Midnight Taxi Tango (3 page)

“Eliades?” I say, and the silence that follows chills me.

It's back.
His words echo through my head over and over again.
It's back.
I didn't even bother asking what—it's not my business and what could I do about it anyway?
It's back.
He'd elongated the “it” in that way people do when they're talking about something they don't want to speak out loud. He looked like just saying it was a punch in the gut.

It's back.

The room is so quiet now. I don't even hear the traffic outside or the shoppers around the corner on Graham or the bachata that usually streams out the music store across the street. “Eliades?” I sound like such a little girl: pathetic. The thickness hangs over everything, an ever-expanding balloon forcing all the air out of the place. I could call Baba Eddie, but I don't want to move from right here. Somehow I'm positive if I move, it's all over. So I don't. I wait.

• • •

It was getting dark; the foliage we were in was already swamped in shadows and the sky turned turquoise through the trees above us. Gio fumbled in his pockets and then produced a black cigarette. I gasped. He rolled his eyes, fumbled again, took out a lighter. The sugary scent of cloves
filled the air; it was sweet and perfect, Giovanni's magic pixie powder.

“How you gonna be all mad that I'm loud,” I hissed, “and then light a great big beacon of flame and send all that smoke out? You know he gonna see it.”

“He's not even home yet. Look, the lights are out. Anyway, you can't really stake out a house and not smoke. It's, like, the rules.”

“I guess. If by stakeout you mean
stalk
.”

“Shhh!”

I was about to remind him he'd just said no one was home when a light went on. Jeremy appeared, pulling curtains out of the way and then lifting the window. He stuck his head out, smelled the spring breeze (the cloves too probably), and then disappeared back into his room. I elbowed Gio, for no real reason except to somehow indicate that I'd told him so, and he nudged me back but kept smoking.

“You're an asshole,” I whispered. It felt good to swear, mature.

“Shh!”

Music swirled out of Jeremy's room. It was trancelike: a gush of strings and then a heavy beat. Jeremy sailed past his window, arms over his head, a perfectly executed grand jeté. He emerged, pirouetting, in the next window just as a pleading, luscious voice came in over the beat.

I tugged on Gio's sleeve. “What's this music?”

“It's Björk.”

“What's a
Björk
?”

“Shh!” That was the moment I understood he would never marry me. The boy was entranced. I could see Jeremy dancing in his eyes, the glare from the bedroom lighting up his face, his mouth hanging slightly open. I might not've had the words for it at the time, but inside I knew: it was love. Not that bullshit TV love, not the corny love-song love
either.
True love.
The kind that people got themselves killed for. The kind that made you do really, really stupid things.

“Gio?”

“Girl, if I have to tell you to shush one more . . .”

“What are we really doing here?”

The music churned on. Gio kept his gaze fixed on the window.

• • •

A stick of sage sits on the counter, its charred end resting in an ashtray beside Baba Eddie's cigarette butts. The lighter is . . . Where is the lighter? Usually in Baba Eddie's pocket, dammit.

The air still throbs with the heaviness of something about to happen, and I'm sure it's whatever spiritual crap Eliades dragged in with him. Which is some bullshit, but I guess it's what we're here for. Can't blame a sick person for coming to the hospital.

Baba usually squirrels away matchbooks in random nooks and crannies for when he misplaces his lighters. I turn my head slowly to the shelf behind the counter, scan past iron pots, little wooden axes, grinning stone heads, and there, tucked in between a bag of birdseed and a porcelain vase, sits a black matchbook from some Italian restaurant around the corner.

I don't really know why sage does what it does, but Baba Eddie swears by it, and listen: that shit works. I light it on the second try and wave it up and down the aisle like a cheerleader, leaving a floating river of fragrant smoke in my wake.

The place already feels more relaxed, but when I'm done I squirt some Florida Water around just to close the deal. Eliades manages to snore through the whole thing. I won't lie: those shits are comfortable as hell. Best nap ever.

It's twelve past two.

Fuck everything.

I call Baba Eddie, but he doesn't pick up. I've done no homework, no restock, no online sales. I just sat here, sulking, surrounded by Gio and memories and saint statues for two hours.

I throw my bag over my shoulder and shake my head. One way or the other, this'll have to sort itself out without me. I put some quiet Enya-type shit on the stereo, lock Eliades in, and head off to the rec center.

Carlos

I
t's new protocol time, gentlemen!” Bartholomew Arsten flashes a practiced smile, and Riley and I groan. We're in the misty abandoned warehouse in Sunset Park that the Council of the Dead calls home. As always, it's chilly and shrouded in darkness, just the way these creepy-ass dead folks like it. Also as always, the Council is on some fuckshit. Bart's office is on the second floor, a grim little windowless cubicle with peeling wallpaper. Below us, a few dozen soulcatchers flit around the wide-open factory floor, where they tend to assorted nefarious shit.

