaking his head.
“The whole neighborhood’s a dump.”
“This is the…” he stopped, too much explanation. “I actually live in the better part of the Bronx.”
“The Bronx? I’m in the Bronx?” Mick did a little dance. Puppy pulled him away from a bus bearing down to finish its route no matter how many old men in smelly clothes it had to run down.
“I told you.”
“No. You said New York. I got a good memory.”
“I’m sure,” Puppy said dryly.
“Where’s the stadium?”
That made Puppy smile. He pointed west. “Over there.”
“Old bitch is still standing. Can’t kill either of us,” Mickey marveled in relief. “Is it baseball season?”
Puppy nodded.
“We’ll go to a game. Sit in the luxury box.”
At least he was a fan. Mickey made a sharp turn into Monroe’s as Puppy kept walking. He hurried inside where Mantle was already at the bar digging into a bowl of nuts.
“Let me have a breakfast of champions,” Mickey said to Jimmy. “Know how to make it?”
“Jimmy, no…” Puppy sat beside Mickey.
“Hell, I’m thirsty. You abandoned me. I deserve this.”
Jimmy gave Puppy a searching look. He shrugged wearily.
“Gimme two shots of brandy, Kahlua and cream. And some real nuts, these taste like wood.”
The bartender gave Puppy a longer, searching look. “Kahlua?”
“Yeah.” Mick spun around on the stool; the place was empty at ten AM.
“They don’t have Kahlua, Mickey.”
“What the hell kind of bar is this? All right.” Mick held up a conciliatory hand. “Somehow the world ain’t what it was when I was alive. Gimme a vodka martini. Does the bartender know how to make a martini or do I have to go behind and help out?”
Jimmy’s nostrils flared slightly. He noisily mixed the drink.
“Just one.” Puppy raised a finger.
“Sure.” Mickey smiled impishly.
The bartender poured out the martini. Mickey’s eyes lit up and he gulped down half. A Blue Shirt strolled in with a friendly wave of his night stick. Jimmy tensed.
“Morning, Jimmy. Everyone doing well today?”
“Very well, Officer Frick.”
“They ain’t got Kahlua,” Mickey grumbled and finished his martini, holding out the glass for a refill.
“Now that’s a real problem.” Frick slid onto a stool. “Officer Frick.”
“Mickey Mantle.” They shook hands.
“He just got out of The Facility,” Puppy explained.
“Oh?” Officer Frick wrinkled his nose. “I wondered about the odor.”
“I
