Midnight Taxi Tango (9 page)

I feel my heart crumble a little. She heard everything. She stares at Riley's floating translucent form, then Sylvia's. The ghost's touch gave her the Vision, alright. She blinks away tears, mouth a twisted frown.

“Kia,” I say.

She slams the door.

Kia

I
get my stuff together while Carlos knocks on the door and tries to sound reassuring.

Fuck that. I heard what they said. I saw what I saw.

Don't have much. My phone and house keys are on the bedside table with my glasses and a hair clip.

“Kia, answer me. We have to talk.”

I brush down Carlos's burgundy sheets—what kind of creep has burgundy sheets?—pull out the wrinkles, and find my jacket and shoulder bag in a big leather chair next to a bookshelf. Creep.

I try to pull my mass of hair into something I can fit under a du rag. Give up. It's doing what it wants and so the fuck am I.

“Kia?”

The thing . . . the demon child—its face flashes, that huge mouth stretches open, rows of sharp teeth and those dead, sunken-in eyes bore into mine. It's just across the hall, thumping away in the bathroom. Trying to get to me.

Fuck everything.

“Kia, I'm coming in. I know you're upset. I just need to talk to you, okay? I'm coming in.”

I open the door and try to push past him. I just want to make it outside before I burst into tears or get my soul eaten
by that demon child, but Carlos steps his tall lanky-ass self right in front of me.

“Kia.”

“Move.” I shove, hard. He must've been caught off guard, because I'm sure I'd never be able to actually move Carlos if he didn't want me to. He stumbles back, a satisfying look of shock on his face. I'm halfway to the door when he grabs my arm, and I can tell by the grip there's no shaking it. I try anyway.

“Let the fuck go!”

He spins me toward him and then holds both my arms.

“Listen to me,” Carlos snarls. “This is not some teen-angst situation, Kia. Your life is in danger.”

“That's exactly why I'm trying to get the hell out of here, man.” My voice is wet with an oncoming sob, but I'm not gonna cry in front of Carlos. That's not gonna happen. “Maybe I can find someone better equipped to save my ass out there.”

Carlos blinks and straightens like I just clapped him across the face. I guess in a way I did. “I . . . I deserved that.”

I stare at him. The urge to run seeps from me, and now I just want to hug Carlos and tell him it's gonna be alright. Confusing-ass emotions. Then the thing thumps against the bathroom door again. We both look at it.

“Let's go up to the roof,” Carlos says. “We gotta talk.”

I nod.

• • •

A muted daybreak opens across the warehouses and fancy new high-rises around us. The East River sparkles beneath the growing dawn, still alive with the last of Manhattan's shine.

We absorb it in silence for a few minutes, and then Carlos takes out one of those nasty-ass cigars he likes and offers me the pack with his eyebrows raised.

“No, thanks, man. I want to reach voting age without my larynx rotting out.”

He shrugs and lights his.

“So.” I put my hands in my pockets and keep my eyes on the gray sky above the rooftops. “Turns out you're not some crazy hallucinating guy.”

Carlos barks a laugh. “And neither is Baba Eddie.”

“Well, I knew that. And this Riley guy?”

“My partner.”

“He's . . . dead.”

“Very.”

A seagull circles in front of us, caws its complaint, and then veers off toward the bay.

“I guess I always thought . . .” I pause, search for the words. What did I always think? Everything's a jumble right now. “I thought the whole ancestors thing Baba Eddie's always talking about is more like a metaphor, you know? Like, he puts down food for them and smokes cigars with 'em and shit, but I thought that was just like . . . you know, symbolic.”

“Nope.”

“And you're . . . Carlos, you're dead too?”

“Half.”

I shake my head. “Alright, man. It's all just a lot.”

“I know. And I know last night was scary. Really scary.”

I rub my neck and try to cast off the unceasing memory of that face in mine.

Carlos pulls on his cigar, exhales a pillar of smoke into the sky. “And we're gonna figure out what the hell is going on, Kia. I know I was ragging on Riley about it, and I know it seems ridiculous, but he was right to bring the thing here.”

My whole body tenses. I stay quiet, push back a sob.

“There's no other way to find out who sent it and why.”

