“Hell no.”
“They just gave him a heads up, nothing official. But if they ever found out he told someone…”
“I won’t say anything.” She stared moodily into her drink. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I knew you’d go there. He only said something because I asked for the med info for Mickey’s Lifecard.”
“Okay.” Zelda only half-believed him. They drank in silence for a while. “Pablo a Cousin.”
“I know, right? He’ll never smile again.”
They clinked glasses; Diego paused by their table, holding the hand of a sweet-faced girl.
“Hi.” Zelda’s face fell.
“Hi,” Diego answered. “You come here?”
“Looks like it.”
“Me too.” Puppy couldn’t resist adding to the awkwardness.
“This is Puppy,” Zelda said.
“This is Caily.”
“Hi,” Caily smiled at everyone.
Zelda wondered what to say that wouldn’t sound totally stupid. Limited options. “You live around here?”
“162nd Street. You?”
“North.”
“Near our offices,” Diego said. Zelda blushed and didn’t know why. “Well. Enjoy the night. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.” Caily followed Diego to the bar, holding both his hands so they swayed behind his back.
Puppy grinned. Zelda flushed.
“He’s a sailor. It’s work.”
Puppy hummed Anchors Aweigh. Zelda twisted his pinky until he yelled.
9
As always, John Hazel stepped out of the car by twisting to the left and placing his right leg firmly on the ground. The Gelinium microprocessor never buckled, though he half-expected it to finally give out. Or maybe hoped it would, so he could apply for a special synthetic, realistic-looking leg and have some fun. You had to show decay, chronic pain, emotional turmoil at walking around with metal for toes; the checklist was bewildering. His buddy Chuck from the 238th Division had applied and they just flat-out discouraged him with all manner of questions except how’d you lose your leg below the knee?
Chuck, being the Sgt. Chuck Daniels who swam back and forth to the smoking transport ships to rescue the rest of the company off Calais in ‘69, had finally, as he’d told the story, overturned the desk, knocking the fucking A18 or whatever number it was clear into a wall, where he threatened to make it an artificial limbs donor.
They denied Chuck his request. They were going to deny him anyway since he was a vet. Like A1s with faces, they didn’t want ex-soldiers blending in. They just used the drunk and disorderly charge as an excuse.
Hazel sidestepped a rusted-out lawn mower holding court with assorted other machines past their prime, and walked into the worn-looking country store.
A bell tinkled, which the red-bearded older man with eyes like the muzzle of a .38 ignored, continuing to ponder the crossword puzzle behind the counter.
“Morning.” Hazel nodded affably.
The man ignored this, too. Hazel glanced at the shelves of canned food, feeling eyes darting from his back to his Ford sedan, alone in the parking area. Hazel laid three cans of Fenster’s YumGood Baked Beans on the counter.
“Good thing I’m driving alone.”
The man scribbled out a new word.
“I’ll take some bread.”
The man jerked his head, inviting Hazel to come around and help himself. John deliberated a moment on the row of crisp, fresh breads.
“What do you suggest?”
The man grunted.
“Yup, all look good.”
He laid a loaf of black bread alongside the cans. “How’s the licorice?”
The man again silently suggested Hazel should decide. John measured out a mixture of red and black, weighed them and laid the bag on the counter.
“Think that’ll do it.”
The man put aside the crossword puzzle and started tallying the goods.
“I also need a map.”
Cold eyes indicated a rack behind him. Hazel found the state of Massachusetts and tossed it down.
“Heading to Overton.”
The man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Am I going in the right direction?”
“That’s what a map’s for.” The man’s voice was surprisingly gentle. He held out his hand for Hazel’s Lifecard.
“Be surprised how the quality of maps differs.” Hazel slid over the Lifecard. “I do a lot of traveling.”
The man finished ringing up and showed John the sum, glowing in the center of the Lifecard, to make sure he was comfortable with the charges. So old school, Hazel nearly smiled. He nodded and took his package, then suddenly tossed an orange wig from his pocket onto the counter. The man’s eyes narrowed again, ever ever so slightly.
“Appreciate the conversation,” John said, glancing at the blue baseball cap with the criss-crossed “NY‘’ hanging in the corner. “Let’s go Yankees.”
The tires of the Ford sedan crushed pebbles, kicking them sideways as it eased out of the tiny lot. The engine faded away.
Derek Singh, former Yankee great, original member of the famed Three Amigos, stared at the orange wig for a few long minutes, resting his Gelinium microprocessor left leg on a stool. He limped slightly into the back office, effortlessly shoving aside the heavy desk with his broad back. Singh pulled up a long rectangular piece of wood and looked down at the Vendt sub-machine gun, an orange wig wrapped around the barrel. He picked up the baseball, wedged patiently in the corner.
Why now? Derek chewed on a stick, his trademark during the seventeen-year career that ended on 10/12 beneath the rocket fusillade at Amazon Stadium that ended so much. Singh looked at the orange Miners wig again, the strands knotted all around in a circle. Easy to duplicate. He sniffed. Grandma’s clit. Can’t easily duplicate the smell of death.
But why now?
• • • •
BY THE THIRD at-bat, Mickey wasn’t even trying. Just to confuse the A29, he bounded back and forth between the lefty and right-handed batter’s boxes, giggling. The three breakfast of champions he’d slugged down didn’t help.
He dribbled a roller to short. Mickey shook his head, skipping back to the dugout.
“I’d never miss a fastball that badly.”
Ty gave him a dirty look and headed toward home. At least Cobb was sober. And he certainly wasn’t goofing around. Puppy’s teeth gritted as Mickey loudly sang Okie from Muskogee sprawled on the floor of the dugout.
But Ty was as taken with his youthful persona as Mantle, like two savages seeing their
