Darius Jones

by Mary B. Morrison

  Then I heard, “I told you I had great news. But we have to keep her here a little longer. She should be home in a week or so. Therapy could take weeks or months before she’s back to normal but I expect your wife to make a full recovery. I want you to come see your wife this afternoon.”

  Weeks? Months? “Thanks, Doc.” I held the phone to my ear a minute after the call ended. “Yes!” I thrust my fist in the air, jumped up and down in one spot, and said, “A full recovery. Thank You. Thank You.”

  I glanced at the letter, ripped the seal. “What the fuck?” Felt like the wind was knocked out of me. My joy faded to anger. A court hearing? In D.C.? For full custody of DJ? Was Ashlee for real? What’s next?

  The doorbell interrupted my decision to call Ashlee. I didn’t recognize the curvaceous woman standing outside. She appeared harmless. Didn’t have any Awake! magazines in her hands or another person behind her.

  I greeted her, “What’s up?”

  “Hi, Darius. I know you don’t know me,” she said. “I’m Sapphire Bleu, a retired private investigator and a personal friend of Honey Thomas. I just want to ask you a few questions about your mother and the kidnapping of Honey and Grant Hill’s twin boys.”

  I glanced over her head, scanned my driveway. “So Grant married Honey?”

  “No, no. Sorry for the confusion.”

  I had my own issues with the media showing up at my door questioning me about my wife. I didn’t need my name or my mother’s name attached to no kidnapping. “Lady, you crazy. I can guarantee you my mother had nothing to do with that kidnapping. From what I hear, that chick Honey has crossed a lot of people. Never know who was waiting for revenge.”

  Had to take my words into consideration. What if Ciara, Maxine, and Ashlee were all waiting for the perfect opportunity to bring me down? What would I do?

  “I wouldn’t be so sure your mother isn’t involved on some level.”

  “Well, I’m sure the department wouldn’t appreciate your knocking on my door being that you’re retired.”

  My mom’s drama was involving me? How did this woman get my address?

  “You can report whatever you’d like to the department. They’re not going to side with you. I disclosed that information to let you know that I am helping and will continue to help Honey find her babies.”

  So she unofficially showed up at my house? Why not my mother’s house? “What are your questions,” I asked, still standing in the doorway. She was not coming inside.

  “Was your mother with you yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Did you speak with your mother yesterday?”

  Had to think about that for a sec. “Can’t remember. The days are rolling together.”

  “Can’t remember or won’t say?” she asked. “Your mother will be arrested when the truth comes out. You don’t need the bad press. If you cooperate, you can help save your mother. I reassure you she’s wanted for kidnapping.”

  Now, either this woman thought I was really dumb or super clever. Didn’t matter. “I don’t know where you’re going with all of this but obviously you don’t have any evidence or you’d be at my mother’s house, not mine. You want me to help you? Find the owner of that white pickup truck that rammed the back of my SUV three times.” I needed solutions to my own damn problems.

  Sapphire said, “Consider it done. But when I come back with your information, I want you to tell me everything you know about your mom’s involvement with the kidnapping.”

  I watched her walk away, get in a car, then drive off my property. Her response fucked me up for a second. Would she really find the person responsible or was she baiting me?

  I closed the door, picked up my phone, and called my crazy ass baby’s mama.

  CHAPTER 39

  Bambi

  I was in the City that Care Forgot strolling down Bourbon Street after dark.

  The sidewalk was grimy beneath my black and blue Nikes. Moisture and grit crunched underneath my soles. I loved the glove-tight fit of my Lunarglide+ running shoes and how they molded to my feet. The traction would keep me from slipping on the slimy sidewalks that were filthier than the streets. The light weight would excel my sprints if I had to make a mad dash. I had grip to maintain my balance if I had to escape the unknown.

  On television I’d seen the sea of natives and tourists covering every inch of Bourbon Street after the Saints won the NFC Championship. People huddled together like the team, interlocking their arms in an attempt not to be separated from family and friends. Some appeared successful. I was glad tonight wasn’t one of those nights. The crowd, like my shoes, was lightweight.

  I opened my purse, retrieved my cell phone, then answered the “unknown” call. “Hello.”

  “I see you made it.” I recognized the two-headed lady’s voice. “Take your time. Turn left on Bienville. I’ll call you back.” She ended the call.

  This was some eerie shit. Thought she was lying about knowing when I’d made it to the French Quarter. She must be Jamaican or from the Bahamas. Every time I went to the Caribbean, the natives could find me any time of the day or night.

  I looked up at the balconies above my head, saw a few normal-looking intoxicated people. Was that two-headed lady’s lookout standing up there dressed in a black feather mask wearing a black gown? Or was she the woman on the other balcony with no shoes and a miniskirt barely covering her ass?

  I took my time strolling along Bourbon. The sound of blues blared in my right ear, jazz in my left. From one block to the next there were small clusters of people partying. Some staggered from Iberville toward Bienville. Three young male tap dancers performed on the sidewalk soliciting tips. If I didn’t have to open my purse, I would’ve gladly given them five dollars.

