“I think you do, sir. It’s okay. Your friend…”
“Nephew…” Puppy jumped in.
“Nephew,” Frick drew out the word dubiously. “He’ll take care of you. Eventually.” The cop tipped the night stick on the counter and motioned for Puppy to follow, stopping near the men’s room. “Nephew?”
“Sort of. I found him wandering in my neighborhood.”
“Took pity, very nice.” Frick waited for Puppy to hand over his Lifecard, which he scanned on a thin silver device wrapped around his wrist. “Baseball historian?” The Officer chuckled dismissively. Puppy forced a wan smile.
“Should have plenty of time then to take care of the gentleman.” Frick examined the discharge forms. “Like I said, you’ve done a nice thing. But stupidity trumps generosity.” Frick gently rapped his night stick on Puppy’s forehead. Maybe not so gently. “He left The Facility half an hour ago and you bring him to a bar?”
“He kind of just walked in.”
“And forced his way into receiving a drink?” Frick glanced at Mick, toasting. “Two drinks now.”
Puppy groaned inwardly.
“Is this the sort of care you’re planning on extending?”
“No, sir.”
“He’s clearly nearing the end and deserves dignity.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will I see you in here again?”
“Yes. But not with him.”
“Because I will check.” Frick scribbled a reminder note with a small pencil in a large purple notebook, then walked back down the bar and warmly shook Mantle’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” He stared at Jimmy. “Mr. Nedick will relay our conversation.”
Jimmy glared at Puppy. He really wanted to be on the police radar about smelly old men drinking when they shouldn’t and causing problems. Officer Frick made it as far as halfway to the door before Mickey raised his refilled martini glass, calling out, “What’s the rush, Officer? Join me for a round.”
The Blue Shirt escorted them to The Foyer, the main administrative center for the Bronx, an ugly old building with latticed windows and scorched bricks which sat with a certain haughty air on Sheridan Avenue. After the Allahs nuked Washington, DC, on the heels of the chemical attack on Manhattan, the seat of government had moved to the Bronx.
At the entrance, Frick whispered heatedly to the Blue Shirt on duty, jabbing his stick toward Puppy. The large cop rolled off his stool, annoyed at the inconvenience of having to move, obviously caused by Puppy’s negligence and possible degeneracy. The Blue Shirt, identified as Manson Phillips on his NYPD badge, read and re-read the discharge papers, searching for some reason to arrest Puppy or at least take a very active dislike.
Patient: Mickey Mantle. Age: Deceased. Born: Yes. Occupation: Hall of Fame Baseball Player. Relatives: Probably all dead like me. Last Address: Dallas Memorial Hospital and hopefully a cemetery. Health Issues: No sex for a 100 years. Mental State: Maybe.
Officer Phillips returned the papers to Puppy, giving Mickey a bewildered look.
“I’ll make sure they get to the right room.”
Frick tapped his night stick rhythmically into Puppy’s forehead. as he instructed his colleague, “Check the papers when they leave.”
Mick dozed on Puppy’s shoulder in the simply furnished waiting room. On a long poster by the door, the face of a pleasant faced girl in dreads smiled beneath a sign, “If You Don’t Know Who You Are, How Can We?” with stark lettering below, “Take Care of Your Lifecard.” Directly above their heads hummed the vidnews, scrolling along pictures of fish hopping happily into nets draped from a long boat somewhere in the Atlantic, a dour captain in a yellow slicker explaining new fishing techniques in a way that made you long for a good greasy cheeseburger; Puppy kind of remembered real meat, dozing into a light sleep where he was a pickle chip fighting off angry cheddar cheese with Mantle’s face.
The reedy clerk beckoned them inside. Mick walked unsteadily; he must’ve thrown down an extra martini when I wasn’t looking, Puppy thought as they settled inside the office. Grandma’s classic pearl earrings photograph stared down.
“Who’s the broad?” Mick drawled.
The clerk stared, horrified.
“He was in The Facility,” Puppy explained.
The clerk held the application up to his eyes.
“You got a toilet?” Mick asked.
“Hold it in,” Puppy whispered.
“I can’t.”
The clerk looked up. “Where did you lose it?”
It took Puppy a second. “The Lifecard? He doesn’t know.”
“I don’t even know what the hell it is,” Mick yelled.
The clerk disapprovingly fingered the application.
“He had an accident,” Puppy said.
“Did you file a police report?” the clerk asked hopefully.
“No.”
“I fell on my head,” Mick threw in. “I was drunk.”
The clerk grunted. “Where?”
“Usually at Toots Shor’s joint. Also my own place on Central Park West.”
“Manhattan.” Puppy raised a knowing eyebrow. “Before.”
The clerk narrowed his eyes. “So you lost it outside the Bronx.”
“I don’t know,” Mick snapped. “Might still be in my coffin.”
“So the Lifecard could just be misplaced.”
“Probably not.” Puppy brushed aside any optimism.
“You must look for it.”
“How can he look for the Lifecard if he doesn’t know where he lost it?”
“Until then, it’s merely misplaced. “
“Does that mean he can’t get one?”
The clerk frowned. “He can. It’s just more work.”
Puppy smiled apologetically, which had the effect of hitting a meteor with a stick. The clerk chewed on his lower lip and typed into his computer.
“And the bathroom is where?” Mick whined.
“In a second,” Puppy snapped.
The clerk looked up, slightly puzzled. “There is no record of a Lifecard issued to Mickey Mantle.”
Mick stood, ready to roll. Puppy tugged him back down.
“Are you sure?”
The clerk’s watery eyes glistened with indignation. “Of that name, yes. Perhaps the gentlemen used other names.”
Puppy nudged Mick to answer.
“The Mick. The Commerce Comet. I was a jet before I tore up my knee.” He rolled up his right pants leg to show a nasty scar on the knee. He rolled the pants back down thoughtfully.
“We do not use nicknames for official documents,” the clerk said icily.
“Mick, you have a middle name?”
“Would help,” the clerk turned toward his keyboard, eager for this to end.
“Charles. Mickey Charles Mantle,” he said proudly.
The clerk’s search came up empty. This was especially annoying. Lost or misplaced Lifecards were easy enough because
