“I bet the fans will love that. You might have to cancel games until you replace us. We have a great advance sale for my next start. That means where they buy tickets ahead of time. We’re talking maybe ten, fifteen thousand fans.”
Fisher tugged hysterically on Boccicelli’s sleeve, but the Falcons owner waved him off. “I won’t be intimidated by a, a…”
“Baseball player?” Puppy helped.
“Daring to strike. Which is illegal no matter who they are.”
“Who’s striking?” Puppy coughed. “A bad cold is sweeping the clubhouse. Wouldn’t surprise me if the Falcons catch it, too.”
Fisher covered his mouth with his handkerchief.
“I’ll bring back HGs,” Boccicelli shouted.
“I’m sure Third Cousin Kenuda would love that after he approved the museum.” Puppy paused to let Fisher cower behind a chair. “Unless you’d like to hear a solution.”
“Yes, yes.” Fisher pleaded.
“We’re a society of laws. In your mind, Ty broke a law. He should be punished.”
“Hell I will…”
Puppy waved Ty back into the chair. “Since he hates the Falcons so much, why not have Ty instruct them in some of the finer points of baseball? Might make the games a little more competitive.”
“You want me to teach those clowns?” Ty roared.
Boccicelli’s peevish glare cut short Fisher’s laugh. The Falcons owner puffed up and, with an imperial flourish, said, “Since it upsets him so much, that seems fitting punishment.”
“Yes, agreed,” Fisher said.
“I ain’t doing it,” Ty shouted.
Puppy dragged him from the office and into the hallway. “Listen. You’re going to teach them your finer points of baseball.”
“Fuck I am.”
“The Ty Cobb way.”
Ty’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Everything?”
“Everything. Then who’ll be left to complain?”
Cobb grinned. “You got brains for a colored boy.”
Puppy rolled his eyes. “It must be from my alcoholic white father.”
• • • •
AZHAR WATCHED A fourth naked girl wander down the hallway. This one walked funny, rubbing her thighs without any self-consciousness. He lowered his eyes onto his shoes, tucked beneath the metal chair.
“Got a smoke, luv?” She was about fifteen and blonde, lipstick smeared on a surprisingly delicate mouth.
He shook his head without looking up, which still gave him a view of her slim legs. Moans dribbled out from behind the door. How long can this go on?
The prostitute lifted his chin. He hadn’t seen another woman’s breasts in eighteen years. In the past half hour, he’d seen eight. All the more magnificent than his wife’s, which were slightly droopy, the left a little larger. This girl’s nipples were perfect. All their nipples were perfect. Their stomachs. Thighs. Asses. Feet. Crusader witches.
Azhar pretended to fuss with his shoes. The girl knelt and re-tied his laces.
“Who you with?”
“A businessman,” he said simply. Abdullah traveled as a Saudi mining expert, Azhar, his assistant. Allah protect them if either were asked a question about a cave.
She finished and tapped his shoes as if he weren’t paying attention to the curve of her white back. “Tell your boss if he still has pop, number ten is special.”
“I will tell, certainly.”
The girl laughed, deeply amused, scratching her vagina and returning to her room. They are all so wanton, he thought. He couldn’t imagine Jalak here, he shuddered. Ever, despite any privations. Or her sisters, ugly as they are. But Jalak’s world was not wiped clean. Then embrace a new one, he grew angry at the Crusader prostitute’s stubbornness. Learn a new way, find Allah. Or fight back. Instead, they spread their legs.
Azhar yawned, eyes down as a chubby naked man strolled past with the happiness of a well-done blowjob. Abdullah had warned against any eye contact.
Then why are we here? His anger returned. This is the great mission? A cesspool, this city. Perhaps the Son required fortification, but must they be so young? Worry yourself not. The Crusaders, they deserve this. No they don’t, he suddenly thought, ashamed. Clary could just as easily be in one of these rooms.
Azhar fingered the silver crucifix, deep and safe in his pocket. While waiting for the Son to finish meetings, as he had waited all day since docking last night, he’d wandered down Great Jones Street in the Crusader shopping district. Infidels edged aside on the street; he’d done his best to seem haughty and privileged, only he was embarrassed. He’d hurried into the nearest shop, a small jewelry and antique shop called The Dead Past, glass cases filled with silver artifacts.
The elderly owner moved silently by his elbow.
“Just looking,” Azhar said gruffly.
The man disappeared without vanishing. Azhar peered at a row of crucifixes. Same size as Clary’s scar. Should he call it a scar? Mark. Savage, bestial mark. Azhar squirmed inside his own thoughts, glancing at the owner to make sure his anger was private.
“A cross, sir?”
Azhar snorted disdainfully. “How can you sell these?”
The man pointed to the sign on a wall: The Collectors. “Throughout Europe, we’re allowed to sell remnants of the disgraced Judeo-Christian world to remind everyone how well our lives have improved under sharia.”
Azhar returned the bow; neither was sincere. He pointed to a small cross in the top row. The owner slowly removed the necklace, as if to give Azhar time to reconsider. Mustafa snapped his fingers impatiently.
Same size. It could fit exactly into the mark. You’ll never see her again, why are you doing this? Azhar had paid the owner and quickly left, continuing to sightsee, though without any enthusiasm.
The whorehouse door finally opened. Abdullah nodded briskly as if he’d done nothing more the past two hours than linger over a meal. On the staircase, the Son adjusted his tie, using the wall for a mirror. He is a Mufti’s son. Naturally he can see himself in brick, Azhar thought sourly.
“Are you sure you don’t need anyone?”
Mustafa thought of the blonde girl in number ten, careful not to answer in any way that might suggest disapproval. They went into the alley and Azhar drove the small Italian car through the dark streets of the Caliphate of London.
Muslims in traditional garb wandered along the well-lit streets of Islamic shops. Side streets, the Crusader shops, were dark;
