Midnight Taxi Tango (17 page)

“She . . .” But the words catch in my throat, and then instead of making a sentence, I let out a low moan. The heaviness dislodges, rises. I put my head down in my arms and burst into tears.

• • •

“More?” Kia says, rubbing my back.

My body heaves a few more times. Turns out crying is like vomiting—you do everything you can to hold it off, and then it happens and you feel eighty pounds lighter and more clear-headed and wonder why you didn't just do it in the first place. I lift my head from my arms and wipe tears and snot off my face. Reza pours a fresh cup of coffee and hands it to me over the counter. Kia passes me some more tissues.

“I just . . . I mean . . .” I stutter. “I can't . . . and then . . .”

Reza nods. “Of course, man. It's your kids. And their mama.” She pours herself a coffee and looks at Kia with eyebrows raised.

Kia shakes her head, rubs my back a few more times. “The way I see it, you're like thirty or whatever yeah, but in a way you're like a tall five-year-old. Emotionally speaking. I mean, you lost all your memories, right? So you don't have, like, the emotional ABCs that a normal fully alive adult does. You haven't been through the ringer in the same way, right?”

I sniffle. “I hadn't thought of it that way.” Not sure whether to be offended or relieved. Either way, she has a point.

Reza shrugs. “Most grown-ass men I know ain't got shit for emotional vocabulary either. Far as I'm concerned, C's ahead of the game. But I feel you, Kia. It's a good point.”

Kia pats my back. “You good, man?”

I nod. Blow my nose. Shake my head. “I . . .” It comes out clogged by another sob. I clear my throat and try again. I got this. “I will do whatever . . .” Now a hoarse whisper, much better. “. . . the fuck I have to do to make sure they're okay.”

Reza nods. “We know, man. And right now what you have to do is get your life together.”

“So that when shit starts getting even realer,” Kia says, “we can count on you to be the regular ol' fuck-shit-up Carlos we know and sometimes love.”

I laugh through sniffles. Blow my nose again. “How the fuck did y'all get so close that you're finishing each other's sentences? How long was I out for?”

“Gio and I were here for a few hours, trying different shit to wake you up. Then Reza came and gave it a shot. Then we figured we'd let you work it out some more, and we started talking and comparing notes 'n' shit, and I mean . . . time kinda slipped away some, I guess.”

“You forgot about me?”

“I mean, we didn't forget,” Reza says. “We just had other things we were dealing with besides you.”

“And anyway, you were good,” Kia insists. “We wanted to make sure you got your search in, you know, fully.”

I raise an eyebrow at her.

Reza puts down the coffee. “Well, I don't know 'bout y'all, but I've had a helluva night and now I want a big-ass breakfast.”

Kia hops off her stool. “I'm in. C?”

“I gotta go see what my fucking bosses want.”

“Aw, man!” Kia says.

“I know. Isn't it a school day, young lady?”

Kia just stares at me, and I relent. “Anyway, it's probably better you guys get breakfast without me. You can . . . talk about how you're gonna . . . find the Survivors.” There it is again, that trembling heaviness rising inside me. I know it now though. I can see it coming. I fight it back, stand.

“You good?” Reza asks.

I nod.

“We'll check in later,” Kia says, dapping my shoulder. “Be easy, bruh.”

We head outside into the gray light of a brand-new morning. Giovanni sits on my stoop, whispering sweet nothings into his cell phone in accented Portuguese. He laughs a good-bye and pockets the phone when he sees us, then hugs me surprisingly hard and pounds my back. Reza offers to
drop me off at the Council even though it's on the other side of town, but I shake my head, thank her, and head off into the morning.

I need, as they say, a moment.

• • •

I swing down Marcy Ave., past the projects, Hasidic supermarkets, and hipster cupcakeries. All the graffiti-decorated metal gates are down still. The day is only beginning to break across Brooklyn.

I am alone.

