Half-Resurrection Blues (Bone Street Rumba, #1)

by Daniel José Older

Sleep is a friendly way of telling my head to shut up.

petty insecurities don’t politic with reason.

“That’s not a plan,” I say. “That’s a let’s-try-this-and-hope-it-works fiasco.”

“Balance. Life and death is all about balance, Carlos. We dead like to think we’re so independent of the living, that we got our own thing going and those flesh-and-bone folks just get in the way. But all of our actions, even the petty stupidities we participate in, have repercussions in both our world and theirs. The universe is an echo chamber, and the echoes have no regard for that boundary between who’s alive and who’s not. We help them out; we mess with their lives; we pretend to ignore them, but they’re a part of us. And they do the same.”

I knew there was trouble brewing, but quite honestly, sometimes trouble can be a good thing. The world needs a little trouble to keep moving forward.

Something moves in the corner of my eye. She’s standing in the doorway to her bedroom, watching me. I have no idea how long she’s been there, but what’s important is she’s still wearing those flowy pants that look like they could be gone with very little effort, and her nipples are still insinuating themselves through that tank top. That’s what’s important to me anyway.

Fuck. This means that when I finally do find Sarco, I can’t just ruthlessly end him for good the way I’d like to. I have to find out a few things first. And this complicates shit. The hunger for knowledge always complicates shit. And I hate complicated shit. Fuck.

“You need to consider the possibility that the dude done died and that’s what it is.” “But I . . .” “I know you don’t like it. But that’s what you looking at right now.” “I said, I wouldn’t believe he was dead till I saw a body.” “And?” “And I saw the body and I still don’t believe he’s dead.”