  “Hey, Red. What cha know dat dere?” a man shouted.

  I looked behind my back, to my left, to my right, then back at him.

  Dragging his words, he said, “Don’t be lookin’ round, Red. I’m talkin’ to you.”

  I slid my engagement ring all the way up my finger, unsnapped the side pocket of my Louis Vuitton Petit Noe drawstring purse, put my cell phone stun gun in my hand hoping I wouldn’t have to jolt him with 950,000 volts.

  “Don’t be cheeky like dat, Red,” he said, walking toward me. “Oh, you gon’ give me your number? That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” As he got closer I saw a mouth full of gold teeth.

  Bypassing him, I kept walking. He followed me. I took a left on Bienville, walked a half block. He was on my heels. I stopped. Warned him. “Stop following me. Leave me alone.”

  “Just give me your numba and…aw, damn, Red,” he said, falling to the ground.

  I leaned over, gave him another 950,000 volts to let him know I was serious, then walked away. I opened my bag, pulled out my real cell phone again to answer the call. It was the two-headed lady. Damn, she was serious about knowing I was here.

  “Meet me at the cemetery outside the French Quarter at midnight,” she said, then howled like a wolf. “Not the one-square block graveyard on Conti and Treme near the Municipal Auditorium. That’s the St. Louis Cemetery number one. Meet me at the St. Louis Cemetery number two. You can’t miss it. It’s three blocks long and one block wide. It is where the overpass meets the underpass but do not pass either.”

  “Three blocks? How will I know if I’m in the right block?” More and more, casting this love spell on Darius seemed like a bad idea. What if it backfired?

  “Go to the open tomb. It is raised exactly three feet from the ground. It is surrounded with cement. Look inside. You will see a dark hole. Climb into the hole. I will be there waiting for you exactly at midnight. Don’t go to the wrong location,” she warned. “And whatever you do, don’t get inside the wrong tomb. There are demons and angels who refuse to cross over to the other side, lurking in every cemetery. Mortals have disappeared in this cemetery never to be seen again. I’m sure you’ve heard about the girl who was on her way to her prom and detoured through that very same ceme
tery.”

  I wasn’t about to ask what happened to that chick.

  “Demons are like drug lords. They rule their territory. If you cross into their territory, they will bury you alive. Do not be one second late.” Her voice trailed off into another howl.

  “Hello. Hello.” No answer. It was almost midnight. Bravely, cowardly, or stupidly, I continued my journey. Bienville Street grew darker. With the exception of the drunks passed out on the sidewalk, there weren’t many people in view. I didn’t hear any jazz or blues.

  Couldn’t see behind the wooden gates to my left. I’d heard there were beautiful courtyards with water fountains and gardens, and condos and houses behind the French Quarter gates I’d passed but I couldn’t confirm.

  The Quarter was a unique kind of place where pagans enthusiastically came to sin. Those who considered themselves Christians, once in the belly of the French Quarter, bartered their religion for good times. Maybe the French Quarter slave trade stirred the energy of sinners. God only knew how many slaves died here, I thought as I quickened my pace.

  All in the name of love, I was doing this for Darius’s uncontrollable attraction to me. I saw a shadow as I approached the corner of Burgundy. I put my lipstick pepper spray in one hand, had my stun gun in the other. When I got to the corner, the shadow disappeared. If I hurried, I’d be on time to meet the two-headed lady by midnight. A little relief came as I reached Rampart. It was a well-lighted main street. My cell phone dinged twice indicating I had a text message.

  “Please don’t let this be Rita.”

  It was a detailed text from the two-headed lady reiterating the instructions on where to meet her. Technology was in her hands too. I kept going. Once I crossed Elk Place I could barely see my hand in front my face.

  Bienville came to an end and there was only one way out.

  CHAPTER 40

  Darius

  It was nine o’clock at night.

  I’d sat next to my wife for six straight hours holding her hand off and on. God had answered my prayers. He’d given me a chance to remarry my wife. After my next commitment at the altar before God, I was never going to let another woman suck my dick.

  I whispered to my wife, “Ladycat?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would die for you.” I meant that. Her accident was my fault. We should’ve eaten our food at the restaurant. I shouldn’t have let the conversation with my mom interrupt our dinner that evening at BOA’s. Or I could’ve reproposed to my wife at home, had our chef prepare an intimate dinner for us on my lawn under the moonlight. Or we could’ve gone out on our yacht for a sunset cruise. Or I could’ve driven that day.

  She shook her head. “No. Don’t say that.”

  She couldn’t speak too many words at once but I was serious and had to let her know. “I love you so much. I want you to plan the biggest wedding in America’s history.”

  “My ring,” she whispered. “I want my ring.”

  I had taken the teal bag with all of my wife’s belongings home. I was concerned with her health. I hadn’t checked for the rings but was sure they were in the bag. “Your rings are at home.”

  She smiled softly. “I can’t wait to put them back on. I feel naked without…” Her words trailed off.

  The time had come to let my wife know. “Now that you’re doing better, I’m going to head out in the morning and catch the game in Cleveland, then I’ll be back when they discharge you.”