And I move once again with ease, like there had been rusty chains cluttering up my joints and suddenly they're gone. I damn near float past Von King Park, where wilted flowers and rained-in liquor bottles still mark the near-dozen kill spots of the ghostling's slow-motion massacre.

I have a family.

We are separated, yes, and they are in danger, but that's right now. And I'm not some random schmo with no recourse. I have skills, a mind that untangles these kinds of messes on the daily, a blade . . . And Sasha is not to be fucked with. I've seen her use a sword—two in fact—and she outshines me on her worst day. And I have a team: Kia's brilliant ass, Reza, the human angel of death, and Riley and Squad 9. The full force of the Council could probably be wrangled into my corner if need be. Riley and I would figure it out.

I pick up my pace, cut east and south, pass Fulton Street with its twenty-four-hour fruit stands and then Atlantic, just beginning to bustle with the morning commute.

By the time I reach Prospect Park I have become an unstoppable force. The city urges me forward; those early-morning winds rustle the trees and the occasional plastic bag and me. A chorus of morning birds erupts nearby as I move through the park, invincible, unbreakable, a well-dressed warrior.

Balance: it's mine.

If some obstacle were to rear up in my path, my hand would release this blade from its cane sheath without thought or hesitation, a single smooth movement, one with my stride; a slice through air and foul flesh and I'd sail past my fallen foe without breaking the rhythm of this speedy saunter.

The morning air swishes through me, brightens me with its freshness. Life. The world teems with it, each dew-covered blade of grass, the morning birds' song. I had a full one once. I was complete. I may have had a family, been in love. And then it was torn from me and I became this . . . semi-wraith. Kia's words about being an overgrown five-year-old echo through me as I cross the fields of Prospect Park and wind through a path in the woods. What if I'd lived, fully lived? Who robbed me of a full life?

I can't get caught up in that mental circle jerk now though. I don't have time. It's just . . . life, my life, it matters more and more every time I think about Sasha and the babies. It looms—a great, impenetrable shadow over my morning, my life. My half-life. I stop in a still-dark coven of drooping trees. When all this is over, when Sasha and the babies are safe and these Blattodeon roach fuckers dealt with, I will find out who the fuck I was and who the fuck killed me. And I'll kill their ass.

Or asses.

The sun cuts through the trees, turns the gray morning suddenly resplendent. Kia, Reza, Riley, Sasha . . . Giovanni now, and Sylvia Bell. Squad 9. My team, however disparate and weird. That's the present. My babies are the present. Sasha. I keep walking, heading south through the park and then across Park Slope as the rising sun throws my lopsided shadow across the block ahead.

The Council's misty embrace surrounds me as soon as I walk through the rusted door. The murmur of souls rises through the chilly air, a never-ending susurration, and I climb the metal stairwell up to the second floor, stroll down the
dilapidated corridor, and enter the conference room, where Bartholomew Arsten sits at a long rotting wooden table beside Chairman Botus. Botus is massive, takes up half the table, and the first thing I think is that it's rare he'd make a showing for something as menial as a job assignment.

“Ah, Carlos.” Botus smiles with all his ghostly teeth. “Wonderful of you to show up.”

Something is off.

Botus stands, and I realize someone had been sitting behind him all this time.

Someone alive.

And then I realize who she is.

“You're on a special protective detail until further notice,” Botus says. “Carlos, this is Caitlin Fern. She's very special to the Council. And she needs our help.”

Kia

R
eza takes us to some greasy-spoon diner out in Bushwick that hasn't been cleaned in eight centuries and doesn't give a fuck. The eggs are bangin', though, and the bacon's just right. Reza and Gio both get something called the Lumberjack Smack, which turns out to be two of damn near everything on the menu.

“People always ask me,” Reza says as she forks some more bacon in her, “how the fuck I eat so much and stay tiny.” She rolls her eyes.

“I hate that question,” Gio says. He puts a fried egg on his whole-wheat toast and takes a huge bite. The yolk rains thick yellow drops over his plate. “People really want to act like everyone's body works the same.” He shakes his head.

