The Detectives whispered to each other, moving cautiously towards Clary.
I hate you, Puppy.
Annette grabbed Clary around the waist and charged toward the back door.
“I’m so tired of being chased,” Annette yelled as they scrambled down 233rd Street.
• • • •
THAT’S THE TWELFTH STRAIGHT DOUBLE K GAME FOR PUPPY. The scoreboard exhaled a Puppy HG on a horse gunning down Cubbies.
Ty grunted at Puppy as he sat at the far end of the dugout, passing teammates slapping his knee proudly. “Don’t get carried away.”
Everything was working. The knuckler was dancing, the occasional fastball dipping, the few curves all breaking at the last minute and dropping into the pitcher’s mystical black hole. Unable to sit still, he leaned on the top step, peering past Mick swinging a couple bats by the on-deck circle as another contingent of soldiers trotted out to home plate.
“The Army 31st Regiment held out for five days without resupply, enabling their buddies to withdraw safely into Scotland,” Mooshie solemnly said. “They were taken prisoner by the Allahs,” she was supposed to say Arabs, “for four years.”
Mooshie bit her lip. “You can imagine.”
The crowd murmured angrily, but a glance toward the box showed a very calm and serene Grandma. Clearly she expected a certain temperature. You don’t forgive overnight.
“We salute you.” Mooshie tipped her hand to her brow. The men, backs erect, returned the salutes, pausing grudgingly before Grandma.
“Going well, don’t you think?” Cheng whispered as the soldiers shuffled down the steps into the Yankees dugout.
Grandma kept her smile. “They hate my guts.”
Cheng shrugged. “That’ll never change.”
Grandma gave him a sharp look.
They went to the top of the fifth, the game scoreless. Puppy had struck out ten of the first twelve batters, but the Cubs’ Hsen was nearly matching him, fanning six and allowing only a scratch hit by Ty.
Puppy got the leadoff batter to feebly chase an oh-two knuckler. A Puppy HG in a wizard’s robe bewitched a Cubs batter.
In the control room, Dale whooped it up. Puppy doffed his cap in admiration.
The next batter went down on a fastball at the knees which beaded pain on Puppy’s upper lip. He walked off the mound, rubbing up the ball. Ty and Mick watched very carefully from their outfield positions. Puppy managed a weak smile and dug back into the mound.
His mind was briefly on the pain, not the pitch, and he threw a wobbly knuckler which forgot to skip. The Cubs shortstop Santiago ripped the ball into right center. Ty and Mick converged, both leaving their feet. The shot sailed over Mick’s outstretched glove, but Ty snatched the would-be extra base hit in the tip of the webbing. Together the two old-timers ran gleefully into the dugout.
“Perfect game’s still alive,” Jackson shouted.
Cobb jabbed the catcher in the ribs with the handle of his bat. “Never say that again. Any of you.” To underscore the message, Cobb chased Vern down the runway and ito the clubhouse.
“Is he crazy?” Shannon whispered to Puppy, towel draped around his neck.
“Well yeah. But it’s an old baseball superstition. Never jinx a you-know-what by talking about it.”
Ty slammed the bat near Puppy’s knee. “That means everyone.”
An Air Force wing commander was honored in the last of the fifth, HG F-26s gliding over the stands, so lifelike children tried pulling them out of the sky. The Yankees went down in order, Puppy ending the inning by bouncing out to third; Ty screamed at him for not running out the ball.
He almost showed him a clenched groin. Gimme a break, skip.
In the top of the sixth, the first Cub trickled out to short and the next batter swung fitfully at a curve way outside.
THAT’S THIRTEEN, FOLKS. Puppy galloped across the outfield and lassoed a Cubs hitter.
He went to three-and-two on the Cubbies left fielder, who fouled off three straight pitches before swinging an inch over a sinking fastball.
FOURTEEN! The Puppy HG dove toward the real one, who pretended to chase his alter ego around the infield, which didn’t amuse Ty.
In the last of the sixth, Vernon smacked a hanging curve into the right field corner, huffing into second with a lead-off double.
Dale concentrated on her console, punching in a gasping Jackson HG wheezing on hands and knees into the base. As always, she made herself laugh. She had to come up with more funny HGs for the Cubs. But they were boring. Well, If anyone could make them unboring, it was her. Dale was so intent thinking of ways to make the Cubs HGs interesting that she didn’t hear the three men in orange wigs sneak into the control room.
When Dale looked up, she was clubbed in the head with the butt of a rifle. A Miner dragged her into the corner while his comrades studied the console. They nodded, pleased. It looked just like they planned.
Dmitri grounded out to second, sending Vern to third. The Cubs drew their infield in. Dante tried too hard and popped up to the first baseman, flinging the bat in disgust. Ty broke the discarded bat over his knee.
Ty dug into the left-handed hitter’s box and missed a bunt attempt on the first pitch.
“He never misses.” Puppy nudged Mickey.
“Who said he was trying?” Mantle grinned.
The Cubs third baseman edged in a foot closer and Cobb whacked a shot past him into left field, Jackson chugging down the line for the first run of the game. Puppy was a little surprised not to see the old white-haired Ty HG skipping around, mocking his opponents. Guess The Perfect One has to miss sometimes.
Shannon flied to left for the third out. Puppy took the mound for the top of the seventh, waiting to begin his warm-ups until Mooshie was done with that inning’s salute. The crowd settled in for the new treat.
“I’d like to sing a wonderful old song. It’s another song you haven’t heard for a while. Not since the last time we all got together, back on October 12, 2065. As you know, it was also outlawed.”
She tipped her
