Salsa Nocturna: A Bone Street Rumba Collection

by Daniel José Older

  * * *

  The riverway is so quiet this time of night. A few homeless guys nap on park benches. Some empty boats glide on the current and the scattered lights of Jersey become the scattered stars above, but not much else moves. And yet, obviously something is very wrong. It's like a frantic voice inside screaming: All is not well! Maybe it's one of those primal, deeply imbedded scent instincts, or something off in the flow of air, the particular pattern of strewn about trash. I can't put it into words, but it's unnerving as shit.

  Then my eyes adjust some to the darkness. Maybe it's those horrible looking giants standing silently by the edge of the water. Yes, that'd be it, the source of all this foulness. I hear a sharp hissing beside me and almost curse out loud as I sidestep and draw my blade but no one's around. The towering figures haven't wavered from their dark vigil. My slow, slow heart pounds at a medium jog in my ears.

  "Carlos," comes the hiss again. It's definitely Krys's voice, coming from somewhere in the underbrush behind me. I glance back at the giants to make sure they ain't loping towards us and then duck in.

  "The fuck is going on?" I demand. This night has me rattled, I can't lie.

  "I really don't know," Krys says. For the first time, I'm relieved to see Greta, cocked and ready to blast towering river creature ass into oblivion. "I been here all night and so have they. Haven't moved, just sway a little and occasionally lean over to confer with each other. That's it."

  The seven giants waver in the wind on the river bank about fifty feet from our little hideout. They're hunched forward; skinny heads protrude from slumped shoulders. Their disproportionately long arms dangle like dead snakes on either side of their slender bodies. Worst of all, though, the damn things anathematize light. Most afterlifers glow, the giants are like walking black holes, barely visible against the foggy night sky. It's usually a sign of something very old or very cursed. Or both.

  "Can you pick up what they saying?"

  "It's an old dialect," Krys whispers. "Old, like, pre-written word old."

  "Shit."

  "But to really make out individual words Imma haveta get closer. I was just sitting here psyching myself up for it when you showed up. Wanna come?"

  "Nope."

  "What happened to Mr. Legendary Badass?"

  "I gave him the night off."

  "Carlos..."

  "Krys, I got here by being crafty, not reckless."

  She ponders this a moment or two, irritated that I've disrupted her suicide mission. I'm about to spew some reconciliatory shit about dying for something worthwhile when Krys shrugs and slips out of the bush towards the river. She commando-creeps from bench to bench along the walking path, expertly shifting her weight beneath Greta so it doesn't swing out of control. It'd be impressive to watch if I wasn't panicking.

  By the time I inch-by-inch my way out of the bush, cringing at every rustle, Krys's crouching behind a trashcan about five feet from the giants. Blade out, I limp-sprint silently across the path, cursing under my breath. We're both panting heavily when I settle in with my back against the trashcan. Now I can smell the bastardos – it's a heavy, putrid combination of rotting flesh and...cologne. Cologne? The fuck...

  "Fixation," whispers Krys, seeing my confusion. "It's one of those extra intense, 'the ladies will eat you up' type of scents."

  I wave my hands in 'what-the-fuck' circles.

  "Your guess as good as mine," Krys shrugs.

  A low mournful murmur unrolls in the quiet night air. It can only be described as the sound of many old men gurgling.

  "I cut all my Ancient Languages classes," I say. "What they talkin' 'bout?"

  "From what I can tell..." Krys squints up her face, "They're waiting for something. Something about a prophecy."

  "Awesome. Let's blast 'em."

  "What happened to 'you wanna get a sense of what's going on first,' professor?" She does a pretty good whispered impression of me, actually.

  "We did that. They're waiting for something. They're religious fanatics. Now we know. Make a diary entry and blast away."

  "Shhhh."

  They're gurgling again – death's off key didgeridoo – but this time a high whine screeches over the top. Krys sits up, cocking an ear, eyes shut tight behind those little glasses. "They're excited. Whatever it is's supposed to come over the river. A god of some kind, a demon god. Something like that."

  "Sounds bad."

  "They're frantic over it."

  "They don't look frantic."