“Come, come now.” Arsten rises. He looks like a sad pear with stubby arms and a comb-over. His dim translucence flickers in the haze, and he spreads his arms open, palms out, and shrugs. Even that seems rehearsed. “New protocols are the Council's way of staying up-to-date on the ever-changing landscape of the afterlife, ya know?”

Riley chuckles. “And here I thought new protocols were the Council's way of stumbling around like dickheads in the dark when one of our guys fucks up.” That's why Riley's my best friend. My best dead friend. He's saved my life more times than I care to say, most importantly that first mysterious night at Grand Army Plaza. Sometimes I think he
brought me into the Council fold just so he'd have a like-minded pain in the ass to cause trouble with.

Arsten looks like he swallowed a chili pepper. He recovers quickly though, ever the car dealer. “Ah, Riley. That's funny, really. In this particular case, yes, a soulcatcher did actually get herself in a little situation, it's true, but that's not the
only
reason we update the protocols. The protocols get revised and upda—”

“What happened?” I ask, more to cut through the bullshit than to actually find out. I am curious though.

“Oh, ha-ha!”

An uncomfortable silence lingers after Arsten's forced laugh.

Riley raises a ghostly eyebrow. “Bart?”

Arsten sits on his desk and shakes his head so hard his jowls flap. “You can't tell though, okay?”

We both nod and lean in.

“Soulcatcher Bell was on a routine collection run, right? Aw, man . . . Yeah, so anyway, there was, like, a bunch of unauthorized afterlifers envindigating at a particular location, over by—”

I raise my hand. “Hold up. Did you just say envindigating?”

“Yeah.”

“That's not a word.”

Arsten chuckles. “Sure it is. It means to hang around and make a nuisance of yourself.”

“Like from the Latin ‘envindigarus,' right?” Riley offers. I scowl at him.

“Right,” Arsten says, smiling at Riley for maybe the first time ever.

“Alright, whatever, go on.”

“Thank you, Carlos, I will. Yeah, they were over by Red Hook actually, by the hospital over there, and it was like a group of older spirits, in a nursing home, right, just hanging around.”

Riley shakes his head. “Envindigating 'n' shit.”

“Exactly! I mean,
in the open
. Like, with the living.”

The Council can
not
fathom how or why any spirit would dare make itself known to the living. Call it one gigantic failure of the collective bureaucratic imagination—whatever it is, it's caused a lot of problems. Mingling with, appearing to, whispering words of wisdom within hearing range of the living, or any variation on the theme is strictly forbidden in no uncertain terms by the notorious COD. Except of course if you're in the upper echelon or you're one of the Ignoble Seven on the High Council.

But deal with the living? If an afterlifer's gonna stick around in the land of the living in full defiance of the Council's loosely enforced ban, they're also more than likely gonna eschew the Council rules on hanging with whoever they please.

“So the whole nursing home knew 'bout the ghosts?” Riley asks. “Staff and everyone?” You can tell he's intrigued by the idea. So am I.

“Just the B wing,” Arsten says. “But still!”

“So you sent Sylvia and what?” I say. “She sliced 'em all into the Deeper Death without asking any questions or giving them a chance to cease and desist back to the regular old Underworld like good little obedient ghosts?” I wouldn't put it past Sylvia Bell. She's been known to be an overachiever when it comes to needlessly slicing ghosts.

Arsten rubs his face. “Quite the opposite, I'm afraid. She let them stay.”

Riley sits up in his chair. “What?”

“Yeah. Just . . . left 'em alone. She had a whole team with her too, Soulcatcher Squad 9. Said they weren't causing anybody any harm. Can you believe that?”

“Unbefuckinglievable,” I say, though not for the same reasons Arsten has.

“I know, right? I mean, sheesh!”

“So what's the new protocol?” Riley asks.

Bartholomew Arsten brightens. You can tell protocols
make the guy happy. He reaches behind him and retrieves some ghostly scrolls from the desk. “I'm so glad you asked, Agent Riley.” He makes a big production of clearing his throat and adjusting the paperwork. Riley and I roll our eyes.

“Section seventeen, subheading six, column B: By order of the New York Council of the Dead, all new recruits, new being defined as having completed Soulcatcher Training Academy within the past twelve months, will hereafter be assigned to work with a senior soulcatcher, or Soulcatcher Prime, who will accompany them on all mission fieldwork as it pertains to and is related to the Council of the Dead activity, and at all times will that senior member of the force be by their (by which we mean the new recruit, as defined earlier in this paragraph) side and within their presence.”

We're just staring at him when he looks up from the paper. In true protocol form, this one doesn't have shit to do with anything that actually happened.

“But . . .” Riley says.

“That doesn't,” I try.

“Even . . .”

“Sylvia isn't even that new, Bart. What the hell does that have to . . . ?”

He waves a nonchalant hand at us. “Well, we figured what if she had been? Right? Would've been a whole lot worse, right? I mean . . . shoot. Think about it.”

I just shake my head.

“Anyway, what are you guys working on?”

