"I am."
"Hate that greasy fuck."
I cast a suspicious eye in her direction. She sounds genuine, but a) I'm already under scrutiny for being of questionable allegiance and b) only a reckless bastard would diss the all powerful Chairman in his own waiting room. She may be here to flush me out, but I am intrigued regardless.
"He's definitely one to watch out for."
The effect is startling. The girl leaps up and rushes over to the seat beside me, Greta in tow. For all her urgency, she does wield the thing with the fluid ease that only a professional could muster. "You think so, too?" she whispers.
"I mean..."
"It's just that I signed up for this thinking, you know, I'd get to play with guns and kick some ass for sure, but also do some good for people. But seriously, man, it's been one bullshit after another from jump. From jump, son, you feel me? And quite frankly, there's just some shit they had me do that I ain't even comfortable thinking about. I just... I just ain't with it. I ain't. And yet I'm stuck, you know, 'cause once you in, you in. Game over. And I definitely don't trust the corny old ghost on the other side of that door but he the one got me taking out all kindsa errant phantoms and shit. It's troubling me, man."
She pauses to breathe. "I'm Krys by the way. Krys with a kay. Short for Krystal but since I'm neither prom queen nor pornstar, it's just Krys." Flashes that awkward teenager smile at me and offers her fist for a pound.
"Carlos," I say, putting my chilly flesh-and-bone knuckles against her icy see-through ones. "And you need to be careful who you unload to."
"I know." She rolls her eyes toward the misty warehouse ceiling. "But I knew who you were when you sat down. There's not that many half-dead dudes walking around HQ – none actually – besides you, and well, not that I'm not a stalker or nothing, but I've read all your case files."
"Oh?"
"Oh indeed. And I know something about you."
"Really?"
"Well, I can tell a thing or two. You can see it in the case work, the way you write your reports. The way you carry yourself."
A fury of self-consciousness creeps over me. Am I such an open book? Have I been incriminating myself this whole damn time? "What do you think you know about me?" I try to keep the words even but the menace lurks out anyway.
"Relax, man. No one else knows. I got you. You've done your homework. I'm just very perceptive." I shoot her a doubtful look. "Trust me," she says. "And I been talking you up to the other soulcatchers, starting rumors about you massacring motherfuckers and taking unholy vengeance on anyone that challenges the Council's authority and shit – you know, throw 'em off the path."
"Are you serious?"
"Dead ass, kid. You can't be too careful."
I grunt in agreement.
"Anyway, there's lots to talk about. Maybe we could meet up later or something?"
High School's awkward phraseology carries over in death, apparently. "Maybe," I say, mostly 'cause I'm still trying to work my head around the idea of a random teenage girl ghost talking me up to cover for my supposed rebellious activity.
Botus's office door swings open and his big stupid head pokes out, toothy grin first. "Carlos! What's up man thanks for coming c'mon in we ready for you!" The man just vomits phrases with total disregard for their meaning. I try to tune out as much as possible around him. Krys rolls her eyes.
"Maybe I'll see you later," I say, and follow Botus into his office.
* * *
Big Cane really is fucking huge. You couldn't even call it sitting, what he's doing to that chair. He's dominating it. The thing looks like it's about to give up. His hulking mass would qualify as both fat and beefy – the only ghost I know you could actually describe as solid. And he's tall. His pale shiny skin wraps around that monster frame in thick loafs. He stands when I walk in, dwarfing the shit out of me and Botus. A wide, genuine smile stretches all the way across his face, creasing thick canyons into his cheeks.
"Agent Delacruz," he says, extending a slab of a hand towards me. "I am so honored to meet you finally. They say you're the smaller, Spanish version of me."
"Hardly," I chuckle, although I have no idea what he means by that. I cringe as I reach out and take his hand but his touch is surprisingly gentle. I'm sure he's been taken to task for crushing more than a few ghost hands.
"Alright, blah blah blah, nice to meet you, let's get on with it," Botus blathers as we both take our seats. "Listen: This mess is deep. I was just updating Big Cane on it, Carlos, while you were running on Puerto Rican time or whatever you call it."
"I been waiting outside your office for fifteen minutes!"
