Half-Resurrection Blues_ A Bone Street Rumba Novel - Daniel Jose Older Page 0,15

Hasid looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. His mouth moves within that wispy beard. He’s speaking, I’m sure, but all I hear is that screeching: a thousand trains trying to brake, all at the same time, all too late.

Then it’s gone.

A moment of awkward silence passes as I catch my breath. “Mr. Delacruz?” I stand, spin, plant my cane hard on the ground, and hold my balance, but only barely. “Mr. Delacruz? Are you okay?”

“No. Yes. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You don’t look . . . too good, you know?”

I never look too good, really, but I guess now I look worse. Something is gnawing at my subconscious, more and more fiercely as my balance returns. The ngk. It’s that feeling, but . . . more so.

There’s one in this building too.

* * *

“The basement.”

Moishe’s still trying to process my near-syncope, so it takes him a second to catch up. “What?”

“Can I see . . . the basement?”

“Um . . . yes. But are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Bullshit, and he knows it, but I seem to be able to walk. The wretchedness has dimmed. I follow him down the stairwell to the first floor. The screech comes back while Moishe’s fumbling with his massive key chain. It’s worse this time, but I’m ready for it. Prickly waves of nausea radiate up and down my body. I plant my cane on the ground and lean hard on it, determined to wait out the anguish. Moishe toils away, oblivious, and then says something, might as well be in Yiddish for all I know, and pops open the basement door.

I’m relieved he doesn’t glance back, because I’m sure I look like even more shit than I did a few minutes ago. Still, I’ve steadied myself and manage to make it down the stairs without collapsing.

I want to find the thing, but my vision’s blurred and I’m having trouble walking a straight line. The basement is what you would expect: a long dank room, all cluttered with dust-covered furniture. Two of the four overheads are busted and the two left are uncovered; sharp shadows clash with sudden fits of brightness. The ngk could be anywhere—all I can do is stumble toward wherever the horrible is more horrible. Hopefully, Moishe won’t decide I’m nuts and haul me out of there first. Also, hopefully, I won’t drop dead in the thick of it.

I make my way through a narrow aisle, squeeze my body between an old file cabinet and some wooden chairs, and then the screeching-nausea-death feeling stops altogether again. Which I suppose is good—my body is certainly grateful—but I don’t know how I’ll find the thing without my rapidly decomposing soul to use as a compass.

“Mr. Delacruz.” It sounds like he’s been saying it for a long time. He’s not pleased. I can almost hear his salesman’s need to be nice clash against his irritation that this particular customer is stumbling around the basement in a deathlike frenzy. “You may need medical attention. And, either way, we should really leave this basement, okay? Come.”

I would like to. I really would. I’ve just about had it with this wild-ngk chase, and I don’t like pushing Mr. Moishe’s kindness further than necessary. But I also have to see this thing. I need to confirm, with my own eyes, that there is in fact a second ngk here. I turn toward Moishe, and I’m about to spit out some bullshit explanation, when something, something that I was absolutely sure was just a piece of furniture, detaches itself from the shadows in front of me. I don’t have time to unsheathe my blade. I barely catch my breath before the thing bursts past me, rushing toward where Moishe stands on the stairwell with his mouth open.

He can see it. The thought flashes through my mind as I watch the Hasid hurl his massive frame over the banister and clutter into the shadows. The thing moves too fast to make it out. It’s just a pale flash of something vaguely humanoid with long black hair, definitely upright but somehow hunched over, and then it’s up the stairs and gone. Moishe yells a barrage of what I have to assume are the vilest of Yiddish curse words. It’s enough to let me know he’s alive and relatively unhurt, so I make for the stairs. Maybe I can at least get a glimpse of the thing. I might’ve made it, too, if the damn ngk’s screeching