“Exactly,” Reza says.

“Well, if these aren't two people I never thought I'd see in the same place at the same time,” an excited voice calls in a thick Creole accent from across the diner. Dr. Tijou makes her way past the other booths. She's short, with one gray streak breaking her otherwise jet-black hair. “Gimme the Lumberjack Smack, Cathy,” she says to the old lady waiting tables. “Kia, right?” She grins down at me. I nod. Her smile
goes all the way across her face. “My friend Dr. Voudou's little helper. How is he?”

“Baba Eddie's alright,” I say.

“And Carlos?”

I tilt my head and shrug. “He'll be alright. This is my cousin, Giovanni. Gio, this is Dr. Tijou, the best surgeon in the world.”

“Stop,” Dr. Tijou says, extending her hand to Gio. He kisses it, charming bastard that he is, and then Reza says, “Sit.” They exchange kisses on the cheek, and then we get down to business.

“Well, the Survivors are willing to talk,” Dr. Tijou says. “But they want to meet in the middle of Highland Park.”

Reza raises an eyebrow. “I don't like it.”

“Like, the middle-middle,” Dr. Tijou says. “Not some field. They're talking about way in that woodsy area.”

“I really don't like it.”

Dr. Tijou shrugs. “The Survivors are some of the most skittish folks I know. The only reason they trust me is because I helped Sasha deliver the twins. And everyone trusts me.”

“Why don't you like it, Reza?” I ask.

“It's an ambush waiting to happen. We go in as is, yeah? But they pick the spot. They probably know it well, so for all we know the woods'll be crawling with 'em. I mean, I've done some business out there, but it's been a minute. We're surrounded before we begin with no way out, no good sense of where the fuck we are, probably no cell reception. It's a death trap.”

“I am sure,” Dr. Tijou says, “that's part of their logic. Not because they want to kill you but because they run a tight ship. They don't trust you yet.”

“I'd do the same thing,” Gio says.

“Me too,” Reza says. “That's what worries me.”

• • •

In the back of Reza's Crown Vic, I put my head on Gio's shoulder and close my eyes. And it all comes back with his smell: that Gio smell—it's just a hint of funk beneath whatever light cologne he's wearing. The funk paints a picture: Gio, age fifteen, smile so wide his whole face is creased with it. He's sitting in my living room, playing with Aunt DiDi's Chihuahua. His T-shirt's way too big for him and his hair is tucked beneath a baseball cap.

That Gio is gone.

I let him go.

I mourned. I held on for so long and then I finally let him go and mourned. And I'd been mourning all along; mourning had become my friend, even if I tried to hold it at a distance. Because even if he wasn't dead—and he wasn't, he wasn't, I told myself night after night until I didn't anymore—he was still
gone
. So very gone. And the loss was a hole in me, and so I mourned, and eventually I released even the possibility of him showing up. And then he did show up, and I cried until I couldn't breathe, from sorrow and from joy.

And now his shoulder holds up my head. It's real: flesh and blood, not some spook; it rises and falls with his breath. And he's humming along with some salsa song Reza has on and looking out the window like it's just another day, but it's not.

Gio is alive.

And part of me wants to kill him for ever making believe he was dead.

“What's wrong?” Gio asks, and for a second I think he's been reading my mind. It would be just like Gio to be a goddamn telepath on top of everything else. But no, my breathing's gotten fast and labored and I hadn't even noticed.
I shake my head at him, tears worrying the edges of my eyes, because I don't have the words to explain how happy and furious I am that he's back.

• • •

Reza finds a spot on a suburban street near the park. She steps out of the Crown Vic and makes a call, mumbling with a fierce whisper into her earpiece. Then she pops the trunk and pulls out a duffel bag, which she slings around her shoulder.

Gio looks at me, opens his mouth and closes it again when I shake my head. “I'm coming,” I say. “That's the end of it.”

