Midnight Taxi Tango (13 page)

Reza

A
few years ago, Rohan rolled up into the garage in one of those massive Access-A-Ride vans the city uses to cart around folks too old for the regular buses. “City marshal auction,” he replied to our collective what-the-fuck faces. “Someone had been smuggling drugs with it and they impounded the sucka, and now it's mine—uh, ours!”

Charo, always the tactical genius, let loose a rare smile. “Well done,” he said. A week later, it was painted black and the tall windows and windshield were tinted and bulletproofed. Charo presented it to us with a bottle of champagne. “Behold, the Partymobile.”

“It's like an unstoppable death tank,” Bri gaped. “But fun!”

Tonight the Partymobile is represented by a black circle that Charo has scribbled on a set of building plans tacked to the wall. “And that,” he says, leaning over the table at us, “as they say, is that.”

A heavy pause follows; then Bri says, “Damn.”

A tangle of arrows and stars covers the plans behind Charo, and for a second he looks like some demonic saint, haloed by his own tangled plots of destruction. “Any questions?”

Rohan, who had been reclining on the back two legs of
his chair, leans in with his chin on one hand. “I mean, I have one: what the fuck, man?”

I cringe a little inside. Rohan's just about the only dude that can get away with talking to Charo that way, and that's only because Charo knows that's simply how Rohan talks. Still . . . I cringe.

Instead of blowing Rohan's head off, Charo smiles slightly and crosses his arms over his chest. “Problem?”

“No.” Rohan shakes his head, eyebrows raised and lips pushed out. “That's just a helluva fuckin' shootout you got us in.”

Memo snorts. “You can't handle it, man? That's alright. We'll go withou—”

“That's not what I said,” Rohan snarls.

“Enough.” Charo's smile is gone. “It's true, this is the most ambitious assault we've launched. And as you may have noticed, we've taken a turn as an organization. I've effectively shut down the prostitution ring, recalled our dealers. We're no longer going to be sitting passively waiting for whichever random conjunto of thugs decides to try to get cute on our territory next. We're taking the war to them.”

“Fuck yeah,” Bri says quietly.

“So coming up, you can expect more operations along these lines.” Charo nods at the board. “If anyone has a problem with that, speak now and you can walk after this attack. No dishonor, no disrespect. You have my word we won't kill you so long as the words spoken here remain here and only here. Is that clear?”

Grunts and nods.

“Anyone want out?”

“Hell no,” Rohan says. “We've all been waiting for this type shit for years.”

“I'm in,” Bri says.

Memo slaps the table unnecessarily. “You already know 'bout me, jefe.”

Charo and I exchange a glance, the slightest of nods.

“Good,” Charo says. “Any other questions?”

“Who are these cats we 'bouta kill?” Bri asks.

Charo closes his eyes, frowns. “Doesn't matter.”

“Matters to us,” Rohan says.

Charo shrugs. “It's a meeting. Two of them work for a conglomerate of multinationals that's building a free-trade zone in Central America. The other side is a guy repping the Solos, a paramilitary group down there that's been cleansing out whole villages for a few decades now in the name of—I don't know, whatever -ismo is popular that year. Seems the two parties realized their interests intersect and they decided to formalize things. But of course, e-mails aren't secure, and they're not gonna talk on the phone. They have to face-to-face it. The Barracudas brokered the sit-down and are doing security.”

“Wait.” Bri raises her hand. “The Barracudas brought us in, so there's a trail, no? What happens when . . . ?”

Charo shakes his head. “There's no trail.”

“How . . . ?”

“Both the conglomerate and the warlords need this to be on lockdown for obvious reasons. No records, no communications, no nothin'. Barracudas are providing the space—their safe house out on the Island, security, and . . .”

“Entertainment,” I finish.

“Right.”

“The 'cudas got their own girls,” Bri says. “Why they outsourcin' to us if . . . ?”

“Because,” Charo says with a scowl, “they probably figure the girls will get wiped out when it's all over. And they probably figured right. Wouldn't be surprised if the conglomerate plans to wipe them out too, actually, but maybe the 'cudas think they're ready for 'em. I dunno. Doesn't matter really, cuz we're gonna wipe 'em all out.”

