Half-Resurrection Blues_ A Bone Street Rumba Novel - Daniel Jose Older Page 0,32

Which causes pangs of fear and delight to supercharge through my veins. I sit at her table like that’s just what we always do, and then I put all the good things I think about her into a smile. I don’t smile much, so I try to make them count.

She blushes. “Happy to see me?”

“I am.” And so glad she wasn’t here last night to absorb my drunken truth-telling. “Always.”

She rolls her eyes. “No drinks this time?”

“I’m . . .” Still hungover. “Taking a break.”

“Ooh-la-la.” A mischievous smile.

“But you want one?” I make to get up, and she stops me, putting a chilly, perfect hand on mine.

“No, it’s fine. Stay.”

I sit, and she leaves her hand there for a blissful second before retrieving it. Her eyes are glued to my face though, probably trying to make sure I’m not suddenly repulsed by her coldness. That’s what I’d do anyway. Makes no sense, because obviously I’m cold too, but petty insecurities don’t politic with reason. I know as well as anyone.

Less than twelve hours earlier, I was sitting where she is and blathering back and forth with Amanda. I send up a little prayer of thanks to whoever’s listening that grieving and coolheadedness prevailed.

“You want to go somewhere?” I say. I realize that sounds like a complete come-on, which I hadn’t totally meant it as, so I add: “A walk or something?”

She relaxes a little and nods. “Sounds lovely.”

* * *

I don’t mean to, but we end up veering toward the park anyway. I swear the place has a gravitational pull to the less-than-living. Anyway, it’s a beautiful, fresh night; the air is crisp and perfect like some divine hand was feeling meticulous about putting each piece into place. Sasha’s wearing a black peacoat that adds a pleasing militant element to her otherwise debonair swagger. Sproingy black curls bounce out from under a knit cap and surround her face in an inky ocean of hair. I want to take that face in my hands and put my own face against it and let our connecting faces be the fulcrum that swings our two bodies together and let the winter night guide our combined life forces into an intimate tangle that obliterates all our fears and regrets, but instead I just smile and offer her my arm.

Riley says ladies like it when you go slow right up until this one particular moment in time—Point Zero, he calls it—when everything changes and you gotta switch into hunting mode. The idea being that there’s a diminishing series of digital numbers that speed toward Point Zero and from there they zoom back upward toward the Insertion Moment. “It’s all about the motherfucking timing.” Clearly time is one thing Riley has way too much of. Regardless though, I’m pretty sure Point Zero has not arrived yet for Sasha and me, so we stroll along the avenue, chatting amiably.

“The only thing I remember,” she says without an overabundance of sadness, “is standing next to my brother, surrounded by strange faces. I’m glad he’s there, holding my hand, but I’m nervous about something. I see an oil-covered dead man with a mustache. And then we die.”

“Wait—what?”

“I know. It doesn’t really make sense. But that’s the best way I can describe it. He was frozen and shiny and all black like oil had been dumped over him and crying out into the night, silently. That’s the last thing I saw.”

“You don’t remember how you died?”

She shakes her head. “Must’ve been quick, whatever it was. Or I blotted it out.”

I like how matter-of-fact she is about death. Not devoid of emotion, but not ruled by it either. It’s a comfortable balance that most living people could never understand. “You?”

I shrug. “There’s not much there. I think you have more than I do. I was murdered. That I’m pretty sure about. I’m looking up at three faces, well, not faces: they’re wearing ski masks. I know it’s all over, but it’s been a real fight and I can see they’re winded and one’s bleeding, so at least I didn’t give up easy, I think to myself. Then one of them moves his arm and it’s over.”

“Damn.” She raises her eyebrows and looks up at me with an endearing blend of concern and curiosity.

We walk a while in silence along the edge of the park. Classy old buildings line one side of the street. The block we’re on is shadowed by the darkness of trees and undergrowth stretching toward Flatbush. I can