“I'm not,” Dr. Tijou says happily. “But give a shout if someone gets shot or something. I got my stuff with me. Not that I can do much, eh? But hey—better than nothing.” She clicks on the radio and reclines her seat.

Gio and I get out and follow Reza down a grassy slope into the park. A middle-aged white guy walking a Dalmatian nods at us as he strolls past and says, “Morning!” A group of old ladies genuflect in slow-motion Tai Chi as a chilly breeze sweeps across the meadow. The day is gray and overcast, the sky a murky white.

When we walk into the shadowy wooded area, Reza sets down her duffel bag and unzips it. “You can shoot, I'm guessing?” she asks Gio.

“I can, but I prefer knives.” He pats his pockets.

“Alright, well, take this just in case.” She hands him a small revolver and then takes an automatic rifle out the bag. It looks like something I'd see on the news in a war-torn country. “And you.” She aims a sharp glare at me. “Stay the fuck outta sight if shit pops off. Understood?”

I nod, my heart galumphing through my ears. We walk deeper into the woods. Reza freezes, one hand up. A young white couple jogs out of the underbrush. They're wearing
the brightest shades of green and pink I've ever seen and matching headbands. They stop in their tracks when they see us, their eyes glued to Reza's automatic. The woman whispers, “Oh my God!” and then we just stand there for a few seconds.

“Call the police,” Reza says very slowly, “and I'll find you and burn down your house. Then I'll kill your parents. Nod if you understand me.”

I believe her. They both nod, eyes wide.

“Now, go.”

They do, first at a jog, then an all-out scramble.

“That's why I hate shit like this,” Reza says, falling back into her stride. “They'll prolly call the damn police anydamnway.”

I look at Gio and he shrugs. A light drizzle speckles the woods around us. Nearby, two headless chickens lie beneath a tree, one of Baba Eddie's friends leaving an offering, no doubt. Farther off, an open building foundation has become a sullen pool of dark water, reflecting the swaying trees back up at themselves.

• • •

Deeper in the forest, the pale sky blotted out above us, Reza stops again, one hand raised. All those years of killing must've gotten to her. I'm sure every twig snap is a gunman moving into position. I mean, really . . . who brings a damn automatic rifle into Highland Park?

Then I freeze, because up ahead a tall bearded man in a Stetson hat and an overcoat stands aiming a shotgun at Reza. His skin is a dull brownish gray like Carlos's, and his black beard is tinged with red. He's smiling—a wide, unnerving kind of grin that shows way too many teeth. Other folks stand in the woods behind him. They're gray like he is and armed, and that's all I can tell before Gio shoves me roughly behind him, pulls a knife out of each pocket, and flicks them open.

“I would say we come in peace,” the man's voice booms through the forest, “but that would be a lie.” Then he chuckles in a way that sounds forced.

Peeking around Gio, I see Reza shift the rifle to one hand and unsheathe a Glock from her shoulder holster with the other. She points the Glock at the bearded man's head and waves the AK in a slow circle around the forest. “Before you do anything else,” she says, “understand that since I have no fear of death, my only concern is taking as many of you with me as I can. Don't doubt that if I go down, Gregorio here falls too.”

Gregorio chuckles again.

“This AK can take out at least four of you in a single spray; count on that. Gio there will probably finish you off. There are what, eight of you? Your organization will be decimated when we're through.”

There's an uncomfortable shifting among the Survivors.

“And finally, know that my people are converging on the outskirts of this forest as we speak. If I don't come out smiling, they will hunt down each of you, one by one.”

“Reza,” Gregorio says, and it's clear she's wiped the smile from his face. “No need to be dramatic. You called this meeting, after all. We are your guests. And you know as well as anyone that precautions must be taken. These are precautions. That is all.”

“Fuck your precautions,” Reza says. “I don't talk to people pointing guns at me. I kill them.”

“That's a shame,” Gregorio says, and I brace myself. In the seconds of silence, I hear the forest breathe, the gentle cricks and cracks of life; somewhere above us a mourning dove coos and another replies.

