“So I’ve been hearing…” Her dress was completely wilted in the steamy room.
“Some temp screens say they can only show the concert, but not the game, too. Why? We have one vid network. It’s the same feed. No wonder I’m needed to run both sports and entertainment.”
“Maybe they’re having problems because you only decided forty-eight hours ago.”
“Me?” he yelled.
“Stop yelling. You should’ve thought of this sooner.”
His lips silently counted to three. “That I was able to pull this off is a miracle. Miracle. Booking bands, schedules, rehearsals, the lights, the promotion. Is there anyone in the United States of America who doesn’t know about this historic occasion?”
“Mainly been Puppy and Dara on the vidnews,” she said sourly.
“Who the hell arranged that? Little flying fairies in the forest? Becoming Second Cousin isn’t reward enough.”
Annette’s eyes widened. “Oh my baby, you’re getting promoted?”
“Eventually. What time is it again?”
She twisted her arm so he could read the watch. “We have to leave by five, you said.”
“I must go earlier.”
“Okay, I don’t mind…”
“Annette,” he said sternly, “there’s a lot of boring backstage crap. The acts, director, oh, Ian Schrage’s a pip…”
“He’s famous. I can’t wait to meet him.”
Kenuda looked uncomfortable. “Annette, there’s really no place for you there.”
“That’s where all the real excitement is.”
“Stress. Aggravation. Massive egos of weak-minded but gifted people who need a firm hand on their elbow which I can’t do if I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll behave.”
“But I’ve got you a seat for the show and of course, the game, if you like.”
“I should be with you…”
“You can’t.” He frothed slightly at his beeping computer screen. “Be a wonderful and supportive girl and amuse yourself somewhere until then.”
• • • •
THE THUMPING ON the door was so persistent it became a beat, blending into the prog-country doo-dad band warming up the crowd out there, somewhere beyond the vodka mist.
“I’m breaking down the door.”
How long would that take? Depends if he had an axe. Or bazooka. Yes, a large projectile would work best.
The thumping sounds stopped, replaced by quiet jingling, very secretive to make sure she wouldn’t hear. She’d fool them and be waiting with a large projectile herself.
Mooshie was on her hands and knees, searching for vodka when Puppy finally opened the door. He clicked on the light and she dove under the bed, pleading for the dark. He dragged Mooshie out by her ankles. She made no effort to get off her stomach other than gesture for the bottle of Butte’s Best Vodka on the table.
Puppy shouted, “What the hell’s going on? Your set’s in twenty minutes.”
“I’m ready. Just relaxing, honey.”
He flipped her onto her back and straddled her chest.
“I ain’t giving you a blowjob.” Mooshie grinned crookedly.
“I don’t take blow jobs from drunks.”
“Oh, we do have standards.” She knocked him aside and stumbled to the table, downing the last of the vodka.
“There are hundreds of thousands of people out there. Maybe a million. The whole country’s watching.”
“Yes. You and I. Mr. and Ms. America’s Favorite Couple. He throws. I sing. Forgiveness. Lights, camera, action. Forgiveness. It’s all bullshit, Puppy.”
“Maybe to you. Not to them.” He jerked his head in the direction of the thunderous applause as the doo-dad band scampered off and the next group, a drum quartet from Philly called Divine Pleasure, pounded their way on.
“I’ll be there. Enchanting, brilliant Dara Dinton.”
He shook his head. “Spare me your crap.”
“Is that any way to talk to someone whose underwear you’ve cherished for twenty-five years?”
“You can’t screw up the concert.”
“I will fuck up nothing,” she hissed. “Other than my life. For the rest of the world, I live on, Mooshie, Dara, who knows what my next incarnation will be. No, incarnation is when your soul returns in another body. Well, I ain’t got a soul. All I got is this.”
Cradling the empty bottle, Mooshie slumped sadly in a chair. He knelt, handing her a steaming mug of coffee.
“What happened, Moosh?”
“I’m having trouble understanding why I’m here. Whose side I’m on.”
“Mine.” He kissed her hand.
“But whose side are you on, Pup?”
“Mine,” he admitted. “And that side has brought a night game back to Yankee Stadium…”
“I’m scared, Pup,” Mooshie whispered.
“So I see.”
“You’re scared, too.”
“Every day. I don’t get it, either, other than we all got second chances. Me, you, Mick, Ty. He hasn’t called anyone a nigra or spic in weeks.”
They laughed softly.
“What scares you the most?” Puppy asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“That I’ll be sent back to wherever I came from before I know why I came.” Mooshie blinked back tears. “My friends murdered me, Pup. Derek Singh, Easy Sun Yen. I was an embarrassment. My best friends. The Three Amigos.”
Puppy stared, astonished.
“They gave the order. Now I gotta sing a couple songs and walk back into the stadium,” her voice dipped harshly, “where I was once hot shit, knowing what they did. All the lies my life was, when the people I trusted the most, loved dearly, thought nothing of killing me. That’s what I’m thinking tonight.”
Puppy thought carefully for a moment, wiping away her tears. “If it’s all bullshit, then what’s it matter concocting more bullshit to explain it away.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“If I can’t explain, then there’s no confusion. I take the mound at Yankee Stadium, Moosh. My dream. Not a big deal to you…”
“It was always a big deal,” she blazed. “I never took it for granted. Lots else. Not that.”
“I just thought of something. Maybe you can pitch an inning some game.”
She shuddered. “I’m skeeved out this close to the players’ entrance and you want me to pitch?”
“You’re right. It’d be embarrassing compared to me. I’ve struck out more than ten batters in eight straight games.”
Mooshie staggered up. “And I did it twenty-three straight games.”
“Twenty-four. I know old people have bad memories.” He kissed her fingers. “You can trust me,