  All of the sudden everything gets real quiet. The Hudson laps peacefully against the shore. Late night traffic trundles along the West Side Highway. I try not to breathe, expecting at any moment a huge dead hand to swipe at me from out of the sky. My blade is ready. Krys's hands wrap firmly around her cannon. I try to imagine what combat would be like with these towering ghosts and my new bazooka-toting teenage friend, but I'm coming up blank. Swipe at the legs and stay the fuck out the line of fire, I guess.

  As quickly as the silence set in, the monsters jump back into a frenzied jarble. I hear them moving now, their long legs striding in anxious circles just a few feet away from us. Krys and I exchange nervous glances. And then, just like that, they take off, all seven scattering in different directions towards the city. The foul stench of death plus mack daddy washes over us in a thick wind and dissipates.

  "That...was...awesome," Krys pants from the throes of adolescent exhilaration. That was not awesome at all, but I nod wearily anyway. I'm still trying to figure out why all this has me so shook when my new friend decides she wants to head to El Mar and meet the rest of the gang. Imminent danger has blessed Krys with a fierce case of the heebie-jeebies. I shrug off my own weird bout of shakiness and decide I can roll with that. We gather our things and head towards Brooklyn.

  * * *

  "See, that's what I'm talking about," Riley's saying when I return to the backroom with a tray of drinks. "That's some private school shit."

  "What's that?" I pass out the goods: Mojitos for me, Jimmy, Gordo and Cyrus, beers for Riley and Krys.

  "Your new protégé here," Riley says. Krys is glaring across the table at him. "She's trying to tell me that just 'cause a dude dress up like a female, don't make him gay."

  "Don't," says Krys. "Most cross-dressers straight. Just like most pedophiles."

  "Why you gotta take it there? And what about all those priests?"

  "The high profile ones gay, no doubt. But I'm saying, they make it look like they all gay. All the freaks and fuckups, right? It's a public image thing. The straight ones never get that kinda publicity."

  "And I'm saying, that's some true Walnut Heights Country Day shit."

  "What, having an opinion 'bout something?" Jimmy cuts in.

  "Oh, don't you start, kid."

  Everyone else at the table is busy finding something else to look at. "Riley," Krys says, "for all you know you lived your whole damn life in a mansion, okay?"

  I'm about to step in when Riley stands up suddenly. "The fuck is that?" He's pointing at Krys's leg.

  "'s my sidearm," she says, squinting at him suspiciously.

  "Word?" He's across the room in an instant, peering over her shoulder at the sizable Glock strapped to Krys's left thigh. "So the rumors are true. Ghost killin' guns. Damn. Did you see this, Carlos? The new girl making us look like some prehistoric old fogies with sharpened sticks. No offense, Cyrus."

  You gotta hand it to Riley, he can suck the tension out of a room as quickly as he can stuff it back in. "That's nothing," I tell him, "you should see the damn missile launcher she carries on assignments."

  "Say what?" He looks at Krys with utter disbelief. "Why you get to walk around fully loaded, young lady?"

  "I'm part of their pilot program," she says. "Actually, I am their pilot program. They tried an experimental projectile weapons course on my academy class and no one else could handle it. I came through flying colors and ever since they been sending me out into the field with whatever new shit they come
up with."

  Riley and Cyrus exchange a series of astonished glances. "Superb," Cyrus says quietly.

  Riley stretches a frigid, glowing arm across my shoulder. "You've done well, Carlos. Even if she did go to some artsy-ass suburban school. 'Bout time some of our people be gun-totin' psycho nerds too." Krys looks like she's somewhere between flattered and irritated.

  "Listen," I say, "I'm glad you're all happy now that we have a fully armed teenager on our side, but we got some shit to figure out. Jimmy, you find anything out with that fancy computer of yours?"

  Jimmy frowns. "Not much, Carlos. The Green situation comes up pretty much as Botus laid it out to you: A few mysterious deaths around him, nothing nailable though. The guy's whole internet presence is locked up tight, purely presentation, but I did hack into a few of his bank accounts and... Well, it's all pretty boring really."

  "Thank you for sparing us the details."