“Wait!” I yell, stepping out from behind Gio.

“Kia, no!” Reza snarls, but I brush past her and plant myself in the epicenter of all that firepower.

“This is bullshit,” I say. My hands are shaking, so I clasp
them behind my back. “We're here to talk about working together, not to blow each other up.”

“Kia?” a woman's voice says. I turn, and Sasha steps out of a shadowy grove of trees. She holsters a serious-looking handgun and, before I can do anything about it, wraps her arms around me. “My God, what are you . . . ? What's going on, Kia?”

Last year, when all the shit happened with Carlos, Sasha got herself possessed by some ancient evil dude that shredded up people's insides. Plus she was pregnant, and on top of all that she helped Carlos destroy the evil dude even while she was basically dying. Again. So she ended up comatose on Carlos's couch for a few days, as people tend to do, and when she woke I was the first person she saw. I made her tea and told her, best I could, what I knew, and called Carlos and Baba Eddie and Dr. Tijou back, but everyone was away doing stuff, so for a few hours, it was just me and Sasha. She spent most of the time crying, sipping tea, crying some more.

At first I just looked at her. What was I gonna say? It's okay? It wasn't, for all I knew. She could've lost the baby. She could still be dying. I didn't know shit. So I sat there. And then I moved from the easy chair to the couch beside her. When she kept crying, I put my hand on her back, same way I did for Carlos earlier today, and just made circles while she heaved up and down. She wrapped her arms around me and put her face in my shoulder and just sobbed and I made little
shh
sounds the way my mama usedta do, and eventually she got it all out and I gave her the tea I'd made, now cold, and then we talked quietly until the others came.

When she left, I felt like I'd just made a friend and lost her in the space of twenty-four hours. I had pictured us hanging out, telling each other secrets even, if nothing else because
we'd just been through this moment, huge and tiny, and even though we barely knew each other, there was something easy and true about her that I was drawn to, that I wanted to be like. Plus, I heard she was badass with that blade.

Now it's Sasha rubbing my back and I don't even know why. Somehow, she feels the whirlpool of sorrow and rage that's been swirling up inside me since Gio showed up. I almost shatter, right there in her arms, because her touch is just right, but I resist. There's too much firepower around us to go all emo.

When I look up from Sasha's hug, I see the guns have lowered. The crew of Survivors around us are staring with awed expressions. I take it they don't have many non-half-dead friends, these guys.

Reza holsters her Glock and points the AK at the ground. “First of all, we wanted to let you know that the Blattodeons have you in their targets,” she says. “We got access to their computers last night, and they have Sasha, Gregorio, and probably a few other of your gray asses marked to kill.”

“They've come for us before,” Gregorio says. “We tried to wipe them out last year, after they kidnapped and murdered some of our people. We did some damage and they returned the favor. They are a formidable threat in those tunnels, where they have numbers and the cramped darkness on their side—their natural habitat. But they are clumsy, and those decomposed bodies don't hold up well under a solid thrashing.”

“It won't be the roach zombie guys,” I say. “They're sending ghosts now. Child ghosts.”

The Survivors murmur in surprise.

“How do you know this?” Gregorio demands.

“That's how they came for me,” I say. “It was a ghostling, but trained to kill a specific target. That's what Carlos said, anyway.”

His name sends another ripple of conversation through the Survivors. “You are working with Carlos? With the Council?” Gregorio says, his voice almost a roar. “Then we are finished here. The Council is our sworn enemy.”

“Wait,” Sasha says. “Carlos saved my life. He—”

“Yes, we all know what Carlos did for you,” Gregorio snaps.

“Don't you da . . .” Sasha says, but she stops when a short white woman steps forward, one hand raised.

“That's enough, Gregorio.” She's older, maybe in her sixties, but who can tell with these half-dead folks? She says it calmly enough, but Gregorio looks like he's been slapped. “We will hear what these people have to say.” She turns to Reza. “What is it you are proposing?”