He paid for the drinks and hailed a cab outside Monroe’s; the place hadn’t changed in thirty years. The ride uptown dragged on through the endless traffic and he jumped out at Ogden Avenue, closing the distance quickly on foot.
The woman answered sleepily on the second buzz, coming alive when he said Diego sent him.
“Can I get you something?” the chubby black girl asked.
“I’m fine, Ms. Jones.” He took in the messy, well-thought-out apartment filled with colorful art hanging on walls, sketches taped to mirrors, all different styles; the girl changed her mind a lot.
She smiled as he scanned the living room. “You like art?”
“Don’t understand it, ma’am.”
“Zelda.”
“Zelda. I still don’t understand it.”
“That’s the great secret behind art.” She playfully pressed her lips. “No one does. No one ever did. All this great parade of endless bullshit when all the artist cares about is displacing some pain.”
He shrugged politely.
“So Diego sent you with some message?” Zelda offered him cookies. When he declined, she nervously stuffed one into her mouth.
“I don’t even know him.”
Zelda laid down the plate and pulled a razor from her slipper. “Who are you?”
He squeezed her wrist and kicked the falling blade across the room. “I had to get inside. Sorry. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
“With Diego?”
Tomas hadn’t played out the story. Too damn angry. Or drunk. “There was an event at sea. The ship sunk and Diego’s dead,” he said flatly. Show emotion and it only deepens their hurt.
“Dead.” The word tasted horribly. “Are you sure?”
Tomas nodded. Either he’s stuck at the bottom of the ocean or camel appetizers by now.
Her fingers dug into his forearm. “Sunk how? What about his body? What was he doing?”
“I’ve nothing more to say. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
She yanked his arm as Tomas turned to leave. “Or you can’t say? That’s it. Diego was doing something secret.”
“He told you?”
“He’s the father of my fucking baby. Are you with the government? The Black Tops?” Zelda sniffed to find his identity.
“Listen to me.” Tomas held Zelda’s face very tightly. “Diego listed you as his next of kin. Obviously you meant something. I did you a favor by letting you know. Now forget this visit for your sake and the sake of your child.”
“He has a mother, sisters…”
Tomas tugged his right earlobe and shook her roughly. You deaf?
Zelda stumbled on numb feet into the cold night without a jacket, just a thin red scarf she’d been using as a cleaning rag. She munched on the last of the Della’s Super Crunchy Chocolate Chip Cookies, pieces toppling out of her pocket like a trail leading down Jerome Avenue. She frowned at the midnight crowd, noisy, clamoring siblings hopping up and down as if the ground were too hot to stand on.
Zelda clung to the rear of the crowd as the barking neared. Confident pugs marched across the wide avenue, their perked ears waving back, flared snouts sniffing happily. At the midnight whistle, children ran forward, hugging pugs, rolling on the ground, feeding them treats, throwing balls; who was happier was hard to tell.
A fawn pug raced in circles near Zelda. She scooped up the squirming dog, kissing its cool fur. A couple children flanked her, gesturing to let the pug down so they could play. Ugly children, Zelda thought. Sneering ugly children tugging on her jeans. Zelda tightened her arms around the pug and the children complained to their parents. Sneering ugly stupid parents all happy with ugly children outside at midnight trying to steal one more thing from her.
She ran through the crowd with the pug, who settled down, enjoying the ride and the air fluttering on its face. People shouted and pointed. Zelda made it as far as one block, telling the pug not to worry, she knew shortcuts, this was her neighborhood, she grew up there, Puppy grew up there, Pablo grew up there, Mooshie grew up there, her dead boyfriend grew up there.
The Blue Shirt gently held her arm; this was not the first time someone tried running off with a pug.
“C’mon, ma’am, give me the doggie.”
She kicked his shin and managed another half a block before she was surrounded by three stern Blue Shirts. Zelda flailed helplessly at the air, leaping from one foot to the next as the pug climbed onto her shoulder, barking. “He’s mine. Please, he’s mine.”
The Blue Shirts carefully took the pug. Zelda held onto the old black metal light pole, beyond crying, just needing something to hug. She abruptly grabbed one of the Blue Shirts, who kindly patted her back. She never knew loneliness could hurt so much. Maybe because she’d gotten so used to it.
• • • •
THE NAMES OF each of the players were written neatly on the top of the boxes stacked in the center of the clubhouse; Frecklie had checked four times to make sure they had the right names with the right sizes.
Mick was the first to snatch a box, a wide grin traveling in a semi-circle around his head.
“They moved Christmas to the summer, too?”
“You could say that.”
Mantle grunted and sat in front of his locker. Slowly the rest of the team searched for their names, quietly unwrapping. Vern was the first to cry out.
“Look at this.” He danced around the clubhouse with the pinstripe top. “Number eight?”
Puppy smiled. “Also worn by Yogi Berra and Bill Dickey, two of the greatest Yankee catchers of them all.”
Players shouted out their numbers as if they’d won a contest: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 10.
The owner of number 7 was very quiet, turning the uniform over and over again.
“What do you think, Mick?” Puppy sat beside him.
Mantle shook his head back and forth in disbelief. “Never thought I’d wear it again.”
“Life’s amazing, especially when you
