Midnight Taxi Tango (28 page)

The waves snarl and spit at the concrete legs of the Verrazano.

Sasha.
Aisha.
The last word I spoke, her name.

I turn back toward Brooklyn, toward my next assignment, whatever murderous shroud awaits me in the park. My whole body sags with the urge to forget, to finally, fully, let go.

So I do.

Kia

“How were they?” I ask. “The services this morning.” We're speeding through Bushwick toward the Stuy, and Reza's wiping cigarette ashes from her pin-striped suit and cursing while salsa blares on the radio.

“Sad,” Reza says. “They were good people, both of 'em. It's always sad. But they died in battle; it's how they would've wanted to go.”

I nod, because what do you say to that? Really, no one wants to die beneath a horde of evil roach-covered corpses, but I get it. And then another angry text comes in from my dad. The snarl escapes from me without asking permission.

“What's the matter?” Reza asks.

“You get along with ya daddy, Reza?”

“Ever since I shot him in the face when I was in the fourth grade . . . yeah. Before that? Not so much.”

“Whoa.”

“He stays at the old folks home on Lorimer now. I visit sometimes. We play checkers. The coffee's not so bad there, actually.”

I have no idea what to do with Reza's random barrage of information. She knows how to paint a picture though, I'll give her that. I imagine Reza in a big dining area surrounded by little old Puerto Ricans gibbering away; she's in her nice brown suit and sipping coffee with a slight smile while she triple jumps a little red plastic coin across the board, and an old man with half a face curses across from her.

Seems about right.

“I swore if anyone ever hurt my mom, I'd shoot them in the face,” Reza says after a pause. “And he did. So I did.”

“I mean, you a woman of your word, Reza.”

“He got me too though. Just clipped my elbow. Which, all things considered, was considerate of him. My dad knew how to shoot back then. And he wasn't the man to put a gun on. So he did what he had to do while causing the least amount of damage possible, in the twisted logic of his world. Our world.”

“But?”

“He didn't do it fast enough.”

I'm trying not to laugh, because what the fuck, but then I look over at Reza and she's smiling. “Apropos nothing,” she says, “one of these days, someone's gonna have to buy Carlos a goddamn cell phone.”

“Word!” We both get a good chuckle out of that. Then Reza pulls up in front of Karina's and shoots me a sharp look.

“What I do?”

“Nothin'.” She shakes her head. “Just don't get hurt out there. We need you. You give us . . . you know . . .” Reza looks like she has to wrestle with her tongue to get the word out. “Hope. And there's not much of that around.”

“Okay, Princess Leia.” Then I feel like an asshole because that really was touching. I get serious. “Thank you.”

“I'd take you to the airport, but I got somewhere to be.”

“Don't worry 'bout it. I think Gio called a yellow cab.” Karina squints into the tinted windows from the stoop where she sits. “Anyway,” I say, “I gotta say bye to this heffa first.”

• • •

“Wait. Hold up,” Karina says. “You mean you
didn't
sit on Rigo's face?”

“Karina.”

“Don't Karina me, bitch. Did you sit on his dick?”

We're on her stoop, watching Bed-Stuy pass, not talking about what's really on our minds. It's just easier this way.

“No, Karina.”

“Did he sit on your—”

“Girl, shut the fuck up.”

“I'm disappointed, is all. But I guess it's fine. Now he's open for me to make my—”

“Rigo's taken, boo. He don't want you.”

She puts a stick of gum in her mouth and looks down the block at nothing in particular, chewing loudly. “Man, fuck this.”

Drasco shuffles past and then his army of cats, single file as always. He nods at us without breaking his endless stream of mumblings. We nod back.

“You really leaving,” Karina finally says.

I shrug. “Yeah. I'll be back though. I promise.”

“The fuck am I sposta do in the meantime? Selfish ass.”

I scowl at her, roll my eyes.

“I'm kidding, Kia. I'm happy for you. Really. I know you
gotta see other things besides these streets and do what your spirit's calling you to do.” She punches my shoulder and then we're hugging, and I really will miss her ass, I realize. The past few days of hell well up inside me for a second, and I just let Karina hold me until it dies down.

“Don't be a noncalling or e-mailing heffa though,” she says when we finally break the embrace. “I'll replace ya ass with a quickness. Best friends a dime a dozen in this here county of Kings, bitch.”

“I promise,” I say through my laughter and maybe a tear or two.

“Well, shit,” Karina says. I look up, and there's Rigo and Gio, both looking glorious and golden in the fading afternoon sunlight. Rigo's muscled arm wraps around Gio's waist and Gio's is over Rigo's shoulder.

“I think I just came,” Karina whispers.

“Ready?” Gio says. “Flight's at seven. Got your stuff in the trunk.” He nods at a taxi double-parked behind them.

“Hi, Karina!” Rigo smiles and waves. Karina gurgles something in response and then I hug her one last time and we crawl into the cab and I'm snuggled between these two men who I've been through so much with and still barely know, and the cab pulls off and the future stretches ahead, a wide-open road.

