He had visions of Annette rumbling down the Grand Concourse in a tank. “That’s not acceptable, Moosh.”
“With his eyes, brain dead. I like the black dress and if you don’t, say nothing but agree.”
“Which wig am I liking?”
“The blonde.”
“You on your own about the lipstick?”
Mooshie glared. “Think you’re hot shit because of your little pitch?”
“The one which struck out twelve?”
“Fat clumsy people.”
Puppy laughed. “Is the great Mooshie Lopez jealous because the humble and low Puppy Nedick fanned the most hitters in major league baseball since 2064?”
“When it was the major leagues and not this crap so get out of my dressing room.”
“I have to dress, too.”
She pushed him out the door. “You got a bathroom. And I struck out sixteen so match that, cripple arm.”
Mooshie waited for Puppy and the Two White Grandpas to head off like three cowboys at a rodeo before she finished dressing. Mooshie Lopez didn’t walk into a club with an entourage. Mooshie Lopez walked into a club alone. Especially when she was this nervous.
She huddled in a corner of the local subway, cold eyes warning anyone who might recognize her to stay away. As the train pulled into the Westchester Avenue stop, she draped herself in front of the sliding doors and pulled aside her thick wool coat, posing.
“Dara Dinton tonight, darlings, at the Stanton.”
The passengers stirred, surprised.
“Come on down and join me.”
Mooshie flipped a handful of tickets into the train, setting off a scramble and, with a whooshing sweep of her coat, rushed down the steps and along Burnside Avenue.
Like a number of the fancy supper clubs, the Stanton hid on a quiet street where, according to zoning regulations, there were no residential buildings; families couldn’t be disturbed.
Mooshie remembered the first of the supper clubs back in 2063; Grandma was desperate for distractions. Recreating that frivolous atmosphere with table lamps and big bands and sultry singers and properly suited up guests served by beautiful waiters struck a warm chord, a door opening for a trapped, starving, terrified country. Soon tuxedos were the fashion along with cigarette holders, elegant wave hair styles and glittering jewelry. Mooshie cut a record just of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman songs. She wouldn’t be singing them tonight, she thought grimly, pressing through the crowded backstage with the aloof rudeness all celebrities were inevitably accorded, whether outlawed or not. Talent was still a seductive hypnotic.
“Two minutes, Miss Dinton.” A voice rapped on the door.
Mooshie quickly re-applied her bright red lipstick, nudging aside the three dozen red roses in blue vases. She didn’t need to read the card.
A murmur spread beyond the small window like a stream gnawing into a river. Mooshie watched Grandma outside the club, waving over siblings on their way home. This was what she did wherever she went. If the event, the movie, the play, the music, was good enough for her, then she certainly had to share it with her darlings. No special screenings or concerts for Grandma. They were all one happy fucking family, Mooshie almost spit down, but there were too many wired-up security guards, some up on the roof; a rifle aimed her way sent Mooshie back into her dressing room.
Grandma hoisted a little boy onto her shoulders and led the crowd inside. Mooshie grabbed her black silk scarf, waited for her intro, the band cueing up, then another couple beats before thrusting out one long meaty leg beyond the satin curtain, curling up her knee and growling huskily.
This’ll teach you to bring kids to my gig.
“Let my lovin’ fill your glove,
Let my lovin’ be your pitch.”
In the front row, Puppy, Zelda and Pablo squealed at recognizing the lyrics, while Kenuda beamed alone at a corner table. But she wasn’t looking at them.
“Only love lets you keep foulin’ ‘em off,
‘Cause you can’t strike out when you feel.”
At the back, Grandma lowered the little boy, her mind scampering across the packed room. Mooshie scooted to the other end of the stage as if ducking bullets, spinning around and sweeping her hair back and forth in her trademark head flip.
Here I am, bitch, Mooshie smiled. Surprise.
Mental fingers probed. She sang louder, her voice drowning out her thoughts, upended like nuts scattered on a table. Grandma frowned, puzzled.
“Thank you, everyone.” Mooshie bowed to the tumultuous applause. “That was one of Mooshie Lopez’s great tunes Keep Foulin’ Off, from 2060. Who here remembers the greatest baseball player of all time?”
Strong applause rippled through the room.
“We got a bunch more of her songs, but I’d like to sing something from a little known singer-songwriter I always admired, Kenny Loggins.” Mooshie sat on the stool; Grandma had yet to blink. “Called I’m Not Hiding.”
Zelda left after the rowdy, hour-long first set which nearly sent the crowd dancing on the tables, mumbling she was too tired to drink.
“Don’t you think Zelda’s acting strangely lately?” Puppy asked.
“Yeah, but how could you tell?”
“Good point.” Leaning forward, Puppy knocked his glass against Pablo’s, whispering, “So what about Dara?”
“I’m convinced. This is the third time I’ve seen her perform. Kenuda took me twice.”
“You sneaky bastard.”
“Think I’d just roll up like a rug if Puppy barked?”
“That never happened before.” The two friends exchanged wistful smiles. “I missed you.”
“Missed you, too, though it’s hard to really miss you with that billboard.”
“Billboards. Plural.”
All over America, Grandma smiled beneath FORGIVENESS with Puppy in mid-windup in the foreground, Mooshie singing by his side.
“It’s finally happening for you, Pup.” Pablo squeezed his forearm. “Kind of amazing.”
“Yeah,” he answered carefully.
“You pulling a Zelda and Pablo and looking for some reason to doubt it?”
Puppy shrugged. “Ty, Mick, now the Moosh. I’m a poster child. My arm goes, but I learn the knuckler and the batters go down down down…”His hand slowly fell to the table. “Seems it’s all too good.”
“If it makes you feel better, it won’t last.” Pablo gave him a hard stare. “Go out on top. However all this happened, it happened. You did it, Pup. You brought baseball back.”
He grew embarrassed. “And you, Fifth Cousin?”
“Oh, I