• • •

Later, when the room has cleared, Charo and I sit in silence for a few minutes, staring at the map of the Barracudas' compound.

“There's something else going on,” I say. “Why are we starting with this group?”

Charo sighs. “Same people that took out my village.”

A few more moments of silence slip past, and I think about all the chaos and hell we'll unleash in a few hours. “You don't wanna . . . take part yourself? Sometimes it helps.”

He smiles, a warm and loving smile, looking suddenly very old. “The actual ones involved? I handled that. These guys weren't there that day. They're part of the same paramilitary group. And the people that funded them.”

“So why even bother . . . ?”

“They're part of the same paramilitary group.” He says it curtly, all warmth gone. “And the people that funded them.”

Kia

M
an, fuck Carlos.

I put my phone away. “Dr. Tennessee, can I ask you something?”

“You wanna know how I'm sixty with the ass of a twenty-year-old?”

She's right though: that ass a ten. “I mean, one day, I would like to get that info out you, yes . . .” Dr. Tennessee looks a little crestfallen. We sit across from each other at a foldout table amid the forest of archival stacks. Garrick Tartus's paper trail lies splayed out between us. “Do you believe the dead watch over us and protect us?”

She squints and moves her mouth around like she's chewing something sour. “I guess they might. I mean, that's what the stories say, right? But the stories also talk about haints and other undesirable-type dead fools that come around and fuck with the living, right?”

“I guess.”

“So really, I think if the dead do come back, and they pretty much act like the living in the sense that they do what they damn well please, then there ain't no one thing they do or don't do.” She pauses, glaring up at the dim overheads like
the answer waits in their buzzing glow. “Just like with everything,” she finishes.

I sigh. Pack up the papers.

“Not much help, I know.”

“Nah, it's alright. I just . . . I guess I got a lot going on right now.”

“I see.” The librarian nods at my black eye.

“Oh, this? Ha—this the least of my worries, trust.” I think about Rigo for a second, that wily smile and the way he towers over me. That bulge. If I leave now, I can make it to capoeira more or less on time. “No, I mean . . . I mean, do you pray?”

Dr. Tennessee smiles, stands. “In a sense.” We head through the stacks, a slow meander. “When I see a fine, fine woman, I close my eyes and say thank you. That's a kind of prayer, right? I do the same when I see a fine-ass man too, but that's so rare these days. Men ain't shit really, 'cept one or two, and aintshitness will make a fine man foul.”

“Word up.”

“When you get to be my age, you can smell it on 'em. And when I'm working my ass off in here for hours and finally look up and I'm surrounded by all these papers and stories and information and history, I say thank you. Then I come out here.” We step into the dimming open-air corridor. “And light one up.”

“A cigarette or a phatty?”

Dr. Tennessee shrugs. “Depends what kinda day I've had. But either way, when the smoke rises up to that little glint of sky, I say thank you. I consider that smoke a prayer. Even though it'll kill me one day, it's still sacred.”

“Damn.”

“The Yoruba have a saying: Once there was a man who didn't pray; then he was dead.”

“Well, shit.”

She shrugs. “So I pray.”

We cross to the door of the main library, and Dr. Tennessee lights one up. It's a cigarette, so I guess it hasn't been too rough a day. “But I don't know who that prayer goes to. I never caught a name; ain't no face. Doesn't matter really, right? I just say thank you.”

I smile at the librarian. “I think I understand.”

She pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck out there.”

• • •

There's a ghost on the A train.

All the other commuters must sense it too, because even though it's rush hour, this car is empty except for me and an old sleeping guy. And the ghost. It pulsates in the air above the old guy; I can make out great hulking shoulders, a mountainous back. It just hangs there, heaving with silent sobs. I stand very slowly and walk to the far end of the train.

At the next stop, I switch cars.

• • •

“Girl!” Karina squeals when I walk in. Everyone's partnered up and whacking at each other with sticks.