  "One of the ghost chicks is probably Imelda McKinney, a party girl that disappeared about nine years ago from a Chicago suburb. Caused quite a hubub at the time, but Green had no ties to her. That was the one night stand, I think; he apparently managed never to be seen with her the night she died. Another one is Kristen Mellonhurst, who he partnered with for several years. Raised a few eyebrows when she went missing but the guy, like I said, is ironclad protected in that whatever the fuck force-field them rich dudes manage to cloak themselves in. They barely bat an eye at the dude, officially."

  "So little has changed," Cyrus says, shaking his head. "So much and so little."

  "What 'bout my giants?" Krys asks.

  Jimmy makes a helpless face at us. "I mean...giants pop up all over history, guys. You don't even want to know some of the sites that were showing up in this search, trust me."

  "I do," Riley says.

  "Best I can figure, there's a few semi-reliable sources talking 'bout an ancient race of giants running around, fucking shit up with the other humans. Then they pulled one of those mysterious species-wide disappearing acts and shazammed themselves out the scene. Never to be heard from again. That's really all I got."

  "It's feasible these dudes are the phantom remains of whatever race that was," I say, but it's not really fitting together for me.

  "Let's say that's what they are," Krys says, spinning her chair around and straddling it. "And they disappeared themselves on purpose, planning to come back. Let's say that's where the prophecy comes in."

  "They didn't say what the prophecy was?" Cyrus asks.

  "Not that I heard," Krys says. "But let's imagine it was a pact, more so than a prophecy. A pact with this demon they waiting for."

  "It's a good story, even if it's utter nonsense," Cyrus muses.

  "And in this pact-slash-prophecy, right? There's a piece missing. Something's incomplete. And for whatever reason, fill in the blank, they think it's coming. Whatever it is that's supposed to happen, it's about to. Maybe they don't even know."

  Everyone nods thoughtfully.

  "Time is it?" Jimmy asks.

  "Damn near dawn," I say. "Let's wrap this up. Tonight we split up, I'll..."

  "I’ma go with Krys," Riley says. "Wanna see those babies in action."

  "Alright, Riley and Krys take the Hudson and me and Jimmy'll keep stakin' out Green with Big Cane. Gordo..." Gordo's passed out in his chair, his massive body heaving up and down. He's smiling, probably dreaming of some hot Cubana offering him a lifetime supply of Malagueñas. "Gordo'll go with you guys. I'll lend him my phone so he can call Jimmy if anything pops off."

  The night had been a warm one, but the coming dawn brings a frosty breeze in from the bay. We say our goodbyes and scatter out into the backstreets of Brooklyn.

  3

  Big Cane is an erratic dude. Maybe it's Jimmy being around, an unusual addition to our hunting party that Cane took with characteristic cool breeze grace. Either way, now the old ghost won't shut the fuck up. I'm actually yearning for the peaceful boredom of last night. "Yeah, that was a time alright," Cane drawls on, I've lost track about what. "That was back when the Council was first training soulcatcher primes. Before that it was just like some loose scattered shit, just here and there. We were ragtag. Got away with all kindsa bullshit, Jimmy, lemme tell you. Oh, we had our fun."

  "I bet," Jimmy says for like the fourteen-thousandth time.

  "I remember one time, man, there was this Asian ghost that would not, just would not leave this old man alone." The ghost was Korean, the old guy turned out to be half Korean for some reason, the ghost was his ancestor, blah blah blah. Heard this story sooo many times already and it wasn't that good the first time. "Turned out—"

  "Guys guys guys!" I say in an excited hush. "I think I see something." They hustle over to the window and peer out expectantly. I didn't see shit really, but it should buy me a few minutes of peace and quiet. "Guess not," I shrug.

  "Where was I?"

  "The Korean ghost," Jimmy says.

  Damn.

  * * *

  The ladies show up around midnight, all four of them this time. They're spinning in their usual furious whirlwinds. Green and his girlfriend come strolling around the corner like high school sweethearts, him carrying her books, both radiant with that new relationship excitement.

  One of the ghosts detaches herself from the rest. I'm guessing it's Imelda from all her regalia and accoutrements, but who can tell? She throws herself at Green and this time he steps suddenly backward, waving his hands. She must've gotten stronger overnight. Green looks around, his face wide open with terror. Then his eyes narrow and I'm suddenly quite sure this isn't the first time the ghosts have bothered him. He can't see them, but he seems to understand what's going on. He grabs his date's slender wrist and marches her into the building, slamming the door behind him before any of the ghosts can slip inside.

