Frecklie pointed again at the photo of J’anos’ winding up. “Fingers into ball.”
Hoyt Wilhelm and Phil Niekro and Tim Wakefield and Kendall Atkins and Amos J’anos and now Puppy Nedick. And your other option is what, exactly?
Frecklie trotted a few feet away, pounding the glove.
Puppy waved briskly. Too far.
The boy fluttered his fingers on his chest. Too much pressure?
Puppy angrily motioned him further back and dug at the concrete, emulating a mound. Using two fingers digging into the ball, he threw ten feet over Frecklie’s head. A slender little old man seemingly came out of the ground to grab the ball.
“What’re you trying to do?” the man asked.
Even thirty feet away, the gruff voice was unmistakable. Puppy tipped forward in a neck bow, nudging the baffled Frecklie to follow. Cheng walked over, flipping the ball with a loving smile. Frecklie kicked the book under his coat.
“Is this ball regulation size?”
“Yes, First Cousin Cheng,” Puppy said. “We used the supplies in the Dead Past Warehouse on Bruckner.”
Cheng chuckled. “I think I hit this one in the ’62 Series.”
“First or fourth game, sir?”
“Right. You’re also the historian.” He looked at the trembling Frecklie. “I’m only a First Cousin, son. No need to be rattled. Now be impressed by this guy, he’s averaging ten strikeouts a game.”
Puppy tipped forward again at the compliment, his mind racing about what a First Cousin was doing in a deserted DV playground at dusk.
“So why are you learning a knuckler? I’m figuring that’s what you’re trying unless it’s some secret new pitch.”
“I’m improving my repertoire, First Cousin.”
Chang sniffed. “Are you planning on throwing it properly?”
“We don’t know how,” Frecklie admitted gravely.
Albert laughed. “So I saw. This way, Puppy. Use the four knuckle grip.” Cheng gripped the ball with four fingers pressed downward into the middle of the seam. He gestured for Frecklie to back up, letting the boy stop about fifty feet away. His pitch danced merrily halfway before tiring and rolling to Frecklie’s feet. The teen was afraid to pick it up and acknowledge Cheng’s failure.
Cheng did a little jig. “Pretty damn good for an eighty-three-year old shortstop who hasn’t thrown anything for more than thirty years.” He slipped on Puppy’s glove. “J’anos taught me the knuckler. We were in Chicago on the Hyde Hotel rooftop. And soused on rum, back when I could drink.” Another nostalgic sigh. “We kept throwing and hitting balls onto the street until the Blue Shirts stopped us. Took five of them,” he recalled proudly. “Those days they didn’t arrest celebrities. It’s much better now, equality before the law.”
Cheng reluctantly returned Puppy’s glove, staring carefully. “You have some time to talk, son?”
They hadn’t even settled into a rear table at Needleman’s before the waiter hurried over, smiling a row of perfect white teeth.
“Albert Cheng, good to see you again.”
The First Cousin squinted. “Who are you?”
“Ruffian Slatz, of course. The usual?”
The First Cousin turned up his palms at Puppy. “For both of us.”
“Who’s he?”
“Puppy Nedick.”
The waiter grunted at his outstretched hand. “Never heard of you. But this man. The grace, the skill. The greatest player of them all.”
Cheng beamed. “We know that. Bring some knishes, too.”
The waiter shuffled away with an extra bounce in his step.
“I used to come here a lot, a great little after hours place for some real food. Bring the dates over and ply them with pastrami and give them a bit of the old Bronx.” Cheng frowned. “The waiter was old then, if I recall.”
Puppy took in the faded décor. “Nice.”
Ruffian returned, standing patiently until Albert nodded approval of the coffee. “Two sugars as always.”
“Yes, right.” Cheng smiled thinly. “If you’ll give us some privacy, please.”
“Still a prick, I love it.” The waiter chuckled.
Albert stirred his coffee. “You don’t trust me, do you? Why should you?” He paused. “But do you trust Grandma?”
“Of course,” he said hoarsely.
Cheng inched forward, twirling a pickle. “Why?”
There could not be a good answer to this question, he thought, buying time with another sour tomato.
“Can’t answer it, can you?” Albert snorted. “Don’t worry, most folks can’t. They trust her, love her, the eyes, the smile, the voice. Everyone has the one passion for Grandma. Me, it’s the way she loves children. They’re our lifeblood, Puppy. Grandma knows we make the future every moment. Pure faith and love, Puppy. In ourselves. In our destiny.”
Cheng smiled; Puppy would’ve needed a microscope to find the warmth. “You’re engaged to some singer, right?”
“Dara Dinton. She’s very talented.”
Cheng waved him off. “So Commissioner Kenuda says. He has great plans for Dara. You jealous of her success?”
“Not at all.”
“Because you love her?”
Puppy smiled as vaguely as he could muster.
Cheng patted his hand and, with a sigh, took a bite of the corned beef sandwich, grunting approval and sending the waiter away. He nudged aside the plate, gesturing for Puppy to eat his hot dog before it got cold.
“If I tell you Grandma needs your help, can you do it on pure faith and love?”
Puppy chewed very carefully and nodded.
“Are you sure?”
He swallowed. “Can I ask what it is?”
Cheng laughed loudly, this time for real.
• • • •
ZELDA KILLED MORE time. She did a lot of that lately. Stopping for coffee, stopping to pee, stopping to eat, stopping to poop. It was like her body was in feces-urine overdrive disposal to give her mind a chance to think without any distractions.
Katrina had been wonderful, insisting she come in late, leave early, stare off into space in the office. Don’t worry about work. I know what you can do. Mr. Saul knows what you can do. Everyone is supportive. We love you, Zelda.
FORGIVENESS.
She stared without blinking at Grandma’s huge smiling face looking down from the billboard on Webster Avenue.
FORGIVENESS.
Purple letters against a white background. No children. Just her, one on one. Code for serious; everyone understood that.
FORGIVENESS.
For what? Would you forgive me for murder, Grandma? Killing a future scientist or doctor or dancer or who knows, soldier someday? Little Diego or Little Pablo or Little
