“That hurt?” Annette asked.
Clary stared sullenly at her finger and shook her head.
“I was a nurse once.” Annette applied more pressure and Clary groaned. “Nurses training anyway, back when I was looking for a career after Puppy and I broke up.”
“Puppy Beisbol.” Clary’s eyes watered.
“Whatever. I made it through three months but the sight of blood was disgusting. Sit still. The bleeding stopped.” She wiped away Clary’s tears. “That was my last clean handkerchief.”
“Gracias,” Clary mumbled.
“You’re welcome.”
“De nada.” The girl sighed impatiently. “De nada. De nada. You are welcome.”
Annette smiled grudgingly. “De nada.”
• • • •
TOMAS WALKED AROUND the four-foot high plastic mock-up of Yankee Stadium on Grandma’s coffee table, shaking his head.
“What if we need to evacuate?”
“Why would we?”
“Because shit goes wrong. Look at the night game.”
“There were no problems.”
“It was a light show, magic. Veterans Day can’t be a show.” Tomas stared pleadingly at Grandma, who offered only a shrug. “The emotions are off the charts.”
“That’s why we’re doing this. They need to be controlled and channeled to positive goals.”
Tomas wagged his finger at the area bordering River Avenue. “Will this be cleared?”
“There’ll be paths to allow the veterans to pass.”
“I don’t have enough soldiers to provide security.”
She sighed. “The BTs will be there.”
Stilton about left his boots. “BTs at a ceremony honoring veterans at Yankee Stadium? That’s a disaster in waiting. No, I don’t like anything about it. There’s going to be rogue demonstrations, has to be. And I don’t see any way out unless it’s vertical. I don’t like relying solely on the ’copters. If something happens, you’re trapped.”
Grandma smiled gently. “There are escape routes.”
“Where? Show me.” Tomas kicked the table and the stadium tipped over. He didn’t help her straighten the model. “And what the hell is John Hazel doing other than building replicas?”
Grandma gently tugged Tomas back into the chair. “He’s coordinating with the veterans groups.”
“He was in the service for three months.”
“Enough to lose a leg,” she said sternly. “He’s plugged into the Apollo Brigades.”
Apollo Brigades were baseball players who signed up for duty after 10/12. Players, amateur and professional, had swarmed into recruiting offices, eager to show they disapproved of the Miners. Tomas had commanded some, all wiped out at Nice. Guilt did not make good soldiers.
“What about the other soldiers? The real veterans?”
“They’re invited, but we’re only honoring the Apollos. Keeping a simple theme. Again, Cheng’s idea.”
“I want to see all the names,” Stilton insisted. “Every single honoree who’ll be on the field. Every single veteran who goes through the gates…”
“Tomas,” she cut him off sharply. “Cheng’s handling that.”
He stared dully. “Your security is my job.”
“Not for this.”
“I go where you go,” he rasped.
“And you go where I need you. It’s been more than a week since the Son left. I’m afraid something’s happened.”
He bristled. “I put him on the plane personally.’
“I’m not blaming you.”
“Maybe his friends killed him.”
“I would’ve heard.”
He paused. “Maybe he changed his mind.”
“Why would he do that? Stop already. I’m tired of arguing. Do as I say.”
He stared. “As your head of security?”
Grandma busied herself dusting the armoire, making him wait in agony for an answer he already knew. “No. As my friend.”
• • • •
THE WAITER DIDN’T give Pablo a particularly cordial smile as he led him to a table at the rear near an exposed heating pipe, tossing down a menu and shuffling behind the counter. The three old men at the front stared rudely while Pablo slowly bit into a pickle. He held it up in a toast and they looked away, muttering.
It was only ten-thirty, too early for lunch and too late for breakfast; brunch was a concept Pablo always reserved for a relationship. When you had nothing else to fill your day, any time was good for a meal, Pablo thought sadly. His patients had vanished. He didn’t know why but suspected getting bumped from the Cousins program played a role. He still had to keep the office open, even if he held a darts tournament in the waiting room; otherwise he’d be placed on the Lazy List and assigned a job.
What positions in Grandma’s Family are available for insolent ex-dentists? he could hear Zelda say. Maybe a clown, lean into the whole smile-o-meter thing. How many patients have you wanted to spritz with seltzer? He smiled. Puppy said she was safe. No more info than that. Safe suddenly seemed like a lot.
The waiter stared sullenly. Pablo made him recite the daily specials. It took about five minutes, weighted by a number of questions about matzo brei and the relationship between salami and eggs.
He yawned. “Coffee for now.”
He waited until the muttering old man disappeared down the hallway beyond the counter, then rose, stretching like he’d been tied up for a week, and with a loud proclamation informed everyone he needed the bathroom.
Pablo wandered past the kitchen, angling for a better look through the small window on the double doors. The waiter stood motionlessly by a large table as a faceless ‘bot in a white apron carved up meats, spraying blood. The waiter dabbed at a stain on his shoulder and ladled out a bunch of pickles into a large serving dish. The ‘bot kept chopping.
The waiter went through a side door and, within seconds, another waiter came back in. No stain, no dish.
This new waiter quickly went from food table to table, carrying five dishes at once. Now another waiter returned, shoulder stain intact. The two robots conferred. A pair of eyes caught him.
Pablo ducked into the bathroom, flushing the toilet and loudly running the sink water before returning to his table. One of the waiters ambled over with a pad to take his order.
Pablo was about to order the lox and onions special when a second waiter stood by the table, smiling. Now a third and a fourth and a fifth waiter surrounded him, all holding pencils and pads,