• • •

“Carlos. What we doing here, man?”

It's a chilly early afternoon in Von King Park. A few kids run around the playground, and some dog walkers stroll past with plastic baggies out, ready to collect the offerings. The sun's dead center in the sky, and even through the crisp air you can feel the first rumbling of spring announcing itself
to the world: that fresh smell, the warm light. You'd never guess that the four corners around us have been scene to such vicious tragedy for the past week.

“We checkin' something,” I say. Riley grunts. On my other side, Baba Eddie removes a cigarette from his pocket, places it between his lips, and pauses, eyes closed, for two breaths before lighting it and taking a luxurious drag. I look down at the wise little santero. “Every time, huh?”

Baba Eddie smiles. “Otherwise, what's the fucking point, am I right?”

“He's right,” Riley says.

Baba Eddie deals with ancestors—it's what he does. At his house, a tall stick with ribbons and bells tied to it leans against one wall, and old black-and-white photos clutter around its base like sacred toadstools. He puts food down for 'em when he cooks and smokes cigars with 'em when he needs to suss out a situation. His clients flock to the botánica in droves to check in with their long-dead relatives or to get a cowrie-shell reading and see what the orishas have planned. He and Riley have known each other since before I came around.

“I do gotta be over at the store pretty soon though,” Baba Eddie points out. “So if there's something, you know, important you wanted us to see, this would be the time.”

“Word,” Riley says. “I got shit to do too.”

“The hell you do.” I sit my ass down on a park bench. “This is my next assignment,” I tell them.

“You gonna be a dog walker? Times's tough, huh, bro?”

“No, Riley. There's some shit going on in this park. I wanna know if either of you are picking up anything.”

Riley raises an eyebrow. “What kinda shit?”

“Dead-people shit, man, what you think?”

“I know that. I mean . . . You know what, lemme have a look-see and find out myself.”

The three of us sit there quietly for a few moments, Baba Eddie smoking and me and Riley just staring out into the
park. A chilly breeze sweeps across the soccer field behind us and rustles some leaves overhead. A pug strolls past, followed by a yuppie dude typing away on his phone-a-majig. Pigeons come, bob their pigeon heads, and then flock away in a huff. Ain't much going on, really.

“I ain't got shit,” Riley says.

Baba Eddie opens his eyes. “Me neither. You might wanna find a better assignment. This park's boring.”

“But I will say this.” Riley leans in, and so do Baba Eddie and I. “There something going on with you, homeboy.”

I scrunch up my face. “Me?” I'm not in the mood for this shit.

“Yeah, bro. You seen yourself recently?”

I have no slick response to this, so I just give him dead eyes.

Baba Eddie nods. “You losin' weight, papi.”

“What?”

“And I'll tell ya something else,” Riley says. “You look like shit.”

“What?”

“I mean, metaphorically
and
physically.”

“The fuck you talking about, Riley?”

“You ain't well, C. That's what I'm talking about.”

I actually laugh. What else can I do? “I feel fine, man.”

“I'm happy for you, but you ain't. You been off for, like, a few weeks now, by my count. What you say, Baba E?”

I look at Baba Eddie. He squints one eye and then the other, calculating the duration of my fuckedupness, I guess. “Since the girl,” he finally says, and I laugh.

“You guys, listen.” A jogger passes without headphones on, and I pause until he's out of earshot. “Ain't shit wrong with me. I'm okay. Yes, that was fucked up, but I ain't still fucked up about it. Period. Punto. Fin.”

“Listen,” Riley says a little too gently, “we all been hurt, man. It's okay to feel pain. I mean shit, she was carrying your child. You ain't seen her in what, four months?”

“Six months and seven days.”

Riley leaps up. “See? That was a test, and you failed. You counting the days, man. Just be upset and be okay with being upset.”

“That is the best way,” Baba Eddie muses. “The first time Russell and I broke up, I shut down for like three weeks. You couldn't find me for nothin'. I'm not gonna say I cried, but . . .”

“C'mon!” Riley reaches across me and jabs Baba Eddie with his ghostly arm. “You cried a little.”

Baba Eddie looks thoughtful for a moment, retrieves another cigarette. “Niagara fucking Falls.”

“Word up,” Riley says. Baba Eddie lights his cigarette and sighs.

“So I need to cry is what you're saying?” I have a series of brutal accidents to unravel. I have my past to uncover. I don't have time for this shit. I can tell Riley's not gonna let me off easy though.

He shrugs. “All I'm sayin' is: whatever it is you need to do to get right, do that.”

Baba Eddie nods and stands. “I'm late as fuck now, and Kia is going to kill my ass, but, Carlos, I sincerely hope you deal with your shit. Let me know if you ever want to talk or you know . . .”

“I don't want a reading, Baba, but thank you.”

He doffs his baseball cap at both of us and strolls off toward Bushwick.

I look at Riley. “You happy?”

“Always, partner.”

I sit back and, as we watch the day stroll past, let a simple melody slip from my lips.