Reza

A slight tremble slivers through me as I walk up the steps of the Harlem Public Library.

It's just I really don't do shit like this.

Usually, I just go still, and be me, and whichever she-it-needs-to-be comes sliding up beside me, drawn in by the gravitational pull of my slight smile, these hands that know patience, this tongue that knows reach. I just allow
myself to be read as the unstoppable force of nature that I am, and when I like what I see, I move.

But this business of pursuit? Not my style. The best hunters are patient ones.

Still . . . it's been a week of breaking rules, beginnings and ends, and if anything, the universe is whispering that it's time for new tactics.

I know how to read.

And anyway, she made no secret of her intentions.

And anyway, I'm curious. And it's good to be curious again, after so long of just being cold.

And anyway.

The little white lady at the front desk tells me the research library is down the flight of stairs to my left, and yes, the librarian is in right now. She flashes a gigantic smile, and I retreat quickly before she tries to make small talk.

Down the flight of stairs, I straighten my collar, check my hemline—immaculate—and walk through the double doors into the research library.

• • •

“How may I help you?”

Dr. Tennessee is short. She has thick glasses that advertise her profession. An impressive array of jeweled rings decorate her hands, and a necklace of big mahogany-colored seeds hangs down her chest. Her hair is gray and pulled back beneath a silver headband with an owl on it. I can tell from across the room that her ass is phenomenal. Her black turtleneck hangs just at the top of a gray skirt and my God . . . my God.

“I'm looking for a saucy librarian that likes to break into her workplace late at night and drink rum and Coke while talking to strange women driving through the Long Island backcountry,” I say. Came out almost as smooth as when I rehearsed it. “Perhaps you could be of assistance.”

Just the edge of Dr. Tennessee's mouth curls slightly upward. “We have a special section on that topic, actually.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? Could you direct me to it?”

“I could in twenty minutes when I get off. Are you available?”

I don't have to go looking for the smile that stretches wide across my face; it shows up on its own. “Yes. I'm completely
free.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to my terrific editor, Rebecca Brewer, for helping bring this book to life and believing in the Bone Street Rumba series from the beginning. Thanks to publicist Alexis Nixon and the whole team at Ace/Roc Books, particularly the cover art department for working overtime to get this one just right—it's a terrific work of art. I'm forever grateful to Eddie Schneider and everyone at JABberwocky Literary for all their hard work and excellent advice. Thanks to Carl Engle-Laird and Liz Gorinsky at Tor.com for publishing the stories that would later become part of
Midnight Taxi Tango.
Thank you, beta readers: Sorahya Moore, Maya Davis, Maria Jackson, Isake Khadiya Smith. Shout out to all the good folks on Twitter that kept me laughing along the way and particularly to Kevin Glethean for advice on guns and Teri Brock for ballet info. And many, many thanks to Sorahya, Ashley Ford, Mikki Kendall, Patrice Fenton, Emani Ramos-Byam, Nastassian, and Shaadi Devereaux for consulting on the cover and general Black Girl Excellence.

A great big thank-you to Anika Noni Rose for optioning the Bone Street Rumba series and giving it a whole new life beyond the page.

To the elegant, mysterious gray-haired woman in leather
fingerless gloves and a dapper vest who lit a cigarette in her idling Crown Vic while I stood outside my ambulance watching—thank you.

Huge thanks to the legendary Afrofuturist John Jennings for the taxi medallion at the front of the book and Cortney Skinner for the amazing Bone Street Rumba map. Thanks to Johnny Blackchurch for help securing the copyrights for the songs.

Thanks always to my wonderful family. I love you. To Iya Lisa and Iya Ramona and all of Ilé Omi Toki and my good friends in Ilé Ashe. Thanks to Jud and Tina and Sam for always being there and to Le Paris Dakar on Nostrand for always having delicious crepes, big smiles, and strong coffee.

The tango translations are my own, but I couldn't have done it without the help of my mom, Dora, who is always ready with a huge copy of
La Real Academia Española
; the brilliant Daniel Bellm, who was my translation professor at the Antioch MFA program; and the indispensible site TodoTango.com, which contains lyric sheets, recordings, and best of all, a Lunfardo dictionary. All translation errors are my own, and tango purists will notice that I chose to go with Rolando Laserie's Cubanized version of “Las cuarenta,” if nothing else because it was my introduction to the song, and hope seems like a better lover than experience.

I give thanks to all those who came before us and lit the way. I give thanks to all my ancestors; to Yemonja, Mother of Waters; gbogbo Orisa; and Olodumare.

And finally, thanks to Nastassian, who makes it all
worthwhile.

A
BOUT
THE
A
UTHOR

Daniel José Older
is a Brooklyn-based writer, editor, composer, and author of the Bone Street Rumba novels, including
Half-Resurrection Blues
. He facilitates workshops on storytelling, music, and antioppression organizing at public schools, religious houses, and universities. He coedited the anthology
Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History
, and his short stories and essays have appeared in Tor.com, Salon, BuzzFeed,Gawker,
New Haven Review
,
PANK
, and Strange Horizons.

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