"No matter, but don't make it a habit, 'kay? This one's a doozy. A true doozy. A steaming hot pile of horseshit, this one. Otherwise I wouldn'ta called Cane in." Cane belly laughs for no apparent reason. I settle into my fuck-you face and sit back. "We're looking at one Joseph Anderson Green." He slides a photo of a very much alive yuppie across his desk at us. "Rich kid. Momma's boy. Yale, Cum Laude whatever, Wall Street, corporate lawyer now. Serial killer."
"He's alive," I say.
"Well, thank you, Agent Delacruz, for that insightful piece of evidence you've uncovered. You know, you and that two-timing two-bit afterlifer Riley you used to run with – guys think you're all deep 'cause your death was so fucked up you can't remember your life. That doesn't make you any more special than the rest of us. It just makes you forgetful. I died slow and painful, pancreatic cancer's a bitch, and I remember every damn second of my life and here I am: Your boss. So put the attitude in a little box for later, 'kay?"
If I launch across the desk and puncture a thousand holes into Botus like I want to, I will definitely blow my cover. Plus Big Cane would probably sit on me. But if I don't do anything, I'll appear uncharacteristically comely and become suspicious. "Fuck your mother," I settle on. A happy medium. I put the vicious stabbing in a little box for later.
Seems to settle it. Cane shifts uncomfortably in his chair, but Botus continues unhindered. "Anyway, yes, as Agent Delacruz helpfully pointed out, Mr. Green is still alive. Alive and well. It is not Green that is our target, exactly. The illustrious young maniac has managed to dispose of no fewer than seven females – a prostitute, a one night stand, three ex-girlfriends and two fiancés – in the past ten years."
"Jesus," Cane sighs.
"At least four of them ended up back in this city as ghosts and now, somehow or another, they've banded together." The shady Chairman leans both hands on his desk and rises to signify we're getting to the crux of the matter. "This quadrangle of murdered females is threatening to disrupt the very fabric of our afterlife in New York."
An uncomfortable silence follows. I'm hoping Cane's in the same muddle of astonishment that I am. The big old detective removes a filterless cigarette from his jacket pocket and puts it between those big meaty lips. He raises his eyebrows to see if I want one too but I wave him off. "How exactly are they doing that?" Cane says slowly as he lights up.
"They're trying to go public. Trying to make a fuss 'bout this guy. Say he's gonna kill again so they think it's their god-given duty to mess with him. They're still fairly weak as ghosts, so it's little things, you know, poltergeist shit, but it adds up. People are starting to notice. They have to be stopped."
"I'm sorry," I say. "Just to clarify, you want us to stop the dead women. Not the serial killer."
"Oh, don't get all Ghandi on me now, Carlos. If taking out Green is what you have to do to make this shit stop, take him out."
"Kill him?"
"Whatever."
"I don't usually kill people." I took out a fellow halfie last year under these assholes’ orders and ruined whatever shambles were left of my life. Left a bad taste in my mouth, to be honest.
"Really? Only us afterlifers, huh? How you like that, Cane? Carlos here is too high and mighty to take out a living soul but he'll send one of us to whatever great unknown awaits beyond death in a hot second. You're a piece of work, Carlo
s. Real classy."
"What happened to all those 'don't fuck with the living' rules you won't shut up about?"
"Make up your mind, kid," Botus shoots back at me. "You either want to deal with the serial killer or you don't. You can't have it both ways. The dead bitches are causing us trouble. The living kill each other every day; it's not our department to deal with. We are the Council of the fucking Dead. Period. Not the Council of the Happy Make Your Grandmother Soup Douchebags. Clear? Your job is to stop the shenanigans. One way or the other. Any means necessary, and all that."
"Seriously," I mutter, "never quote Malcolm again."
"Any questions? You start the stake out tonight."
I nod at Cane and exit, gripping my blade handle.
* * *
Krys is waiting for me when I walk out off the Council's ragged old warehouse HQ. I'm relieved to see she didn't bring Greta. She glides beside me as I amble along the backstreets of industrial Sunset Park, trying to calm my head. I don't know why I let Botus rile me up this much, but he manages to get at me every time. I wonder if somewhere deep down inside he knows I'm gonna fucking kill him one day, and he's just trying to get his digs in while he can.
