Puppy leaned over, blocking the A10. “How long will this be?”
“Until they remove the head from the front of the train. I’m not an animal expert. But we have the finest trains in the world. No worries.”
“I need to get to Brewster by twelve-thirty.”
The conductor popped open its old-fashioned watch. “That might be a problem. But we have the finest trains in the world, so no worries, we’ll get you there eventually.”
“I can’t be late.”
The conductor didn’t need to be told twice. “Job interview’s at precisely twelve-thirty?” Puppy nodded. The conductor pursed its lips, annoyed at this inconvenience but eager to show its resourcefulness.
Puppy followed the A10 outside.
“102,” the robot called. Another A10 walked forward; the next train station, Bayview, was a quarter-mile away.
“This one has a job interview,” the conductor said.
“That isn’t good timing.”
“Whether it is or it isn’t, it is now.”
102 studied Puppy for clues. “Where?”
“Basil Hayden Funeral Home in Brewster. Twelve-thirty.”
102 glanced at its black leather watch. “Cutting it close.”
“Then why are you standing here?” the conductor shouted, returning to the train as its colleague hustled Puppy into a Metro North transport van.
Job interviews were sacrosanct. A headless deer disemboweled on a Metro North train was no excuse for being late. Other than an immediate family member dying or in critical condition, the applicant dying or in critical condition, or the birth/adoption of a child, there were no excuses. If you couldn’t demonstrate sufficient respect to meet a potential employer on time, how could they trust you?
This was only the second job interview of his life. When he’d graduated from Bronx College, the baseball historian job just opened up. The previous occupant died. No one else had applied. Puppy was bright and had been a ballplayer and didn’t say anything offensive during the interview with the diffident A26; the job hadn’t been worthy of a human selection process.
He made it to the funeral home with seven minutes to spare. Adona Hayden stared grimly at Puppy’s application, tapping her thin yellow fingers and finally, wearily, leaning back in the large leather chair in her office. Miniature coffins hung gaily from the walls.
“Here you are, Mr. Nedick. Alive and well.”
Puppy nodded gratitude for not being in one of the miniature coffins.
“But why are you here?” Hayden continued. “You’re alive. You could be anywhere. Yet you’re here.”
He ran through a whole list of possible reasons why he was in Basil Hayden’s Funeral Home in Brewster, New York, while still breathing.
“I’m losing my job in five months. My friend insisted I had to apply and show perseverance.”
Adona smiled. “Were there other openings?”
“None of them sounded interesting.”
“Working with dead people does?”
“My friend, Zelda, can be annoying. I thought if I applied for the job that was furthest from my background, it would annoy her.”
“Yet I asked to see you.”
“I’m a little surprised, too.”
Hayden sat on the front edge of the desk, her feet dangling by his knees. “I don’t want someone who enjoys death. What kind of crazy person is that? Oh let me fondle a corpse. Because that’s probably what you think we do here.”
“I, I really don’t think you do that.”
“What do you think we do, Mr. Nedick?”
“Bury people.”
“Just throw them in the ground?”
Puppy took a breath. “There’s a process.”
“Which only involves the corpse? Because at the end of the day, it’s dead flesh. Rotting away. Soon gone, leaving only bones, Mr. Nedick.”
He was afraid to ask for something to drink.
“This is about living, Mr. Nedick. The living. Those who lived. This is a new world.” Hayden’s foot banged into his knee. “We’re no longer forced to cremate. The war’s long over. We have room for bodies. Grandma spoke at our national Death Care convention last year, it was so inspiring, that one of the most difficult decisions she ever made was outlawing traditional funerals. The mass produced cremations broke her heart.”
Puppy wished she’d stop kicking his knees.
“We’re back. You could die this very moment. Keel over, Mr. Nedick.” Adona squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. “And your family would see you all dressed up. A nice suit, not that rag you have on. Good shoes. Big smile. Not some ashes. A new era of death.”
Adona’s toe found his shin as she reached around for his application. “I think you could work, Mr. Nedick. Let’s go downstairs and see how you do around dead people.”
• • • •
WEEDS AND ROCKS streamed over the broken concrete on the playground off Clay Avenue and East 163rd Street. At one end, a bent basketball rim pulled the neglected backboard forward as if trying to leave. Puppy stepped through the mangled wire entrance.
Ty stopped cold. “This is a park?”
“Best we got.” Puppy led them in.
“There’s gotta be a real field,” Mickey said, nearly falling over some blocks. “I don’t know why we couldn’t use the stadium.”
“I told you. It’s illegal to practice on off-days.”
“That don’t make any sense,” Mantle persisted.
“Does it make sense to have holograms?”
That quieted them down for a moment.
Cobb doubtfully took in the length of the playground, about a hundred feet. “Who’s shagging flies? I can check a swing and send it out of here.”
Puppy tossed them each a glove. “Let’s play catch first.”
“What’s this made out of?” Cobb sniffed disdainfully at the pocket.
“I don’t know.”
“It ain’t leather. I only use the finest material.”
“This is all I could find.” Four weathered, dried-up gloves.
“Well, we ain’t using them in a game.”
Mickey weaved unsteadily on a vodka cloud. He flipped the ball to Cobb. The two men played catch, slowly lengthening out the distance to about twenty feet, complaining about tight muscles as if greeting an unwelcome friend. Sitting near the entrance, Puppy marveled at the way they threw, even old, even fat. With Mickey, even tipsy.
The fence rattled.
“Afternoon, sir.” The Blue Shirt on the other side tipped his hat.
“Afternoon, Officer.” Puppy quickly stood.
“What do we have here?” The cop pointed the nightstick at Mickey, chasing down
