Free Midnight Taxi Tango by Daniel José Older Page B

during slavery, when they had to disguise their combat training as dance. Or their dancing as combat—can’t remember which. I suck at it.”
    â€œShe’ll be aight,” Karina puts in. “She was struck by an angel.”
    Kia swats her. “Shut it.”
    â€œA Brazilian angel.”
    Kia wraps both arms around her friend from behind and covers the girl’s mouth. “Ignore her, C. What did you wanna ask about?”
    They’re so easy with each other and for a second I’m a hundred miles away. Physical contact with the living? I tend to avoid it.
    â€œCarlos?” Kia says.
    â€œYou take care of all these kids, right?” I ask over Karina’s muffled giggles.
    She pulls away from Kia’s hands and straightens herself. “Indeed I do.”
    â€œEvery Saturday?”
    â€œUnless the Ministry of Whiteness decides to give me a night off.”
    I squint at her. “The Min . . .”
    â€œNever mind, C,” Kia says. “She here every Saturday, yes.”
    â€œYou saw the old guy get hit by that wheelbarrow from the construction site last weekend?”
    Karina shakes her head and inserts a stick of gum in her mouth. “Uh-uh.” She offers me a piece. I decline. Kia grabs one and starts chewing loudly. “I heard about it though. And the lady that ran into a city bus the next day. She lived though, I heard. But yeah. Whole lotta disaster up in these streets, man.”
    â€œYou seen anything weird, like, around the park?”
    â€œBesides white people jogging through Bed-Stuy after dark?” Kia says. They both fall out laughing for a minute and then collect themselves. “Nothing really. Same ol’ usuals. Ol’ Drasco and his cat parade. The cops making rounds. That’s it.”
    â€œWhat about the kids?”
    â€œYou wanna ask ’em?” Karina stands and makes a pretendmegaphone with her hands. “WHAT WE GON’ DO WHEN DI REVOLUTION COME?”
    An eerie choir of high-pitched voices rises in the night around me. “Burn dem houses and kill dem sons.”
    I boggle at Karina. “What the hell is that?”
    Little white kids pour off the slide and swing sets. They repeat the line in unison as they make their way toward us.
    Karina shrugs. “Song my grandma usedta sing. It gets their attention.”
    â€œI don’t think . . .”
    â€œWHAT WE GONNA DO WHEN DI CITY BURN?” Karina yells.
    The kids bustle in around us. “Light dem mothafuckas in dey turn,” they chant.
    â€œKarina . . . Do their parents know you have them—”
    â€œShit, I hope not. I’d probably get fired. I get nothing but tips and thank-yous, so I’m guessing nah. I swore them all to secrecy. Right, soldiers?”
    â€œAshé!” comes the yelled response.
    â€œAshé though?” Kia says. “You confusing these children, Karina.”
    â€œHell, I’m a Jamaican in cold-ass New York City. I grew up confused—why shouldn’t they? What’d you wanna ask ’em, Carlos?”
    Pale expectant faces stare up at me. They all have big cheeks and wide eyes. “Anybody . . . notice anything . . . strange?” I ask them. I don’t really know how to talk to kids. Not living ones anyway.
    They just keep staring at me.
    Karina furrows her brow and stamps one foot. “Ay, soldiers. Tell Mr. Carlos the truth.”
    A pudgy hand goes up.
    Karina points at the kid. “Musafa.”
    â€œYou gave them African names too?” I ask.
    â€œNaw. Their parents did that. You know how some’a them white parents be.”
    All I can do is shake my head.
    â€œJimmy has fingerprints.”
    â€œShut up!” another little boy yells. His blue eyes well with tears.
    â€œIt’s true!” Musafa insists.
    â€œJimmy,” Karina commands. “Come here, love.” The little guy waddles through the