"You all right?" Krys asks when I've stopped muttering and furrowing my brow. I'm not ready to get into it with her yet, much as my instincts tell me to trust her.
"Did you get your assignment?"
She scoffs. "Some nastiness by the river they want me to clean up."
"When they say clean up, they mean utterly annihilate. You wanna get a sense of what's going on first."
"Thank you, Yoda, I'm not actually the brand new fool I appear to be."
"Just a thought. Which river?"
"Hudson."
"Why you following me?"
Krys tucks her lower lip under her front teeth thoughtfully. "I was thinking about some shit. Been thinking 'bout it for a while actually. I mean, I know you're disgruntled..."
"No, you think I'm disgruntled."
"Whatever, you're obviously a subversive. I know a like-minded motherfucker when I meet one."
"You mean when you stalk one."
"Yeah, yeah. Look: I am relatively new but I'm through with this shit. I'm done. But I don't wanna just give up and walk away, you know? I wanna fuck some shit up first. Work it from the inside. I wanna leave the Council something to remember me by when I go. I mean, I'm one of their best hunters. A fucking natural – not to toot my own horn, but it's true. Who better to tear shit up? And you're a legend, even besides your freakish dead/alive thing, and that limp – and even that only adds to your mystique.
"I see through you, Carlos. I know you want to tear shit up too. Maybe you already have. It's hard out there alone." She looks a little pre-tantrum. "It's not easy having all these thoughts. But I know you understand. We don't have to be alone anymore though. We don't have to be alone."
I take a long hard look at Krys, toss around about twelve scenarios, from terrific to catastrophic. Then I light a Malagueña and say, "We're not. Follow me."
* * *
By the time we reach El Mar, I've explained as much as I can about the ragged band of supernatural warriors that I've spent my last few months being a part of. She oohs and aahs throughout each twist in the road, from the time Riley sliced that sick old plantation master against direct COD orders to the momentous escape of Cyrus Langley. She appears to be in a state of awed silence as we stroll into the perpetually dim bar and make our way to the back room. Langley's there all by himself, sitting in a single ray of afternoon sun from the barred windows, reading an ancient tome of some kind. He rises when we walk in, his grandfatherly grin already spreading like a stain across his face.
"I'm honored," Krys says before I get a chance to introduce her, "to meet such a tremendous individual as yourself, Mr. Langley. Honored. Speechless."
Cyrus laughs – it's a thin, wispy wheeze, but warm in its own right. "Hush now, my dear, the pleasure is all mine."
"Cyrus, this is Krys. She's a soulcatcher prime with the NYCOD. A coworker. And she seems to have dreamed up the same dream as us, all by herself."
"Splendid," Cyrus says. "There is much to be done. Two insiders will be a tremendous asset."
"Don't you need to test my allegiance or something, make sure I'm legit?"
Cyrus swats his long hand in the air. "Now, now, child. We trust each other. If Carlos trusts you then so do I." Krys looks disappointed. She'd clearly had some wild plot ready to prove her worth to us. It's probably for the best that Cyrus's mellow 'bout the whole thing.
"Where's everyone else?" I ask.
"Young Damian doing some work in the sewer system. You know that child's always got some project he on. Won't say whatall it is he doing down there though. Riley napping, and Gordo in rehearsal with the band."
"Jimmy?"
"Jimmy with the chess club, son. It's only three in the afternoon. Can't spend all his time cavorting and drinking with us dead folk."
"It's three?" Krys backs towards the door. "Damn! I gotta head to the river." She looks eagerly into my eyes. "Carlos, thank you. Thank you so much. I can't tell you... And Mr. Langley, so nice to meet you, sir, truly. I'm out, y'all. Peace."
"Come back anytime," Cyrus calls after her. "I like her."
"Yeah, she's weird," I say, "but I like her too."