I'm mad late—it's a solid forty-five minutes into an hour-long class—but Rigo still looks up and flashes that come-sit-on-my-face grin when he sees me. Or maybe that's just his regular grin. Either way, I'm inclined to go sit on his face. I wave across the gym at him and apologize.

“It's okay!” Rigo yells. Everyone looks up and snickers. Fuck 'em.

“You aight?” Karina asks. Devon takes a swing at her with the sticks when she's not looking, but she blocks it anyway.

“What the hell!” Devon whines.

“Predictable ass.”

“I'm cool,” I say. “Just . . . it's been a long day.”

“I see. I was worried about you after you ran off at the park last night. And then that creepy-ass dude went after you and fell out and then you weren't answering ya phone . . . What the hell's going on, girl?”

I shake my head. “Don't even know where to begin.”

Rigo claps twice and everyone gathers in a circle around him. I gotta say, for this only being day two, he's made this impossible crowd pretty obedient. It's probably 'cause they all either angling to fuck him or taking notes on the suave, but whatever works, right?

“You have done good work today, yes?”

“Yep,” Mikey B. says.

Kelly punches his shoulder. “It was rhetorical, arrogant ass.”

“Hello?” Rigo says.

“Sorry,” they both mumble.

“As I was saying, you are improved, yes? Yes. But . . .” He raises his eyebrows like even he is surprised by what he's about to say. “There is a long way ahead before you become true capoeira warriors.”

Jerome curses under his breath. Guess he thought he was already there.

“Kia,” Rigo says from across the room.

I freeze. Karina narrows her eyes at me.

“Can I espeak with you for a second, please?”

Everyone goes, “oooooooh,” because I guess we're all really ten years old after all. I try to fight back the blush that I'm sure is blossoming across my face.

“Ay, girl,” Karina says.

“I'm sure he just wants to discuss my tardiness, is all.”

“Roight.”

I scrunch up my face at her and cross the room to Rigo. My ears apparently catch fire on the way, so that's annoying.
He looks down at me, smiles warmly. “Are you okay, Kia? I still feel so bad that I kicked you in the face yesterday.”

“I'm fine.” I try not to squirm. “Thanks for asking. It's nothing really. And now we're twinsies!”

Rigo looks concerned. “What?”

Why do I open my mouth and say words though? Why?

“Twinsies.” I point to the black-and-blue still shining on his perfect cheek. “Like, the same. We match.” If I cringe any deeper, I'll crawl up inside myself.

“Ah, yes! Ha-ha! Yes. But this is, this is just a silly. Don't worry about this, yes?”

“Yes.” I would like to die now.

“Anyway, the reason I asked you here is that . . .”

“I'm really sorry I was late today, Rigo. I was in Harlem and—”

“No, it's okay, Kia. It's fine. That's not what I was asking you.”

“Oh?”

“I want to make sure you have understanding of the moves, yes? I want you to be a capoeira warrior, Kia.”

I want to be a capoeira warrior too, shit. Sign my ass up. I nod.

“It's, how do you say . . . conhecimentos indispensáveis.”

“Indispensable knowledge,” I say. I picked up Spanish pretty quickly, so I started doing my homework in Portuguese a year or two ago. It's pretty straightforward, once you have one romance language down, to pick up another.

Rigo raises his eyebrows. “Wow! I did not expect that! Ah, listen, I hope this is not inappropriate, but I would like to teach you more in depth. Okay? Here.”

He hands me a business card. There's an address written on the back. My words gridlock in my throat and none make it out.

“You come?”

Hopefully not this second. “Okay,” I mumble.

“Tonight?”

“Sure,” I say. “Tonight.”

That winning smile. Efferfuckingvescent, Carlos would probably say. “See you then, Kia.”

And he's gone, and I'm standing in a cloud of his too-much cologne, panting.

Carlos

A
s soon as the door opens, I understand what Reza meant earlier about me not being able to lie. When I do my cop impersonation, I just throw a little extra snarl into my already dour demeanor. For all I know, people are more intimidated than convinced. It's functional grumpiness, that's it. The absolute personality makeover that Reza evinces when Mrs. Fern greets us on her doorstep: art.

