Half-Resurrection Blues_ A Bone Street Rumba Novel - Daniel Jose Older Page 0,14

This routine used to annoy the shit out of me until Riley and I got smashed and made fun of it for about fourteen hours straight. Since then, Baba Eddie’s cigarette appreciation ritual has only been comedy to me.

Finally, it’s lit, and the first luxurious drag has been released into the chilly afternoon air and the little priest looks up at me and smiles. “What’s troubling you, Carlos?”

“It’s not me. I mean, it’s not what’s troubling me that I’m here for. That’s not . . . It’s another. What I mean is . . .” I pause, but my thoughts still won’t collect into rational sentences. Baba Eddie puts on his patient face and enjoys his cigarette. “I mean nothing’s troubling me.”

“Mentira.”

“True. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m here because Riley, Dro, and I are dealing with an ngk on Mama Esther’s block.”

Baba Eddie’s eyes get big. “You saw it? A true ngk?” His pronunciation is exquisite, like he’s been saying “ngk” all his life. Must be part of the training to achieve Baba-status, which, from what I gather, must be pretty rigorous.

I nod.

“Shit.”

“You know how to deal with ’em, Baba?”

The santero shakes his head, still wide-eyed. “Carlos, this could be disastrous. Is Mama Esther okay?”

“She’s managing. It’s a few doors down from her.”

“But if it spreads . . .”

“I know.”

Neither of us wants to say the next part, so we just let it hang there unspoken. I borrow Eddie’s lighter and spark up my Malagueña. “Any idea what we can do?”

“I . . . I’ll have to check on some things.” I’ve really never seen him this flustered and I hope I never do again. Even when we don’t need spiritual advice, Baba Eddie’s is where we come just to hang. It’s nice to be around folks who get it, and Baba will keep his head on through any kind of fuckery and come out smiling.

“Thanks, Baba,” I say. He nods, and then we stand out in the cold, coveting each thick tug of smoke and not saying anything for a long time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I’m almost six feet tall and Moishe the real estate guy still towers over me. When he smiles, it’s not the please- be-my-friend grin of a man trying to sell me something. Instead his mouth creases outward and opens slightly into a true, from-the-gut smile. When he asks me how I am, I believe he really wants to know. Moishe’s dressed in the standard all-black Hasidic trench coat and hat. He’s only twenty-five and his beard is still a little on the wispy side. He laughs energetically when he shows me pictures of his triplets—I have no idea how it even got to that so quickly, but there it is—and then we get down to business.

“There are many apartments for rent in this area, Mr. Delacruz. We have a wonderful selection, and very affordable.”

“I noticed. It’s more than usual, no?”

Moishe shrugs and drops the edges of his mouth into a pensive frown. “Eh, in some ways.” He’s Brooklyn born and raised, he proudly informed me earlier, and his speech is thick with Yiddish intonations. “But you know, real estate is a complicated type of business, hm? The market is a changing animal, very different from one day to the next, you know? It’s never”—he searches for a longer word and fails—“the same . . . from day to day.”

“Okay.”

“But let’s start with this beautiful two-bedroom on the second floor.” He gestures to a brownstone three doors down from Mama Esther’s. “Very classy. All brand-new renovations. Eat-in kitchen. Well, come. I’ll show you.” He laughs again, I’m not sure at what, and leads me up the stoop steps and into the building.

It’s a little ragtag, but we’re still in a middle zone of gentrification, not quite here nor there, so I’m not surprised. We head up a dingy flight of stairs, all off-color carpets and slow-mo dust tornados, and then walk into a pristine, sun-drenched modern apartment.

“Well, damn,” I say almost involuntarily. The place is nice. It puts my cranky little loft of shadows to shame. Moishe nods and ushers me around, making little clucks and shrugs as he points out various appliances, views, closets. “Why’d the last residents move out?”

“Eh, people, they move.” He hunches those big shoulders and waves his hand back and forth. “These people, they moved.”

“I see.” Useless.

Then that horrible feeling rips through my body like an earthquake and I have to steady myself on Moishe so I don’t collapse. The towering