  "What's going on?" Jimmy says.

  "He got wise to his stalkers," Cane grumbles, rising and going for his blade. "Now we have a situation."

  "Stay close," I tell Jimmy. "I'm really not sure how this gonna go."

  * * *

  We're crossing the street, brushing past the screaming ghosts and entering the lobby. Big Cane nods at me that he's gonna stay behind with the ladies. I push random apartment buttons until a lady's voice answers groggily.

  "Ambulance, ma'am," I say, "we need you to let us in the building." The door buzzer groans and we charge through the ornate, marble-floored lobby and up five flights of stairs to Green's slightly open door. I draw my blade out from its sheath, but I still have no idea whether or not I'm ready to use it on a living person, even if it's a woman-eating psychopath. The only noise is the building humming its nonchalant building song and late night cars passing on the street below.

  "You wanna go in?" Jimmy asks. His tall, slender frame is tensed for action.

  "Not at all," I say. "But we can't exactly walk away."

  "Nope."

  I enter blade first, move silent as a shadow down the narrow corridor. Jimmy creeps a little less quietly behind me. I hear the struggling before we round the corner: A woman's high pitched scream, the dull thrashing of bodies against each other, the rustle of clothes. I'm about to rush in when a tinny hip-hop beat erupts behind me. I whirl around to find Jimmy fumbling with his damn phone. It shimmies in his hands, oomp-oomp-clacking away and then a staticky voice declares himself to be the riot, the riot, the mothafucking riot. Before I can spin back around, Green is on me, that hairy pale arm tight on my throat, the other clasping my blade hand. He heaves forward and we both stumble into a tangle of limbs on the floor. I'm still trying to catch my breath when he scatters up, landing a few kidney shots on the way, and lunges for Jimmy. That cellphone-on-mute curse-out I'd been saving for my protégé evaporates beneath a surge of terror. I must protect the boy. All those moral questions I'd worried about become suddenly petty.

  Yes, I'm the riot, son / I am the king a chaos come, Jimmy's phone blathers on. Flooded with that enraged righteousness, I find my footing and
am just rising when something heavy and wet clocks me across the face. The bastard hit me, I think in a boiling flurry. Then I look up. Green is standing in front of Jimmy with his back to me, but something's wrong. I can see more of Jimmy than I should be able to. Ah, yes: Green's head is gone. It starts to sink in. That hairy mess leaning on my shoe, the dark red lake spreading across the hardwood floor. Green's body finally collapses as the world speeds back up to its normal rhythm. I steady myself with one hand against the wall and gingerly lift my foot; the head rolls sideways, landing with a tiny splish in the muck. I look at Jimmy's wide, wide eyes. He's got the newly bloodied short sword in one hand and the still rapping mobile in the other. I am riot, the riot, the motha...

  "Hello," Jimmy says, raising the phone up to his ear. He looks a fucking mess but definitely isn't the blithering disaster I feared he'd be. Not yet anyway. "Hi, Gordo." His eyes are a million miles away. I'm sure Gordo can hear it in his voice.

  "Is a bad time?" mechanical-sounding Gordo says on the other end.

  Then Jane Albright comes shivering around the corner and lets out a horrific scream. "Lemme call you back," Jimmy says.

  * * *

  If anyone's standing on 71st Street between Broadway and the West Side Highway and they happen to have heightened spiritual vision, this is what they would see: A freakishly tall, skinny-ass, dark skinned Puerto Rican kid with thick glasses and baggy clothes; another Puerto Rican, strangely off-color and moving astoundingly fast given his gimpy leg; a humongoid ghost detective, complete with Stetson hat and leather jacket; a dead housewife; a dead sex worker and two dead party girls; all of them rushing along through the streets towards the river.

  "Gordo said," Jimmy pants as he strides along beside me, "the giants was acting crazy, getting all riled up." Pant, pant, pant. "Says they started right before he called."

  "Krys ready to move on them?"

  "Didn't say."

  "How you feel?"

  Jimmy considers for a minute. "Pretty alright, actually, considering."

  But I know that's 'cause we still in the thick of it. Trauma waits for shit to slow down before it really settles in.