“Good evening and sorry to bother you, Mrs. Fern,” says the chipper person next to me that used to be Reza. “I'm Detective Jimenez”—she uses the Anglo
J
so Mrs. Fern can deduce she's one of the assimilated ones—“and this is my partner, Detective Morris.” She flashes her fake badge and I flash mine; then she grabs Mrs. Fern's hand and shakes it vigorously. “Don't mind him. He's not very touchy-feely—you know how men are!” Reza giggles, and I almost drop my cover to boggle at her. Then Mrs. Fern giggles too.

I'm impressed.

“We are so sorry to trouble you on this lovely evening,” Reza goes on.

“Oh, not at all, dear,” Mrs. Fern says. She's in her midsixties, and wearing lovely pearls over a pink-and-yellow sweater. A perfectly coiffed halo of recently dyed hair
surrounds her sagging face. “Richard and I just got back from dinner with some friends. I do hope everything is alright?”

“Golden Temple?” Reza says.

“Sorry?”

“The Chinese spot on Sunnyside. The one with the koi fish tanks in the windows. Their vegetarian wonton soup is unparalleled. There is no comparison.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Fern giggles again. “I'll have to try that! I usually get their pad thai. You know, sometimes the Chinese out-Thai the Thai, so to speak.”

Reza chuckles. I nod and smile.

“No, we went for sushi around the corner on 156. Phenomenal. An absolute delight.”

“That's outstanding,” Reza says, and then she sighs. “So, won't take up any more of your time; Detective Morris and I are on the Community Affairs Task Force, and we're organizing a committee of neighborhood volunteers to consult with developing a security affairs group.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Fern says. “Has something gone wrong?” She glances at the quiet street behind us.

“Ah, well, you know how this generation has become. Hip-hop music and saggy pants leads to petty offenses and marijuana-smoking, of course, and that's what we call gateway delinquency, as I'm sure you know.”

“Of course. Oh dear.”

“So, we don't want to alarm you. There's nothing to actually be alarmed about, just a recent uptick in marijuana-related arrests and some possible connections to more nefarious influences, including one international drug cartel, unfortunately.”

Mrs. Fern pales. “Goodness!”

“Our thoughts exactly. So, a few other community members mentioned you and Richard as folks who would possibly be helpful in this measure.”

“Of course. We'd be delighted to. I'm sure you spoke to the Blacks—oh!” She giggles. “The family I mean, of course, not the actual blacks.”

Reza grins knowingly. “Of course, and of course we did. The Blacks have been very helpful. Anyway, it's late; we don't want to take up any more of your time, but . . .”

“No, please,” Mrs. Fern says. “Come in!”

Sadness dampens the air in the Ferns' house. It's basically your standard suburban American home—a carpeted hallway leading off to the kitchen, photos grinning off the wall, a slightly worn couch and easy chair in the living room, a stairway up to the second floor. But it's sadder. That heaviness just hangs there, an entity unto itself.

Richard Fern strolls out of the kitchen with a cup of tea. “Who is it, Evelyn? Oh, hi!” He has a comb-over, light brown slacks, loafers, and an expensive watch.

“It's the police, dear. They say there've been some druggers in the neighborhood.”

“Well, dang,” Richard says. “I mean, you know how kids are, of course.” He gives me a firm handshake, and I'm glad Reza convinced me to wear these leather gloves. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I say. “I'm Detective Morris. This is my partner—”

“Detective Jimenez,” Reza cuts in with that grating pronunciation. She gives Richard's hand a hearty shake. “Great to meet ya and so sorry for the trouble.”

“None at all,” Richard says. “Anything we can do to help. Matter of fact, why don't you all step upstairs into my home office. We can talk there.”

“Outstanding,” Reza says. “You guys go ahead. I wonder if I could trouble you for the use of your little girls' room, Mrs. Fern.”

“Please, Detective, call me Evelyn,” Mrs. Fern clucks. “And of course, dear, just to the left at the end of the hall there.”

Reza smiles and disappears down the hallway. Richard and Evelyn Fern lead me upstairs.