2
I can't stand midtown. It's a void. An endless black hole of utter nothingess. Soul death. The dead don't usually fuck with the place, not if we can help it. The half of me that's still alive fucking hates it too. But here I am, holed up in a weird little backroom on 32nd Street with this gargantuan gumshoe ghost. Passing fucking time. I meant to bring one of those dingy detective dimestore novels but it slipped my mind. We're keeping an eye on Green's place, but so far it's a whole lotta nada.
"You must have some good stories," I say, thinking maybe I have my own floating trashy novel right here.
"Yep," Cane says and leaves it at that. He's nice enough but not the greatest converser I've ever met. Typical old school strong silent type, I guess. I am too actually, but not when I'm bored.
"It's weird, right?" I try. "The whole thing with the dead girls..."
"It's weird alright," he says with a smile.
"Real...weird."
"Yep."
This night's gonna suck.
* * *
It's getting towards three. Big Cane's halfway through his wrinkled pack of unfiltered Delinquents and I'm three Malagueñas deep when he sits up suddenly and grimaces out the window. "I think we onto something," he says with genuine excitement.
"What you see?" I make my way towards where his huge shiny form is crouching against the wall.
"Girls. Dead ones. Three of 'em. 12 o'clock."
Three glowing shrouds are creeping along the block towards Green's building. They're all done up in full party girl regalia, heels, jewelry, makeup – the works.
"Where's the fourth?"
Cane shrugs.
"What you wanna do?"
"Wait."
I guess that's how you get to be the best in the business. The girls hover anxiously around the stoop. After a few minutes I realize my body is tense with anticipation and I make a conscious effort to relax myself. That's when Green rounds the corner walking arm in arm with a pretty college-age white girl. "That'd be Jane Albright," Cane whispers. "The current future ex-Mrs. Green. She's a looker, ain't she?"
I suppose so, but she seems pretty plain Jane to me: Your standard sweater and skirt wearing, irritatingly well put together white chick that hordes in slow-mo shopping riots along the trendy avenues. The fourth ghost flurries behind them, waving her long slender arms in a fury.
Usually things are a little more clear cut: The dead are causing problems, stop the problem however I see fit, write up the paperwork so the Council's happy, walk on. Now we got some femicidal rich kid about to be in the act and four furious dead girls trying to get in the way. I don't like it all.
"You thi
nk he's gonna kill her?"
Cane really takes the time to ponder that one. "No," he says after some hemming and hawing. "But them ladies do by the look of things." They're causing as much ruckus as they can, spinning themselves into a frenzy but they only manage to send a few plastic bags swirling up into the night around the couple.
"They might be right."
"Nah." A long pause. "I don't think so." Green and his lady friend disappear into the building and I hang somewhere in between making a break for it and just sitting here sweating all night. "It's not his MO." Cane says, finally indicating that there is an actual thought process behind his random word burps.
"What's his MO?"
"Get to know the vic. Treat her nice. Make her fall in love. Kill her slow and eat the pieces."
"Oh."
The four ghosts batter helplessly against the fancy door panes, producing a mild shuddering and not much else.
"Guess that's it for tonight," Cane sighs. "They locked out."
"Listen, Cane, I know we got clear orders, and I know you ain't here to save no living people. And I respect that. But I ain't comfortable sitting here chilling while this chickadee gets ate across the street. Doesn't sit well with me. Maybe it's 'cause I'm half alive. Maybe it makes me soft, but I don't like it."
Again the deep-in-thought. "I hear you, Carlos, I do. But hear me out." I nod at him to continue." They just met. You can tell by how they strolling, the way she touched her hair, the quality of their conversatory gestures. This I am sure of. Only Green's first two kills were strangers; the hooker and the one-nighter. This was his practice, he was finding his legs. After that, each victim had a very distinct, very long term romantic relationship with him. He's gonna kill that woman, and then he's gonna eat her, but he's not gonna do it tonight." I look at him doubtfully but I can't deny the logic he's working with. "I'll wager my badge on it," he adds with finality.
I gotta hand it to the guy, he's not the hardass I took him for.
"Go home, Carlos," Cane says kindly. "Get some sleep. We'll check back in on the situation tomorrow night."
I take a last look at the four shrouds cluttered around the entrance and then glance back at Big Cane. "Alright," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Salsa Nocturna: A Bone Street Rumba Collection Page 16
