“I got twenty-five grand, which was best back in 1921 until that fat half-coon Ruth got eighty grand or something,” Cobb growled. “Since this is, what year again?”
“2098,” Puppy said wearily.
“We oughta get about fifty million each.”
“Sounds right,” Mick agreed.
Puppy took deep breaths. “Probably not to start. You’ll get paid into your Lifecards every week.”
“What’s that?”
“The card in your pocket that I gave up one of my prize possessions to get,” he snapped back. “You can use it for everything.”
“Like American Express?” Mick asked.
“What’s that?”
“My money goes into my bank where I can see it,” Ty said stubbornly.
“As I told you, the banks are all gone.”
“You telling me there’s no Yids walking around paying interest?”
Puppy was momentarily speechless. How could they have not heard of the First Anti-Parasite Laws which got rid of banks and the entertainment industry? “The vermin banks stole people’s money. Grandma stopped letting them get away with it. Now everything goes directly into this.” He held up his Lifecard. “One stop shopping.”
Ty snorted. “Where do you earn interest?”
“Interest isn’t earned through work so why would you get it?’
“What if you need a loan?”
“For what?”
“A car. A house.”
“You buy it.”
“And if you ain’t got the money?” Mick joined in.
“Then you don’t get it. You only buy what you can afford.” Puppy shook his head. They must’ve been in the home for a long time. “Any other financial questions I can answer?”
They rolled their eyes and tentatively followed him to the robot, who eagerly shook their hands. Ty and Mick carefully checked their fingers.
“You’re the new guys, right?”
They nodded cautiously.
“Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”
“Better not,” Mick warned.
The A29 stepped around, assessing them and making notes onto its machine. “I’m figuring speed isn’t your forte.”
“I had eight hundred and ninety-two stolen bases, asshole.” Cobb scowled.
“Doesn’t look like you can move like that anymore.” The A29 tapped Cobb’s butt, turning to Mickey. “You another speed demon?”
“I was until I hurt my knee.”
“I wouldn’t know.” The A29 smirked.
Puppy gestured for it to speed things up before Mick and Ty turned him into a talking garbage can.
“But I bet you’re a powerful one.” The robot squeezed Mick’s biceps.
“Five hundred and thirty-six homers,” he said proudly.
“Almost as many as Mooshie Lopez,” the robot added. “And you, charm boy?”
Cobb shrugged modestly. “I went for hits where you had to run and not trot.”
Mickey playfully shoved him.
“Positions?”
“Center field,” Mick said.
“Right field,” Cobb said.
It took a couple minutes for Puppy to persuade the old guys to allow a DNA scan of their fingers. The A29 finished with a mechanical flourish. “All set, boys.”
“Can we see?” Mickey looked over its shoulder. The robot hesitated, but Puppy nodded.
A Mickey HG suddenly appeared at home plate, younger and sleeker by more than thirty years.
“Holy shit,” Mickey muttered, astonished.
“Now here you go running around the bases at the crack of the bat.”
The HG raced down the first base line and tore into second with a head-first slide.
“Holy shit,” Mantle muttered again.
Puppy leaned forward, staring at the HG dusting himself off at second with a sheepish grin.
“Now you, charm boy.”
The Cobb HG, also younger and sleeker, made a diving catch in right-center field. Ty whooped a little before catching himself.
“I was better than that.”
“I can ratchet it up.”
Puppy scrutinized the Cobb HG throwing the ball into the infield.
“Do me catching the ball,” Mick said. “By the center field monuments.”
“Monuments?” the A29 frowned, glancing at Puppy.
Puppy wandered up the first base line, passing the Cobb HG trotting back toward the dugout with a sour, arrogant expression. The Mickey HG made a running one-handed catch and he, too, returned to the infield, grinning boyishly. He waved at Puppy, who waved back dully.
Fuck me sideways, Puppy thought suddenly. Can’t be.
• • • •
THE DOE-EYED SALESPERSON in the men’s department at Chase’s tilted his head quizzically as Pablo hefted the gray socks for a third time in each hand.
“Need help, sir?”
“No, as I said twice before,” he grumbled.
The salesperson worked on commission and held his ground. “Brown goes with your eyes.”
“You think someone will look from my ankles to my eyes?”
“The first thing someone looks at is your hat and your shoes. If they’re looking at your feet, socks are just around the corner.”
The salesperson waited for Pablo to acknowledge his brilliance with some faint trace of civility. But Pablo always wore gray socks and if he changed now, was that the wrong change? And was he supposed to change or proceed as always? Wasn’t staying the course arrogant? If he changed, would that seem opportunistic?
Pablo bought both pairs, mumbling a grudging apology to the salesperson, and continued onto busy Fordham Road, compacted stores jostling for customers with blaring promises of astonishing savings so that you could stumble through one shop and out another and, inside of fifteen minutes, change your wardrobe, buy living room furniture and book a vacation on the Connecticut beaches.
Two pairs of socks were enough for today. Pablo paused for a taco on the corner, pointing out to the owner of the stand that he was being particularly chintzy with the hot sauce. He wandered away, munching with no appetite, looking for a routine gone awry.
An odd feeling since routines were his life. Linear, straightforward. Two hours of study every night, no matter what time he got home. Work six days a week. Date twice a month, whether he wanted to or not. Seven patients a day, whether in person or just reviewing their files. Aqua marble in right hand pocket, which he had found when he was thirteen, the day he first met Zelda and Puppy.
And gray socks every morning since he graduated dental school fourteen years ago. Now one day a week, they’d be brown. Pablo shuddered slightly, stopping by a shop window to make sure he didn’t have hot sauce on his face.
He should just relax. He’d gotten this far by doing what he did. Never around but through. They’d