• • •

“Of course, ever since Jeremy disappeared,” Evelyn says, shaking her head, “we've been as involved as we can be in the community.” They sit side by side, their hands interlaced. Richard's office is cluttered with degrees, paperwork, a few file cabinets, and a gorgeous mahogany desk. A stunning photograph of some waterfall in Brazil takes up most of one wall. “The therapists all said, when you've lost a child, you can either disappear from the world or you can take part.” She smiles at her husband, eyes glassy. “We decided to take part.”

I have no idea how we got to this episode of
Carlos, Fix My Life,
but here we are. I barely said anything, just asked some bullshit perfunctory questions to give Reza time to do whatever she's doing down there. At least they're talking.

“It hasn't been easy,” Richard says. “And of course it was especially hard on Caitlin.”

“Caitlin?”

“Oh, that's our daughter,” Evelyn says. “Jeremy's twin.”

“Ah. Must've been very difficult for her, I'm sure.” Is that what people say to those who've lost loved ones? The words seem stunningly pathetic, considering what we're talking about.

Evelyn sighs. “Just awful. She struggled, but she's really made a turnaround since those years after Jeremy died. First in her class at Yale. Now she's the executive vice-president at Adopt the World.”

“That's a . . . ?”

“Adopt the World provides adoption services to the most
war-torn, impoverished countries,” Richard says. Guess he memorized the flyers. “Real terrible stuff.” Head shaking, brow creased, eyes faraway. “I mean, just . . . awful. But you know, they say if you want to heal yourself, you have to start by healing the world.”

“Isn't it the other way around?”

Richard frowns, and then Reza walks in with the Ferns' cordless phone in one hand and a file full of papers and a framed family photograph in the other. “Call him,” Reza says. She's back, the Reza I know and really like, and she's not fucking around.

“Excuse me?” Richard says.

“And where did you get that file?” Evelyn demands. “Have you been—”

Reza gets up in Richard's face and shoves the phone into his hand. “Call. Him.”

Richard glares at us. “Who are you people? What the hell do you . . . ?”

“Stop speaking,” Reza says. She says it quietly, but Richard gleans the threat in it and actually shuts the fuck up, to my surprise. Reza looks at me. “Give me your cane, please.”

I hand it over, and she immediately unsheathes the blade. Richard and Evelyn Fern gasp. She puts the business end a few centimeters from Richard's nose and then says: “Call your son.”

Evelyn sobs, her face shriveled into itself like a scrunched-up paper bag that's wearing too much makeup. Reza hands me the file and the photo. It's from a while back: Richard and Evelyn grinning widely and the twins in front of them: Caitlin is all teeth and dimples, baby fat carried over into early adolescence, and Jeremy—tall and lanky, arms crossed over his chest, head slightly tilted.

“Our son is dead,” Richard says, raising his hand. “And you have no right . . .” Reza flicks her wrist, and the blade slices open a bright red line across Richard's forearm.

Richard gasps. “Jesus!” Evelyn yells. She jumps up, finds herself face-to-face with the blade, and sits back down. “How . . . ? What kind of! Richard!”

Richard stares at his arm, mouth open. He looks at Reza.

“Make the call,” Reza says. “Put it on speaker. Tell him there's an emergency and you need him to come over. Fuck it up, cry for help, call nine-one-one instead: Evelyn eats sword. Clear?”

Richard's eyes look like they might pop out of his head at any moment. He nods, mouth still hanging open, while Evelyn quietly sobs.

Me? I just sit there and look surly. Ain't shit I can do but play along at this point, although Reza's turned into more of a wild card than I could've imagined.

Richard pushes a button and the speed dial blips out a number in quick succession. Slick-ass. After two rings, someone picks up, but there's only silence on the other end. Then a ragged breath.

“J-Jeremy?” Richard says.

Another breath, long and tortured.

“Jeremy, your mother and I need you to come over to the house. Tonight. Something's come up, I'm afraid. It's important. I know we haven't . . .” Tears pour down his face, and he has to pause to compose himself. “Sorry. I know we haven't seen you in a few years, but this is important. Okay? We need to see you, son.” He closes his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

One more shuddering breath fills the room and then the call ends. Richard drops the phone and stands. “Now, we did what you . . .” Then he opens his mouth to scream because Reza's raised my blade over her shoulder like she's waiting for the pitch. She swings, slicing clean across his neck. Richard's voice cuts off midsqueal. His throat gapes open, his light blue shirt suddenly bright crimson. He's dead before he hits the floor.