The sun emerges from a hazy muddle of clouds; it throws the scattered shadows of circling pigeons across our faces.

“What . . .” I pause. Collect myself. “What am I supposed to do now, Carlos?”

“I wish I could say everything's just gonna be alright,” he says, “but that's not a promise I can make you, Kia. You gotta live your life, but you gotta be careful. You have the Vision now; you're gonna be seeing ghosts.”

I shudder. “Like, everywhere? Man, I can't handle this shit. I didn't ask for this.”

“Not everywhere, just . . . around. And I know it's a shock at first—believe me—but you have to stay sharp. Just stay away from them. If one starts coming at you, you gotta run. I mean, most of them are harmless, really, and I don't want you to walk around the rest of your life being afraid of the dead . . .”

“No, why would I ever do that?”

Carlos has already learned when not to take the bait with me. He stays the course. “Look, right now it's clear something's after you. And we got this one, but we can't be sure there ain't another one out there looking for you.”

“Great.”

He crouches and unstraps something from his boot. It's a dagger, sheathed in a metal holster wrapped in worn leather. He holds it out to me with both hands, all ceremonious-like.

“What's this?”

“It's a blade like mine. It kills ghosts.”

“Carlos, man . . .”

“Kia, take it. I don't usually give things to people, especially not ghost-killing things. This is important.”

I scowl at the dagger, my arms crossed over my chest. It is pretty cool though. “Where am I supposed to keep that thing, man? You do realize I'm black, right?”

“I . . .”

“Can't be walking 'round BK with a dagger hanging off
me just chilling like
ayy
. You gonna pay for my funeral when the cops blow my ass away?”

“Kia, I—”

“Y'all brown folks don't get got like us, C. You might get ya ass beat for being brown, especially gray-ass brown like you. But I'm black. Ain't no kinda ambiguous either.
Un
ambigously black. They shoot us for having a wallet or a sandwich, how I'ma roll around with a medieval-ass ghost-killing-ass dagger?”

Carlos finally stops trying to interrupt me, which is all I really wanted. He moves his mouth around his face a few times, eyebrows creased. It's fun to watch. He still holds the knife out like I'm a knight and he's a king.

“You right,” Carlos says. “It is different for me. I hadn't thought about it like that.”

“Course you hadn't.” I snatch the dagger. “I'll take it though. I'll figure it out.” I like this thing. It's heavier than I thought it would be. I draw it, and it makes that
shhiiiinnnngggg
sound they do in movies and the blade catches the orange glow from the rising sun, damn near blinding me, and
yesssssssss
.

Carlos steps back. “Careful, now. Listen . . .”

I sheathe it up again because when it's out, I won't pay attention to a single thing he's saying: too shiny and cool. “Go 'head.”

“You trying to really kill a ghost for good, you stab or slice at the head or torso. One or two good cuts and that's it; the deal is done. Most of the time. Sometimes a particularly strong one might last longer. If you cut the limbs you might incapacitate it, but it won't be gone.”

“How a ghost die, though? They not dead already?”

“It's called the Deeper Death. Means they're really gone, like ether. Just gone.”

“Cool.”

“Not cool,” Carlos says, his voice stern now. “Be careful with this thing. Sometimes when folks are new to seeing
spirits, they just bug out and stab up any ol' ghost wandering by. Never rush to the kill.” His eyes go misty for a second, then swing back into focus. “Find out what's going on. But stay ready. Shit gets hairy fast with the dead, even if
most
spirits aren't gonna try to hurt you.”

“If they do,” I say, drawing the blade, “they gonna taste Ethereal Juniper.”

Carlos frowns. “Ethereal Juniper though? Try harder.”

“You name yours?”

“No, Kia. I'm an adult, and I don't live in Middle Earth. But do you.”

“You're no fun.”

“Also: I'ma have Sylvia Bell keep an eye on you.”

I shake my head and sheathe the blade again for emphasis. “Hell no.”

Carlos turns to me. “Kia, listen . . .”

“No. I listened. Now you listen: you're not putting no middle-aged dead white lady on my ass.”

