Midnight Taxi Tango

by Daniel José Older

  “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. Unambigously 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.

  I look up at him. “Good.” And then I turn and head off toward Cypress Hills Cemetery.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Carlos

  Whatsamatta, b
ro?” Riley asks when I walk back into my apartment.

  “Nothing. Got something in my eye up on the roof. I think a bug flew in there.”

  “You want me to take a look?”

  “No, man. Last time I let you anywhere near my eye, you popped your own out and stuck it in mine.”

  “Suit yourself, C. Kia leave?”

  I stand there rubbing my eye for a few seconds, very like an asshole.

  “Carlos?”

  “Yeah. She left.”

  “She alright?”

  “She will be. Wouldn’t let me put a bodyguard on her though. Gave her my dagger.”

  “Can’t blame her. There’s coffee if you want it.”

  Bless him. Ghosts can move physical stuff around, but even for a badass like Riley, all that intricateness and precision gets exhausting. I take his effort as a peace offering and walk over to the counter. “You alright, Riley. Sylvia still here?”

  “She headed out to make her report.”

  “Fuck.” I pour out two cups, throw some sugar in Riley’s and stir it. “I should probably do that.”

  “I guess.”

  I pass Riley his and we enjoy the first sips in silence.

  Thud.

  Well, mostly silence.

  “What’s the move?” I say.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  “I dunno, but we should probably get his ornery little ass outta there, cuz at some point your living half is gonna have to pee.”

  I shrug. “Ah, I peed when I was on the roof.”

  “Out ya eyes?”

  “What?”

  “Nothin’. Shall we have a look?”

  I throw back the rest of the coffee. “Can’t hardly wait.”

  • • •

  The thump and scratch stops when we step up to the door.

  “This is what I think,” I say. “The ghostling had a mission: wait in the park and then get at Kia. He did that, causing hell and havoc all the while, and then she showed and he failed.”

  Riley nods. “True.”

  “What’s the next move?”

  “He tries again.”

  “Maybe, but maybe not. What’s our protocol for when a mission goes south?”

  Riley smirks. “Wouldn’t know.”

  “You go back to the base, man.”

  We stare at the door for a few seconds.

  “It’s risky,” Riley says.

  “I know. The fuck else we gonna do though? Doubt he’s gonna be open to chatting.”

  As if on cue, the ghostling thumps against the door again. Riley draws his blade. I take a deep breath and turn the knob. The little shimmering creature collapses across the doorway, gasping.

  “Well, damn,” Riley says. “Now I kinda feel bad.”

  “Psh. You didn’t have his hands on you.”

  The ghostling drags himself onto his knees, crumples forward again, and crawls a few agonizing steps.

  Riley shakes his head. “If he does go home, it’s gonna take a week or two to get there.”

  The ghostling snarls up at us and swipes a little hand at Riley’s pant leg.

  “Hey!” He steps back.

  “You don’t think he’ll do something to throw us off the trail now that we’ve been talking like he doesn’t exist right in front of him, do you?”

  The ghostling scowls at Riley and finds his footing.

  “Nah, this guy’s been programmed. It’s a horrible, horrible thing to do to a spirit. They break them and then give them a singular mission, and that’s it. The most they’ll get is a backup plan if it fails, like you’re hoping, but these guys aren’t functioning on any kinda high-strategy levels, trust.”

  The ghostling lurches forward faster now that he’s up, angling toward the front door in a lopsided canter.

  “You don’t think he’s gonna try to pull some slick and murderous move on us?” I ask.

  Riley draws his blade. “I think his slick and murderous days are over, but I got my eye on him. Something about getting caught and locked in the bathroom seems to have taken the wind out of his creepy little sails.”

  “That and Kia’s dropkick,” I say. “Let’s see where this goes.”

  • • •

  We amble along beneath the tracks, an odd parade or just one weirdo staring at the ground a few feet in front of him, depending on who’s looking, and then cut east along a quiet residential block, past an elementary school, across Bushwick Ave. toward Queens.

  “You think he’s going to the cemetery?” Riley asks.

  The ghostling’s been moving faster and faster as we go, and now I’m getting winded, keeping pace behind that still-raggedy shuffle.

  “Might make sense, I guess,” I huff.

  But instead of turning right on Cypress, the ghostling lopes left, takes us along another quiet little street, and then halfway down, he pauses in front of a very ordinary-looking two-story house. Ordinary, I realize when we get closer, except for the tall, gangly phantom floating outside the front door.

