“Excuse me, sir.” She knocked lightly. He pulled his feet off the desk, surprised. “I had a question.”
“Usually that’s the prelude for scheduling an appointment, Ms. Jones,” Pietro said sternly.
She inched around his glass enclosure. “Sorry. First day excitement.”
Pietro softened slightly.
“You talked about knowledge,” she continued.
“When?”
“When you were in my office a few minutes ago.”
“Yes.” He grudgingly conceded.
“Since I’ve never been on a fishing boat,” she said and Pietro gasped slightly, “I wondered if I could go out one day to see what it’s all about. That would give me a real feel for real fish.”
Pietro peered at her. “That’s an excellent idea, Ms. Jones. Let me see what I can arrange.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He quickly frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the tuna salad meeting?” He handed her a folder. “Salmon salad. Consider the possibilities.”
• • • •
THE NEW OLD guy walked around the living room, sniffing disdainfully at the furniture. Puppy flipped the suit jacket on the chair, which agitated the man.
“I said I want that cleaned.” He glared at Mickey, deep in thought. “Sir, would you talk to your boy here?’
“Who the hell are you?” Puppy scowled.
The man clenched his fists. “How dare you take that tone with me, boy.”
“Ty?” Mickey stepped between them.
“Yes.” The man seemed offended that this was even a question.
“It’s Mickey Mantle.”
Ty Cobb peered in disbelief. “What happened to you?”
“I got old and died.” Mickey tugged on Puppy’s sleeve. “It’s Ty Cobb.”
Puppy just blinked.
“The greatest hitter who ever lived,” Cobb said arrogantly. “This your place, Mick?”
“No, his.”
Cobb sneered. “You live with a nigra?”
Puppy dragged Mickey into the bedroom and slammed the door. “Okay. Who is he?”
“Ty Cobb. But he ain’t the greatest hitter. Pete Rose broke his record. Don’t tell him. He got a temper.”
Puppy rubbed his forehead. “And you let him in why?”
“How could I let him in? I was with you.”
“Yes, you were.” Puppy was annoyed over that little fact. “Be honest.”
“I am,” Mickey snarled.
“You gave him my address.”
“No.”
“Then spoke to the super and slipped him a few dollars…”
“I spent all my money on booze. Which I could use…”
Puppy held onto Mantle’s elbow. “Ty’s a friend of yours?”
“We posed for photos once. Hall of Famers and future Hall of Famers. It was for a magazine I can’t remember.”
“Mickey. Listen to me. I’m happy to help you.”
“No, you ain’t.” He stared hard.
Puppy flushed with shame. “I am. Somewhere inside, very happy. But I can’t have your buddies moving in.”
“The Sporting News.”
“What?”
“For the photos. It was a big baseball magazine. And Cobb can pay his way. The guy’s loaded. Made money off General Motors and Coca-Cola.” Mickey went back into the living room. Puppy sat on the edge of the bed, listening to them toast, thinking empty, bewildered thoughts. He returned during the second round.
“Ty…”
“Mr. Cobb.”
Mickey patted Ty’s arm to be nice.
“Ty,” he said grudgingly.
“Puppy Nedick.” He poured himself a stiff one. “Sorry if I was a little rude.” Cobb scowled. “But as Mick has explained, this is my apartment.”
Ty raised a disdainful eyebrow.
“You can appreciate, I’m sure, coming home and finding a stranger is a little disturbing.”
Mickey nudged Ty, who finally responded. “Your apology is accepted.”
“Well thank you kindly, sir.” Puppy forced out the sarcasm. “Any friend of Mickey’s is welcome.”
“I told you he wasn’t a bad kid.” Mick poured another round, tearing open the bag of Paul’s Pretzels and spraying salt over the coffee table.
“We have lots of food for dinner,” Puppy said.
“Fried chicken,” Mickey added.
“Of course.” Ty rolled his eyes.
“So please join us.”
“Much better,” Ty said, stretching. “I’d like to make some phone calls before supper.”
Mick elbowed Ty. “He ain’t got a phone. Not exactly a high flier.”
“No one has phones.” Puppy tried polishing his image.
“Those people usually have some common phone at a barbershop or bar,” Ty told Mick.
“No one except the police and the government has phones,” Puppy repeated louder.
Cobb grunted dubiously and waited for Puppy to pour him another drink.
Mantle frowned suddenly. “Ain’t you dead, Ty?”
“How? I’m here,” Ty snapped.
“Me, too. But look.” He modeled his torso. “Think.”
Cobb pursed his lips. “I have heart problems.” He tapped his chest. “Diabetes. Cancer. I had cancer.”
“Me, too,” Mick said happily. “Liver.”
“Prostate.” Ty thought for a moment, loosening his tie. “I was in Atlanta. 1961. Then I wasn’t.”
“And here you are. Like me.”
Ty considered Puppy and didn’t come away pleased. “In this Negro’s house.”
“Ain’t the Plaza.”
“I’ll find a phone tomorrow and call my bank. Get us some money.”
“At least enough for a cab. We gotta walk everywhere.”
“I’ll get a car.” Cobb paused, studying Puppy. “ Can you drive?”
• • • •
FORTUNATELY TY AND Mickey drank themselves into oblivion and passed out early, Ty in the chair, Mick on the couch. Puppy regretted the demise of Greta because it took about half an hour for the boys to stagger awake and another half hour once they sat up, blearily staring off into space. The pseudo-coffee followed by powdered eggs roused Cobb into a state of culinary rage; he wouldn’t get ready until Mickey swore to Jesus that their first stop would be a bank.
Puppy was pretty sure the last bank had been closed under the Anti-Parasite Laws of 2068.
Cobb clucked his tongue so much walking down Morris Avenue he sounded like Ringo Starr trapped in a tonsil. He half-shrank into his suit, avoiding contact with siblings hurrying to work, especially since he and Mick were the only Caucs for blocks at a time. He looked like he wanted a very long shower with a pound of soap.
When they got to River Avenue, Mickey let out a happy cry and ran forward. Just before the first pile of rocks, he froze in disbelief.
“What is that?” Cobb asked.
“Amazon Stadium,” Puppy said, bewildered. “The baseball stadium. You haven’t heard of it?”
“Amawhat?” Mickey shouted, pointing at the ground,
