“I need to tell you something.”
“I need to be in conference room 102 now.”
“This is important, official. Legal.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“It’s me.”
Boar Face waited for Zelda to admit to a series of vicious murders.
“I’m pregnant,” she said quickly as Katrina narrowed her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll do my job, be at my desk every day.”
“You’re married?” Katrina asked softly.
Zelda shook her head. “Not engaged, either. So this is only…”
“For the term of carrying. You at three months?”
She reddened. “Almost eight weeks. I’m also fat.”
Katrina kept staring. “You’ll get fatter, too. I blew up by twenty pounds in the first four months.”
“I didn’t know you had a child, Katrina.”
“I don’t.” Katrina’s eyes watered. “I lost the baby.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was better off. Carrying for four months was painful enough, knowing…” She caught herself at Zelda’s teary face. “If you ever need to talk.”
“Thanks. I will.”
“And if anyone here ever gives you any crap, I mean one wrong blink, you come right to me.” Boar Face licked her lips.
• • • •
KENUDA WANDERED AROUND Cheng’s office, but there was little to look at, the tiny room nearly barren except for basics, as if showing anything personal might reveal a weakness. The First Cousin grunted again over Kenuda’s plan. Little shit always grunted at me. I could pull his pecker and he’d complain he hadn’t come long enough. Kenuda was crabby and tired. Annette had given him crap until three in the morning about Dara.
“I’m branching out,” he’d insisted. “Entertainment plus sports. It’s a niche begging for someone.”
“Why can’t you find someone else to fill it with?” Annette had whined.
Because Dara was the most exciting woman he’d ever met. Annette’s jealousy was tiring. He hadn’t thought the relationship would go this far. That he was forty-four and still only a Third Cousin after all these years suggested loser. Higher end women wanted someone on the rise; sports were smelly, no, just not serious. Annette was eager to harvest her eggs; a child would help him along with a wife. He’d heard the gossip. Kenuda got his nuts broken by a football. Kenuda prefers screwing a basketball. Or teams. At least the starting units. Kenuda’s skating by.
Marriage would give him stability. But there was a reason he hadn’t ever married; that very stability frightened him. With stability came sameness.
Look at that one, Kenuda risked a sneer toward Cheng. Licking Grandma’s butt for nearly forty years. He’d been her boyfriend during the last part of his baseball career; a drunk and needy journalist had spilled dirt one night after Super Bowl CXXIV. Albert and Lenora, the Untold Romance. Whisking him into the House at all hours. Security guards had said they were noisy, too. The greatest shortstop of his day, who Lenora came to see October 12, 2065 for her first and last baseball game; apparently she hated the sport. But the seventh game of the World Series was great cover to root for her lover and relieve the stress of the failing war, the awful losses and then, ironically, she nearly gets her head blown off.
Cheng, this dreary old reporter rasped, had stayed by her side, Cubs uniform bloody. She’d been hurt far worse than known; perhaps even life and death for a while, nothing was ever certain. Other than Cheng was suddenly named a General.
Kenuda scowled at the shriveled asshole. A General who led the retreat. He wanted to nuke the Allahs, insisted this drunk, but couldn’t go against Grandma’s wishes. Wouldn’t dare go against his meal ticket, now that baseball was banished. Sold out his beliefs to become the first First Cousin.
“He was an asshole as a player, too,” the reporter said, finishing the expensive brandy. “Everyone on the Cubs hated him. But for pure hate, rivalry, oh, he and Mooshie despised each other. She never missed a chance to hit him in the head with a pitch. They dueled with bats once.” The reporter cackled so loudly his teeth nearly flew out. “The Moosh had knocked him down, he charged the mound and Derek Singh, he was injured that day, threw a bat like a javelin to Easy Sun Yen at third who speared it to Mooshie and her and Cheng banged bats until they were down to handles, then they wrestled. Look it up.”
Cheng tossed aside Kenuda’s report and rubbed his eyes, nodding for him to sit.
“Do you believe in a soul, Kenuda?”
“No, sir. That’s a religious concept.”
“No, it’s not,” Albert said disgustedly. “Soul is in your thoughts, an essence of passion and life. It’s why dying people survive and how great art is made.” He stared at Kenuda and shook his head. “You don’t get it. That’s clear from the plan.”
Cheng brushed the folder aside disdainfully. “Why are we doing this?”
“So that everyone can come to Amazon Stadium and remember what happened.”
Albert winced. “Where’s that? Putting ropes around holes so folks don’t fall in? Painting more seats? Selling more food? How does eating a hot dog help people remember treason? What lessons are learned?”
“These exhibits…”
“Everyone has heard the same shit over and over. So what?”
Kenuda was furious at himself. He should’ve asked Hazel for help. Or Nedick. Your ego always gets in the way.
“What would you suggest, First Cousin?” he asked meekly.
“I’m not the Commissioner, am I? But it’s a good thing I know a little about baseball.” Cheng tossed the report into the garbage. “It can’t be just about making money. Though your mind can’t grasp anything else. Like leadership.” Albert sneered. “Perhaps it’s time for a new assignment of responsibilities, Third Cousin.”
Elias stiffened. “I’ve already taken care of that.”
“Pardon?”
“Third Cousin Turashami died two months ago. I’ve been overseeing entertainment, beginning with overhauling the antiquated music area.”
“Why don’t I recall approving that?’
“Because you’ve been too busy leading, First Cousin. As have I.”
Cheng leaned back, reconsidering Kenuda. “So you have. Music.” Albert’s eyes narrowed. “I heard a Mooshie Lopez
