Half-Resurrection Blues_ A Bone Street Rumba Novel - Daniel Jose Older Page 0,79
long frantic letters a puff of steam a journey a bike helmet playing cards Sasha an engine a pair of scissors a— It was just a wisp. Circle in, circle in—train tracks domino tables chairs the night sky regret a swallow a crack in the sidewalk a tunnel an old hand, shivering, turns over another card a trash can a wheel a pigeon two pigeons an iron bridge over the tracks a chair—
“Again?”
What?
“Yes?”
I open my eyes. The glimmer of a soulcatcher helmet clouds the night sky. The threads release, a last flickering glimpse of Sasha vanishes amid the avalanche of information, and then there’s nothing.
“Sir?”
I blink. I’m lying on my back.
“Sir, you don’t look well, sir.”
No . . . shit. Information overload. Never cast the net that far before.
“A hand, sir?” The soulcatcher reaches a shimmering glove toward me.
I shake my head.
“We came for orders.”
Orders. We. A few shadows stir in the corner of my eye. Right. Hunched on my elbows now, I take in the squad of soulcatchers. Those battered, horseshoe-crab helmets and long hooded cloaks. Ornate face guards like some elegant skullsmile.
“We brought you coffee, sir.”
Bless them. I gather myself, roll onto my front, then heave up to a crouch, and finally stand. “Black?”
“And no sugar, just like you like it.” The soulcatcher nods to where a blue-and-white to-go cup sits in the grass. Protocol junkies. There’s no one around, no one to see the cup float and then pass to me by an invisible hand. They probably whispered in some poor drunk’s ears till he stumbled into a bodega for it and then distracted him and whisked it away, vanishing it with some Council magic as they made their way through the streets into the park. And then they put it on the ground for me. So the empty park and midnight sky wouldn’t see them pass it.
Protocol junkies.
I pick it up, pop the plastic lid opening, and take a sip. It’s thin bodega trash water, but I let out a satisfied ahh sound anyway. “You’ve done well, fellas.”
“Thank you, sir. Do you have orders for us?”
“Orders?”
“Regarding the apprehension of Sasha Brass.”
“Queens,” I say.
“Sir?”
“Got word she might be in Queens.”
The shrouds flutter uncomfortably. “The borough? Anything more . . . specific?”
“Is Queens too large an area for you to cover with your ’catchers?”
“No, sir.”
I look up at the cloudy sky and sip my coffee. “Then happy hunting. I’m following up with some leads over here.”
For a few seconds, the soulcatchers just waver in the night wind. I turn to look at them, very slowly and with death in my eyes. They turn and slip silently across the field.
I know I’m an asshole for that. They’ll be searching the backstreets of Corona and Rego Park until next Tuesday, but I need them out of the way, and if I just send them home, it’ll raise too many eyebrows.
Once again in silence, I close my eyes and strain, poring over the jumble of meta- and microdata. A wrinkled hand overturned a card onto a velvet cloth. It’s a cloth I’ve seen before, a hand I know.
I open my eyes and then run.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Old Ginny is not a fortune-teller I put much stock in. Nice lady, but as far the future goes, she’s useless. Still, when she looks me dead in the eyes tonight and scowls, “You, sir, are fucked,” I have to lend it a little credence. I’ve never seen her predict with such certainty; usually she’s all waving hands and hmming it up to seem more authentic.
“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Ginny.”
She looks up at me from her little cubbyhole storefront. “I’m just saying.”
“Maybe keep it to yourself next time. I didn’t ask for a damn reading.”
“Sometimes I give freebies.”
“How charitable. You seen a—?” How to describe Sasha and not sound like a twelve-year-old asshole discovering poetry for the first time?
Ginny raises her eyebrows at me.
“A beautiful . . .” I wave my hands around.
“I seen her,” Old Ginny says. “Stopped by a few hours ago.” She flips over another card: Death. “Oh boy.”
“You turn over that card every time I come around, Ginny. I’m not impressed.”
“Well, maybe that should tell you something.”
“The woman. What’d she want?”
“Weed.”
“Excuse me?”
“She asked me if I knew where to get some weed.”
“Did you . . . did you tell her?”
“Sent her to TiVo.”
“The fuck kinda street name is TiVo?”
The old fortune-teller shrugs. “He likes to have his shows recorded while he’s out selling, I guess.”