Or perhaps they still sabotaged. He’d seen the crucifixions, Infidels signs draped around the Crusader necks, planted every so often along the roads, usually to celebrate a holy day. How many of them were mechanics? Perhaps one of them pulled out a plug here and there. But if the Crusaders sabotaged trains and buses, why not the autos? He suddenly saw in the shadows of approaching dusk, Clary kneeling with a blowtorch, cutting wires, laughing. He shuddered.
Little was ever fully told because only Allah ultimately understood. Mustafa wished he understood something of what Allah understood, as heretical as that was. How else can we obey? The Mufti’s son, he understood what Allah understood. He also understood what man didn’t understand, like straddling the two worlds.
Stop thinking and pray there is food at the other end of the trip.
The train groaned forward, as if it could hear his thoughts. Allah on wheels, he smiled. The workers waved happily to all the peering passengers by the windows and the express gathered steam, heading non-stop to Le Cirque, about forty miles west of the Bay of Biscay. Azhar was the only person to get off, earning curious stares as he, too, waved at the train, continuing north to the Caliphate of Paris.
He carried the suitcase into the tiny station.
“As-salam alaykum,” said the bored clerk behind the window.
Azhar nodded a reply. “I am a simple traveler and would appreciate, Allah willing, knowledge on getting to Dambier.”
The clerk wordlessly slid a map through the grill, pointing.
“Thank you. How does one get there?”
“There are no trains.”
“Which is why I’m here enjoying your hospitality.”
The men exchanged respectful nods. The clerk slid a bus schedule on top of the map.
The ancient bus waddled arthritically, stopping only once when a cage rattled open and chickens flew out of the back window. After the chickens were quickly rounded up by the passengers and driver, the relieved owner running up and down the aisle twice to express his deepest thanks, the vehicle, generously named, coughed into Dambier a mere thirty minutes late; in the Caliphate, that was considered early.
Azhar hurried down several cobblestoned hills and over a small bridge that was annoyed by his weight. He made a wrong turn in the dark and panicked slightly. He’d been told nine-thirty, the latest. By ten he finally found the small harbor, more a wooden dock with several sleeping ships rocking.
A single light on board guided him to a sixty-foot boat. A man nearly as wide as the dock stood with hands clasped, his expression assuring one and all that he could stand here in silent patience until Mohammad came down for a visit.
Azhar nodded. The man waited.
What am I to say? he thought frantically. He was only given directions.
He bowed. “Azhar Mustafa.”
The man raised an eyebrow. Mustafa was so poor at the bullying art of his people.
“I am the Captain of this vessel. Are you the crew?”
The man studied Mustafa carefully and stepped aside.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
The man turned his back and resumed his statue-like waiting. Maybe Mohammad was visiting. Azhar carefully descended the metal steps below deck. A twin of the man stood before a door.
Abdullah walked out, re-arranging his gold robe. “Captain. Welcome aboard.”
• • • •
THE HUGE VIDSCREEN filled with the charred upper deck of Amazon Stadium, gloomy morning rain clouds approaching carelessly. Sweeping down over the battered and blackened scoreboard, the camera paused in deep center field, waiting patiently.
Suddenly they panned over the new outfield grass as if a throw were heading toward home, flying over second base and past the mound until the camera rested on the two mahogany coffins surrounded by the mute, expressionless starting lineup of the Falcons. They tapped their bats once. Twice.
The coffins squeaked open very slowly. Ty and Mickey sat up. They put on their baseball caps and turned toward the cameras. Baroque piano music kicked in.
“I’m Ty Cobb.”
“And I’m Mickey Mantle.”
Together, “We’re the stars of the Bronx Hawks.”
“Our job is to score runs,” said Ty.
“Hit homers,” added Mick.
Collectively, “And win games.”
Ty said, “But sometimes, life strikes you out.”
Sad music.
The stone-faced Falcons parted to allow Ty and Mick to climb out, casually slinging their bats over their shoulders as if they always dressed in a coffin.
Watching in his living room, Kenuda chuckled at the vid while Puppy nervously sipped expensive Tennessee Tom bourbon.
“When that happens,” Mick said, “you need a cleanup hitter.”
“Someone who knows what it’s like to score the winning run.”
Close-up on the coffins. Ty and Mick’s bats tap the Basil Hayden’s Funeral Home logo.
“You need a slugger like Adona Hayden…”
Quick cut of the calm and reassuring Ms. Hayden leaning near the Hawks dugout, waiting for someone to die so she could leap into action.
“Ms. Hayden and her team will do all the hitting for you,” Ty and Mick said.
In the background, Frecklie and two other DVs in black suits ran in a jagged line around the bases.
“Top notch coffins.” Mick touched the wood.
“And the velvet pillows are first class,” Ty added.
“Taking the eternal journey in style.”
“From the service to the flowers.”
One of the Falcons handed Ty a bouquet of roses.
Kenuda roared and slapped his chair, nearly knocking Annette off the arm.
“Hayden does the dying for you,” Ty said.
Frecklie and the boys slid across home and lay there, unmoving.
“We know how important that is.” Mick winked.
He and Ty climbed back into the coffins.
More swelling baroque music and then the voiceover, “Basil Hayden’s Funeral Homes. Give us the ball. We’ll take care of Death.”
The lights went on in the huge sunken room with high ceilings reaching just shy of Jupiter. Mooshie looked sick and angry; she gulped down her drink.
“Was I right about Ian Schrage?” Kenuda bounded onto the thick, plush carpet. “Is he a genius or isn’t he?”
“Amazing, Elias.”
