Zelda smashed a dining room chair against the screen.
“We have babies for you.”
She pounded again and again until the screen cracked and Grandma’s huge eyes disappeared with a sad sizzling sigh.
25
Grandma finally snapped at him to stop by the one hundredth and eighty-fourth slide. Cheng let the screen flash a few more photos of KILL ALLAHS scribbled on the side of apartment houses, schools, government offices and simple bodegas before switching off the projector and turning on the lights in her small study.
“Was anything coordinated?”
“There’s no evidence to suggest that. Not even a mottled orange wig.”
Grandma stared off. “Any assaults?”
Cheng nodded. “There’s footage.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she said coldly, offering him an Austin cognac, which he gratefully accepted. It’d been a long night of poring over follow-up reports to her Story.
“Serious injuries?”
“Some broken bones. Mainly Mediterranean and Hispanic ancestry, the complexion and all.”
“Let’s renew the ban on facial hair and women’s scarves.”
“Will that really help?”
Grandma took a long sip, longer than usual, the skin on her chin drooping. “It’ll remind people.”
“We should start arrests.”
She slammed down the glass, spilling cognac on her skirt. “That’ll show concern.”
“And you’re not?” Cheng sipped slowly.
“There’ll always be angry people. I understand that. I’m not comfortable with the assaults, but let’s find out who had a mustache or beard that might’ve precipitated it.”
“And scarves. It’ll only get worse.”
Grandma gave him a nasty stare. “I want schools adopting this curriculum immediately. And I don’t want a debate, Albert. We’ve got to start somewhere. One hundred and eighty-four incidents isn’t bad. I expected worse.”
“Give it time.”
“It’s the price we’ll pay for real peace. Real love, Albert.”
“Perhaps you should start by showing me some.”
“What’re you talking about?
He waited a moment before answering. “Why won’t you trust me, Lenora?”
Grandma smiled as if surprised he took this long to ask. “Because you’ll be unhappy.”
“I’m unhappier being left out. You’re doing something significant without involving me. Which by law…”
“Are you going to recite the Family Vows…”
“Just the one pertaining to you consulting the First Cousin before launching a major new policy.”
“I haven’t launched it yet.”
“But you hope to.”
She poured them another drink.
“Is that why Major Stilton activated his A3?”
Her jaw tightened in grudging respect. “Very good, First Cousin. Do you also track when I use my A1 cover?”
“Yes,” Cheng said steadily. “It’s my job to run the damn country, Lenora.” And you get all the credit. Me, the grief. He’d founded the Cousins, the whole concept. Structure, giving the people something different. Not just a new government but a new idea. Sure, she was the driving public force; he wasn’t exactly warm. But someone had to be a shit so she could be the doting grandmother, rising above the petty bureaucratic struggles and difficult, ugly decisions.
“I need to know what’s going on,” he continued. “So where is your head of security going?”
Lenora sighed.
“I’ll find out eventually.”
She flinched. “That almost sounds like a threat.”
Cheng smiled. “Never, Lenora. I’ll support everything you do, as I always have.” His voice hardened. “But I need to be in the loop.”
Grandma sighed again and made them a fresh pot of coffee.
• • • •
ALL 104 POUNDS of Ian Schrage, most seemingly contained in the tall plant-like red hair, hopped off the top of the Hawks dugout and, with a dignified air reserved for conquering generals and creative types, marched up to Ty and Mick.
They stepped back with meek wariness.
“You look like undertakers.” He jammed his palms into their kneecaps.
“I’m the undertaker,” sniffed Ms. Hayden.
“Yes, obviously. They’re not.” He sneered. “They are baseball players. Look up in the sky, dearie. What do you see? Yes, you see it is a baseball stadium.”
Schrage bounced like a ball not fully inflated toward home plate. “This being a base. That a field. This a dugout. Keeping up, now? Who may I ask sanctioned said wardrobe, when according to the terms of my employment it said, as I need to repeat to all: The director shall have complete creative control.”
Puppy raised his hand slowly. “I did.”
“Ah, the historian. Of course, you have a great knowledge of fashion.” Ian fingered Puppy’s droopy black hoodie.
“We told him to check with you,” Fisher said over Boccaccelli’s shoulder from the comparative safety of the fourth row.
Ian shut his eyes as if not wanting an answer. “You are again?”
“Owners of the teams.”
“Well, well, well. And you have directed how many adverts? Supervised how many advert campaigns? What was that? I can’t hear.” Cupping both ears, Ian hopped back onto the top of the dugout. The owners gasped and moved up a few rows. “Stay there. You. Bad hair girl.”
Hayden maintained her resolve as they met by the on-deck circle, snapping, “I want them to look dignified. I was promised creative control, too.”
“Well that person lied.” He whistled at Mick and Ty. “Now get out of those disgusting suits and into your uniforms before I charge overtime.”
Fisher and Boccacelli nearly keeled over. Ty and Mick disappeared into the dugout. Hayden motioned Puppy over and together they followed Ian to the two coffins between home and the mound.
“Can I see the revised script?” Ms. Hayden asked.
“Revised assumes it was a script at all.” Ian scowled at the cameraperson. “Did you see there is dust on the hood? Wipe it.” He flung a handkerchief. “Yessss?” he snapped at Hayden, wondering why she was still standing there.
“I want to know what they’re saying, Mr. Schrage.”
“You will when I figure it out. Ah, there they are, the handsome gentlemen.” Ian grabbed the uniformed Mick and Ty by their hands as if greeting long-lost uncles. “Look at you.” He took them on a little circle around the coffins. “How do you feel?”
Mick peered into the coffin. “Like we been at this rodeo before.”
“Where’s the velvet pillows?” Ty roared.
“Yes, where are they?” Ian clapped his hands and two assistants raced over with pillows. “These, sir?”
Ty and Mickey pressed their faces against
