“That the real reason?”
Mooshie slowly pulled the eye pad up over her glare. “Meaning.”
“Maybe you like the attention. Being famous again. Adoring fans moaning your name. Giving everyone the clench,” he grabbed his groin, “by singing all your old hits.”
Lopez stared coldly. “They took it from me. They needed a goat and put me in a pen. I could’ve kept playing. I had another five years easy. And I could still be singing, damnit. I was the best with everything I ever did and they stole it. Ain’t no way, hot buns,” the heel of her hand smacked into his forehead, “anyone’s doing that again. No one. Including you.”
He blinked back tears. Maybe her coming back had nothing to do with him. Maybe Mick came back just so he could sober up. Ty, so he could be nice to Negroes.
“You gotta cry over everything?”
“Just you.” Puppy smiled weakly.
Mooshie blushed and slid the eye pad back on. “Your ex will have to deal.”
Puppy crossed into her half of the bed. “Annette dealing with dealing with unpleasantries isn’t a pretty thought.”
Mooshie patted his knee. “The Bad Ass Historian will think of something.”
• • • •
AZHAR SMILED POLITELY as Jalak shoveled a pile of grilled lamb over the rice. She never served him, Omar never made small talk and Abdul never turned down an opportunity to play soccer. He was home yet he wasn’t.
Since returning last night, he felt odd around them, too. He’d unpacked carefully, slipping the silver cross in his pants pocket; Jalak did a laundry right then, as if afraid he’d brought home some infection other than awkwardness.
Azhar pushed away from the kitchen table, patting his stomach. “Your best kabsa laham yet, Jalak. Don’t we think so?”
His sons stared incredulously.
“Well I do.” Mustafa slipped on his jacket. “I’m off for a drive.”
Jalak followed Azhar to the door, whispering loudly, “Where are you going at this hour?”
“It’s only eight ‘o clock.”
“Decent people are home.”
“If I drive for fifteen minutes, I’m not worthy of meeting Allah?”
Jalak squinted warily. “Why don’t you walk?”
“Because my legs have been at sea and I’m getting old.”
He had to detour about five miles. According to a fellow driver who pulled alongside in a battered van, the Al Karama Road was closed for some queer cleanup; the Warriors had tossed a couple metnaks from a hill. Why still do such perversions? Mustafa shook his head. If you must, find a website. The Warriors could only monitor so much. But to troll in bushes, as he heard they often did; so many Crusader perversions still to cleanse.
The orphanage parking lot was fairly empty. He strolled inside without anyone noticing; money clanged onto a table from the card game down the hall. The Imam had said he couldn’t work there anymore, but nothing about visiting.
Azhar hurried up the steps and slipped inside the cramped alcove, closing the door. Breathing overhead stopped.
“Little one, it is Azhar.”
A soft animalistic growl seeped out.
“I have not been around because my job here was taken. They did not like how nice I was to you and the other children. Perhaps you don’t think I was nice. I believe you hate me and wish me ill.”
Sharp raps of a small knuckle agreed.
“Someday you’ll believe me. I have a present. I’d like to see you, but understand you would rather not.”
Harder raps, more like a fist.
“I understand. I ask Allah and your Jesus to bless you. I’m leaving the present on the floor. It isn’t a trick. When you hear the door close, I’m gone.” He waited a moment, hoping, then sighed and laid down the gift.
Plastic knife clenched between her teeth, Clary jumped effortlessly onto the ground and grabbed the package, then leaped back up into the hiding spot in about five seconds. She tore open the wrapping, feeling in the dark until she traced the outline of the cross. Clary stifled a sob and pressed the necklace to her chest.
Like Papa gave me when I was eight.
Kneeling outside the door, Azhar could hear Clary crying.
• • • •
ZELDA FINALLY THREW Diego out of bed after two happy days that left them both waddling; she’d called in sick, not exactly a lie. When she got to the office, stacks of folders had moved onto her desk like an annoying roommate. Atop the yellow, blue, orange and red piles so neat they appeared made out of stone was a note from Boar Face.
‘See me.’
Zelda didn’t get a chance to sit before Katrina angrily waved the latest sketch of the advert spot.
“What is this?”
“Salmons on an outing.”
“Yes, which I got from the title. Salmons on an Outing.” Boar Face noisily dropped her black high heels on the desk, nearly knocking over her University of Pennsylvania diploma. “There are grandparents in this picture.”
“It’s a family. I’m leaning into our family.”
“Grandma’s Family?”
“Right. Capital ‘f’.”
“With two old utterly sickly looking grandparents hobbling on canes.” Boar Face’s snout wrinkled.
“I’m showing the supremacy of salmon over tuna.”
“That’s not clear. The fish look unappealing.”
“Exactly.” Zelda’s jazz hands swayed as her voice rasped, “We’ve been here before tuna. We’ll be here after tuna. Salmon. The eternal fish.”
Boar Face glanced at the copy and smiled that insincere smile. “No one wants to eat old fish, Zelda.”
Zelda leaned onto the back of the chair. “The point isn’t eating, Katrina. Otherwise we’d make people feel bad about scarfing down friends. I’m getting across the wisdom of salmon and how there’s a reason why they’ve been around longer than tuna.”
“Is that true?”
“I don’t know. It’s a zillion years ago. Who’d prove us wrong?”
Chewing her lower lip, Katrina pondered the various tuna sympathizers who could wreck her career; red lipstick smeared her teeth. “There are serious laws against misleading advertising, Zelda. Very serious laws.”
“I bet we could find a scientist.”
“Where?”
“Bronx College.”
Boar Face grunted disdainfully. “Use Bronx University, where intelligent people teach. Call the science department and see who’ll back us up.”
Zelda figured she
