Half-Resurrection Blues_ A Bone Street Rumba Novel - Daniel Jose Older Page 0,33
almost feel it breathing, beckoning me, but I don’t want to retrace the steps of Trevor’s murder. Who knows what thoughts and emotions would spill out and poison the night air?
“Where do you live?”
Sasha gasps. “My good gentleman! How very forward of you.”
“Well, I meant it . . . What I mean is . . . Hm.” It takes a second to register that she isn’t really offended and then I just shut up.
“Flatbush.”
“May I escort you home?”
“You may escort me to my door and no further.” She eyes me to see how that settles in.
“It would be an honor.” Point Zero is many miles away, but it’s a beautiful night and I enjoy long walks.
* * *
The night ended like this: we stood outside Sasha’s huge prewar apartment building on Ocean Avenue, our faces so close together I could count the hairs in each swirl, and we let the conversation wind itself down. In the comfortable silence that followed, I went in to kiss her. She turned her face so I landed on her cheek instead of her lips and then held very still. For a few moments, we just stood there with my face barely touching the side of hers. Breathing in, breathing out, the winter night wrapping around us, the passing traffic. Breathing in, breathing out, trying to memorize the moment in case it never happened again.
And then she was gone.
An ecstatic stroll home, through the park, the once dark and foreboding park, now all illuminated with the sparkle of late-season snowfields and the glorious palpitations of my motherfucking heart. Drunk on only the moment, I make it home, blissfully stumble out of my clothes, and immerse myself in the warmth of New York’s Puerto Rican poets before pleasuring myself and passing out at sunrise with a smile on my face.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There’s a small ghost at my door.
It can’t be too important, so I fall back asleep.
There’s a small ghost at my door. Still. His irritating little telepathy twitters around my bedroom like a stupid fucking bird that I want to kill. Instead I fall back asleep.
And wake back up, semialert with the knowledge that there is a small ghost at my door.
And that all this has already happened. Once or twice. Ah yes, ten minutes ago. Shit. I stumble out of bed, open up, and then look down where the little guy is hovering just a few inches over the floor, looking up at me.
“Sorry to disturb you.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, I’m really sorry. I tried to be subtle with the telepathy. I didn’t know if you were sleeping or not, so I was really trying to be respectful of that.”
“It’s fine. What time is it?”
“Four fifteen.”
Ugh. “Four fifteen in the what?”
“Afternoon, sir.”
“Christ. What do you want?”
“Unfortunately, I was asked to interfere with your alone time to deliver a message.” The little guy is so deadpan I have no idea if he’s being sarcastic or not, but I don’t really care.
“Yes?”
“The message is from Agent Riley Washington with the New York Council of the Dead.”
“Thank you. What is the message?”
“Agent Washington asked me to deliver the message to Agent Carlos Delacruz at this residence.”
“You want a tip. Is that what this is about?”
“Gratuity is a privilege and not a right, sir. I am simply being thorough with the procedure and assuring that the message is delivered correctly and to the correct recipient.”
“What’s your name?”
“Elton Ellis.”
“Okay, Elton Ellis. Tell me the message. Now.” I say it sweetly, but there’s no doubt that I’m done playing.
“Dro went home.”
I like Riley because he doesn’t waste words. Probably because he knows the messengers will, so he keeps it right to the point. Dro went home.
“What do you think it means?”
I narrow my eyes at the little guy. He’s looking up at me, salivating for some gossip for the ghost world. I shake my head and shut the door.
* * *
Sometimes I’m glad that I don’t have more than that single snapshot of a memory from my life. It’s freeing, in a way. I couldn’t find anything out, so I don’t try. It’s a fool’s mission and I don’t have time for that. Instead I slide into the comfort of perpetual ignorance and go about the business of living. Or half living. Whatever.
Dro is not so fortunate.
He was a family man. Cut down by cancer just like that, in the prime of his life. He’s mostly moved on, he really has, but every once in a while something will trigger him and he’ll