I jump to my feet. Evelyn Fern stands, opens her mouth
to scream, and then Reza slices across her neck too and she drops.

“What the fuck?” I say when my voice finally returns to me. “Wh-why?”

Reza's already on the ground, doing something to the bodies. She mutters a few words over each, eyes closed, and then says, “Because people tend to notice gunshots in these parts.”

“I mean . . . why though?”

“Open the file.”

Photos, printed out from a computer. They're all taken from across the street or through a crowd, stalker-style. It's all folks I don't know until . . . “Kia!” There's Kia in Von King Park, talking to a tall, overweight kid. There she's crossing Marcy Ave., backpack on, probably heading to school or the rec center. There she is laughing with her friend Karina.

“And the next one,” Reza says. I flip ahead and find Shelly lighting a cigarette outside her apartment. Shelly running to catch the B37. Shelly talking on a cell phone in front of a bodega.

“Shit,” I say. There are more pictures. Many more.

Reza wipes the blade on Richard's sweater and hands it back to me, handle first. “And that family photo. The boy.”

I close the file with a shudder, look at the framed picture. “Jeremy Fern?”

“That's the long-armed motherfucker in the tunnel I told you about,” Reza says.

I squint as the pieces come together. “Jeremy disappeared seven years ago and really became the ringleader of some maniac insect cult? And his parents knew the whole time?”

“Not just knew, clearly . . . Caitlin too, I'm sure.”

“And now he's coming here? So we can . . . ?”

“End this shit.”

“I mean, I get that, but did we have to . . . ? Have you no code?”

Reza stops what she's doing and looks up at me. “Angie,” she says. “That's my code. Now, give me a hand.”

• • •

We work in silence, rolling the bodies into rugs from the bedroom. We're lugging the second heavy bundle down the front stairwell when Reza says, “Carlos, when I said my code was Angie, that was . . .” She shakes her head. “That's true, but that's only part of it. I do have a code, a real one. And rule number one is cut shit off at the roots. I know to you it looks like what I did was wrong because we weren't under attack, but this is what I've learned from my years on the street—this is what I've learned from war: if you're going to kill a thing, kill it dead. If you half step, you'll be the dead one. That's it.”

I nod. It's all still spiraling around my brain too fast to make heads or tails of. We round the corner at the landing. Beads of sweat slide down my brow, my back.

“And you also knew,” Reza says between pants, “if you think hard enough about it, that they had to go from the moment we dropped cover.”

“
You
dropped cover,” I point out. Then I feel sort of childish. It's true though.

“Right. Point is, you think they weren't going to call the NYPD the second we walked out the door? They would've. And then we would've had explaining to do, if they caught us. And out here, cops come quick when they're called. So they mighta. And I don't know about you, but I got a trunk full of guns that I don't need the five-o asking questions about. Not to mention the charge for impersonating a police officer is no small thing. And you—you got ID, Carlos?”

I grunt a “no” as we reach the first floor. “And you know I don't. I still . . .”

“Do you know what they did to Angie, Carlos? They opened her up. Dr. Tijou told me there were eggs in her lungs,
her stomach, all through her trachea and esophagus. Roach eggs, Carlos. She'd been tortured.” Reza pauses for a moment as we angle the body right to get through the basement door. “She was still alive when they put those things inside her, C. I wish she'd had someone end her as quickly as I ended the Ferns. And all of that shit happened to her because these people let it happen. They've been covering for this monster all along. And clearly someone in this house is plotting on Kia and had Shelly killed. You see the look on Mr. Fern's face when he knew the shtick was up?” We clomp down the concrete stairwell. “Mrs. Fern too. They both know, they been knowing. They carry it with them. I'm sure the sister knows too. I get that you see innocent suburban America when you look at the Fern family, Carlos, but I need you to work past that delusion and see it for what it is.”