  “Garrick! Tartus!” the ghost announces.

  “That a fact?” Riley says, shooting him the stink-eye.

  The ghost doesn’t respond, doesn’t acknowledge us, just stares off, his lower lip hanging slightly open, shoulders slumped.

  “I hate it when the dead do this shit,” I grumble.

  “Garrick! Tartus!”

  We all stand there for a few seconds panting, and then the ghostling stumbles up the front steps.

  “Whoa there, little guy,” Riley says, yoinking him back. The ghostling sputters and hisses but doesn’t have much fight in him.

  “What you think, Carlos?”

  “Garrick! Tartus!”

  Besides the repetitive-ass ghoul, the place looks like every other house on the block. It’s shingled, painted a dull gray-green. Wooden stairs lead up to the front door. The shades are down on all the windows, but that’s not unusual.

  I shrug. “Got nothing. Maybe somebody’s home.”

  “Maybe Garrick Tartus’s home,” Riley says.

  “Garrick! Tartus!”

  I walk up the front steps. I’m reaching toward the brass doorbell when Riley says: “Carlos,” and I hear a click behind my head.

  “Turn slow,” a woman’s gravelly voice says. “Hands in plain sight.”

  She’s standing perfectly still in a perfectly tailored gray suit. Her stance is just wide enough to brace for the recoil from the hand cannon she’s aiming at my face. It’s clear from the bulges between her vest and bloodred dress shirt that she’ll never be outgunned. Even her goddamn footwear is perfect: elegant alligator-skin dress shoes, perfectly shined. For the first time in my weird little life, I am outdappered.

  Also: Riley is standing beside her, his blade poised to slice through her skull. The ghostling squirms under his other arm.

  “Have you heard the good word about Jesus Christ today, ma’am?” I say, flashing the cheesiest grin I can muster.

  She smiles for a half second. “Try again.” Not a cop—way too smooth and she would’ve ID’d herself by now.

  “Vote yes on question six,” I say, but it doesn’t really matter. She had her chance to catch me off guard and passed on it. Riley relaxes his blade some.

  “I’d like to know,” the woman says, “why of all the doors on all the blocks in Bushwick, you walked up to this one right here.” She says it evenly, with no trace of threat. Of course, she doesn’t have to threaten when she’s pointing that gat at my face. Still, I believe she really wants to know.

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  She shrugs. “I’m in no hurry.”

  “And I’d like to ask the same thing of you.”

  There’s a pause, and then the woman holsters her weapon so smoothly it’s like it just evaporat
ed in the midmorning sun. She’s not just a professional; she’s a fucking panther.

  “Excellent,” she says. “Coffee?”

  • • •

  There are still a few diners in Bushwick where the hipsters that come to gawk at locals leave with bruises. Tucked amid some abandoned factories and a tattoo parlor, the Rosebud is just such a place. The woman drives us there in a spotless black Crown Vic with MEDIANOCHE CAR SERVICE stenciled in a circular logo on the door. Riley hovers in the backseat, the ghostling tucked under his arm like a naughty child.

  She says her name is Reza, reaching a hand over to me. I take it, watch her register the coolness of my skin. She doesn’t flinch, just notes it with a solemn nod.

  “Carlos. And I’ll meet you inside; just give me one sec.”

  “Alright,” Reza says, closing the doors and bleeping the alarm. “But don’t run off. I’ll find you and kill you.” She turns around and walks into the diner.

  “Welp,” Riley says. “That happened.”

  “Yeah, she wasn’t kidding either.”

  “Nope.” The ghostling squirms in his arms. “I’ma take this guy back to the Council, see what they can do with him. You arright?”

  I scoff. “Sure. She seems nice enough.”

  Riley snickers as he vanishes into the Brooklyn backstreets, the wee killer ghostling whining softly.

  • • •

  Four hours, eight cups of coffee, three unfiltered cigarettes, and two Malagueñas later, Reza studies me for a second, takes a drag, and then says: “I’ll be honest with you, Carlos . . .”

  “You mean you haven’t been all this time?”

  “Shut up. I don’t usually talk this much. Especially not to strangers. And even less so to strangers that are men.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I can count on one hand the number of men I’ve had honest conversations with and not regretted it.” She holds up one finger. “There, I counted. But you’ve been very honest with me this afternoon, and I appreciate that. I’m sure most people think you’re fucking crazy or full of shit.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She doesn’t smile.