“Good morning to you, too, Major Stilton.” Cheng’s wrinkled face twisted scornfully. “Where is she?”
“We investigated a security breach and altered plans.”
“Was there one?”
Tomas hesitated. “The information was investigated and rejected.”
“Meaning you forced me to reschedule my meeting for no good reason.”
“Dismissing a security concern regarding Grandma is always a good reason,” he replied coldly.
Cheng didn’t care for that answer. “Where is she landing?”
“I can’t say,” Tomas answered, happy to respond like that. “I’d suggest you reschedule or wait. First Cousin.”
Cheng scowled, looking like a doll left in the dryer. He abruptly drove forward, running over the tip of Tomas’ left boot.
That’s the Gelinium leg, General Cheng. Not that you knew anything about that from behind your desk, Tomas nearly mockingly saluted.
• • • •
ZELDA SLID INTO the seat at the rear table of the brick-walled restaurant. Pablo had been waiting for half an hour. He stared sullenly into his tomato juice.
She kissed him apologetically on the cheek. “Sorry, gorgeous.”
Pablo pursed his lips peevishly.
“If this had been in the ancient days, I could’ve just called you on my portable phone.”
“Cellular.”
“Or sent a message by the world wide web.”
“No one longs for narcissism. Much better this way.”
“Like having you in a stinky mood, throwing down tomato juices, pigging out on breadsticks, instead of saying, hello, darling.”
He sucked on a tomato-drenched lemon wedge as if he needed to sour up more.
“Do this with your upper lip and see how it feels.” Zelda lifted up her mouth in a hideous smile.
He wasn’t amused. “You’re forty minutes late, Zelda.”
“I was getting lashed by my new boss.” She made whipping noises, cringing in mock agony.
“Already?”
“I have been there almost a week. My inquisitive mind takes getting used to.” Zelda worked on the new breadbasket. “How’s the master of the dental world?”
“He’s fine.” Pablo paused, waiting for the waitress to leave with Zelda’s vodka order. “I know Puppy told you.”
“What?’ Her eyes widened innocently.
“Please. He can’t keep a secret.”
“We’re not supposed to keep secrets from each other, Pab.”
“Except this one.” Pablo glanced around uneasily.
“Course. So what’s the next step?”
“Forget you knowing about it.”
“Okay. Okay.” Zelda munched on a breadstick. “Anything else we should forget?”
Pablo broke off a piece of bread, pulling out the inside dough. “You’re the one who left in the middle of the night.”
“I like my own bed.”
He sighed slowly. “We just skip over it then?”
“You’re like my brother.”
Pablo cringed in horror. “Which is expressly forbidden. Incest is a capital offense…”
Zelda squeezed his wrist. “I had a weak moment.”
“Thanks. I’m like a comfy pillow?”
“Yeah.” She squeezed tighter. “I felt bad about myself, honey. My fat butt. My life.”
“So screw around with Pablo and get through the night.”
“Yes. That so wrong?”
The waitress brought Zelda’s vodka, which Pablo sipped.
“Pab?” She nudged him.
“How I felt clearly doesn’t matter.”
“I’m here to listen…”
“Let’s just forget about it.”
“Sure. Emotional suppression is much healthier.”
“It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”
Zelda held up three fingers; he yanked down her hand.
“I can’t do things like that anymore, Zelda,” he said. “All my emotions need to be focused if, you know, it happens.”
“The thing I don’t know.”
“Yes. If we were exploring a union, that’s different. But a one-night stand.” He shook his head, slightly horrified.
Zelda blushed. “That’ll teach you to get aboard the Zelda Jones slut-a-rama. Sorry I seduced you.”
Her voice carried to another table. Zelda stuck out her tongue at the customers.
Pablo took her hand. “You’re not a slut. Passion thinks, sometimes wrongly,” he quoted Grandma’s Twelfth Insight.
“Where would we be without Grandma in awkward moments like this?”
Pablo paused. “We can’t ever do this again, Zel. It’s too much for me.”
“Same here.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really, Pablo. I have feelings…”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
Zelda looked off. “We did something dumb, we won’t do it again and we’re sorry. How does that sound?”
“Perfect. And I did enjoy myself.”
“I’m a good lay. All the boys and girls say so.”
“Yes you are.” He frowned. “And I’m not?”
“That’s a very egocentric thing for a Cousin Candidate to worry about.” Zelda opened a menu. “You’re paying, right? Because I’m really really hungry.”
Pablo ordered a Bloody Mary.
• • • •
UNLIKE BOCCICELLI, AT least Fisher would let Puppy sit in his office, where he had the option of bruising his lower back and thighs in the medieval furniture. Boccicelli made no pretense at any hospitality. He’d nodded reluctantly when Fisher had sat carefully on the edge of the thick, black leather couch. But the Hawks owner was in a meticulous suit. He looked washed and cleaned.
The Falcons owner was less overjoyed when Puppy planted the butt of his faded jeans on that expensive leather chair and leaned back, wrinkled shirt and all, with a soulful, pleased expression.
“I don’t have much time.” Boccicelli looked like a mad baker had glued together different doughs. Even his eyes were pasty.
“Neither do I,” Fisher chimed in.
“Good thing I talk fast.”
They didn’t respond to his charming smile.
“I have a great idea to make this last baseball season memorable.”
“Who cares?” Boccicelli asked.
“Who cares is right,” Fisher added.
Puppy paused to allow his deep concern for their welfare to blanket his face. ““I’m just trying to keep you from qualifying for special assistance from the Sports Commission.”
Fisher’s eyes glazed in alarm. “What’re you talking about?”
“If attendance continues under ten people a game, the business will be considered a failure.”
Boccicelli glared. “I never heard of that.”
“When’s the last time you read the major league baseball by-laws as amended by the Closure and Demolition Act of 2065?”
Boccicelli dreary eyes said never, but he stiffened gamely. “Not for a while. And you have?”
He tapped his chest. “Baseball historian.”
“He is,” Fisher agreed.
“Despite the destruction of all the major league ballparks, Amazon Stadium will continue to be run as a business as well as a shrine to remember treason,” Puppy carelessly tossed out the pertinent clause.
“The Cousins know this is a failure. That’s why we’re shutting down.” Boccicelli was proud of his mental acuity.
“Yes,” murmured Fisher like a drum keeping tempo.
“Failure doesn’t mean giving up. If you make an effort, that’d be noticed. Failure opens