“Well, Riley's gonna be busy with—”

“And you're not putting no Riley on my ass either. It's not happening. I reject it. Do you understand me, Carlos? I did not invite this situation and I do not welcome this situation into my life. Yesterday, besides almost dying, I made an utter jackass out of myself in front of the one boy I ever had a crush on. I am sixteen. I got a job, a black eye, trigonometry homework, and plenty of other shit to worry about besides having your dead-ass friends following me around. Feel me?”

Carlos squints and moves his mouth around, probably swallowing back some retort. He can see I'm not playing. “I do,” he finally says. “I do and I'm sorry. Part of this is my fault. I shouldn't have hesitated. I fucked up and I'm sorry.” He shuffles back and forth on his feet and looks out at the city. “Really sorry.”

“It's alright,” I say, squinting at him. “Maybe it's better anyway. Like you said—this way y'all can maybe figure out
what's going on. If you'da just cut the little fucker, it'd be a done deal and we'd be stuck guessing.”

He brightens a little. “It's true.”

“But the next time it's between me and some demon child, stop thinking about how you're probably a brand-new father now and just do what you have to do.”

Carlos's mouth drops open and the cigar tumbles out, lands in a puddle, and extinguishes with a fizz. I walk to the doorway at the edge of the roof. “See ya 'round, man.”

“You . . . tag-teamed me,” Carlos stutters.

I shrug and head down the stairs and out into the day.

• • •

I feel good, actually.

My body's relaxed, like I didn't get kicked in the face and choked out by a demon child yesterday. The breeze feels perfect against my skin as I step out into the Bushwick streets. I cross under the tracks as the wary bodega workers trundle up metal gates and retrieve the morning papers. I should feel like shit. I have eighty-seven reasons to. Instead, everything is crisp. I told off Carlos, and now I forgive him for almost getting me got. I really do. His sadness hangs all over him. He's coy and aloof, yes; I'd hug him and tell him it's gonna work out if I was that kind of douche and I thought it might help. I'm not though, and it wouldn't, and for all I know, nothing's gonna be alright. Especially with his jacked-up life.

My stride is long today, my fro magnificent. I tall-step in and out of long shadows, watch my own shadow dance along beside me; the great gravity-defying waves of my hair make my head a wild dark star against the pavement. King Impervious thunders another verse into my ears and the beat is sick—it carries me along on its own gale of blasting bass drones and the mischievous
clack-clack snicker
of the snare.

Ain't a mothafucka here make sense like me / My bitch a mermaid, a mothafuckin' manatee.
I stop in a bodega on
Bushwick to grab a buttered roll and a tea. I don't know what the fuck she's talking 'bout in that line, but she says it like she's fucking dying, like if she doesn't get those words out, they'll tear her in half from the inside. I always imagine her literally killing bitches while she lays down verses, because no matter what the song's about, King Impervious always killing a bitch.

I hang a left and then a right and then, “Ay, what happen, girl? Ya man get mean wichya?” I'm so riled up on this song, I almost deck the middle-aged bearded guy when he falls into step with me. “You want me to fuck him up for ya, girl? I do that for you.” His ass so loud I can hear it
over
King Impervious, but he doesn't need to know that. “You know the domestic violence a serious problem in the community, girl. Lemme get that number.”

I almost bust out laughing, but that would only encourage him.

A cat come close I kill him / let this bitch clean up the spill and / make a coat out of ya puppy like Cruella de Vil.

“Girl, I'm just tryna help,” the guy calls from the corner. “You actin' like I ain't even exist, disrespectful-ass ho!”

I stop. Not because he called me a ho—I stop because everything is different now; I have the Vision or whatever the fuck Carlos calls it. I turn around, squint at homeboy.

“Hold up, now. I didn't mean no disrespect by that, girly.” I start walking back toward him. “Calling you a ho, I mean.” He waves his hands in front of his face. “I formally apologize, girl.”

When I'm close enough to smell the morning's first vodka on his breath, I give him a good up and down. Everything looks normal. He's not all shimmery the way Riley and Sylvia are.

“Girl?”

I lift a hand and the dude cringes. I ignore him, put my finger up against the dusty worn leather of his overcoat.

“I'm sorry! I will never disrespect hos again! I swear.”

I push. It's soft, like he has three sweaters on underneath. And then I must come against his shoulder blade. He's real.