  Her eyes drooped. I could tell she didn’t want me to go as she said, “I understand.”

  Damn, Darius, you forgot again. Ashlee cursing me for not telling her DJ was in an accident reminded me I hadn’t called Fancy’s mother Caroline. I didn’t think my mother had contacted Caroline either. Caroline had to have seen the news or heard from her friends but I hadn’t heard from her. Lord, please don’t let anything have happened to my wife’s mom. I’d die for sure.

  I pulled out my iPhone. “Baby, forgive me. I need to call Caroline.”

  Fancy smiled. “Put that thing away. My mom called the hospital. She’ll be here in the morning. Where’s Jada?” Ladycat asked.

  I shook my head, tucked my phone in its holder. In addition to being banned from the hospital, my mom had too much madness in her life. I didn’t tell my wife about the custody hearing but that was the real reason I had to go. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed with her.

  “And how’s DJ?”

  “Get some rest. I love you, Ladycat.” I kissed my wife.

  Her hair was slightly tangled from moving about on the cotton pillowcase. She was beautiful with no makeup. The bandage was gone. The oxygen machine, gone. The IV was still taped to her arm.

  She whispered, “Love you too. Kiss DJ for me. Can’t wait to see him.”

  It was hard walking out of the room but I had to stretch my legs. I left Cedars. Had to have a drink. Didn’t want to drink alone. En route to my house, I decided to see what was up at the Playhouse on Hollywood Boulevard. That was my kind of upscale place. Never know, might run into Kobe or B. Shaw. Damn, I wasn’t even sure who they were playing tomorrow night. I’d better not have too many drinks. I sure knew who I was facing off with tomorrow if I decided to go to Cleveland. The one player trying to snatch my MVP. I was torn. Wanted to say, “Fuck Ashlee,” not worry about the custody hearing in D.C. and go to Cleveland. Ashlee might be playing games. There might not be a hearing at all. I’d call the courthouse in the morning.

  I stepped in the spot. The music was thumpin’. An exotic dancer was suspended above the dance floor wrapping and winding her scantily dressed body with pink ribbons. She spread her legs east and west. When I tilted my head backward, her pussy was damn near in my mouth. Would’ve stuck out my tongue for fun but I’d never tasted another woman’s pussy since I’d married Fancy.

  Two females danced inside the oval-shaped cage elevated above the bar. I wasn’t going to be here long, didn’t bother jogging upstairs to see what was jumping off in VIP. Chick dipped another full split on me.

  Shake that shit off, man. Too late.

  Slugger protested. There was an uprising in my slacks. Damn. Didn’t help that bangin’ bodies with bodacious booties were jam-packed wall to wall. “Welcome to Hollywood. Where fantasies become reality.” I knew all too well about these buxom beauties.

  A shortie with breast implants that would shame Wendy Williams, a waist the size of Kim Kardashian’s, and butt that would make the women in Brazil say, “Damn!” thrust her tits into my dick, then greeted my dick.

  “Hi, Darius. What are you doing here all alone? Aren’t you supposed to be in Cleveland? Oh, what do you feed this thing?” she asked, brushing her breasts back and forth over my rock hard shaft.

  I had to break a smile when she finally looked up at me. Found space in the crowd to step back. Turned away. Made my way to the bar. Almost forgot how bold these LA women were. “I’ll have a double Herradura Suprema.”

  “Ah, yes.” The bartender kissed his fingertips. “The best.”

  “Make that two doubles, on me,” Shortie said.

  I handed the bartender my credit card. She knew I’d pay for the drinks. I doubted she knew the cost for the two doubles was $200.00. Looking at her titties bouncing to the music, she was the perfect height for a standing ovation.

  I signed the tab, included a forty-dollar tip, tapped my glass to hers, then said, “Enjoy.” I turned away, decided to check out the VIP section. Security let me in right away.

  “Hey, Darius. Shouldn’t you be in Cleveland? Can I get an autograph?” He was a big dude up top with stunt legs.

  Didn’t anybody in LA watch the news? Didn’t they know my wife was in an accident? Or did they not care? “No problem,” I said, heading for the seat in the corner. Giving him an autograph led to signing ten more before I could chill away from the VIP crowd.

  I sniffed my tequila. Inhaled the agave, dry wood, vanilla, cinnamon, rose petal aroma. “Ahh.” Amazing how the scents didn’t overlap. I closed my eyes, swirled the vanilla,
citrus, rose petal, rich amber, sweet cocoa in my mouth, then swallowed. “Um, um, um. This is the best.”

  “I’m the best too. Mind if I join you?”

  Damn, who was that? I opened my eyes and saw the most amazing set of brown sugar legs standing before me. I mean she was so tall I could clearly see her waxed pussy and protruding clit. I wanted to finger fuck her and see if her juices smelled better than my drink. I hate to rush a great drink.

  I downed my Suprema, placed my glass on the table, and got the fuck up outta the Playhouse.

  CHAPTER 41

  Bambi

  I had to go left onto Saratoga.

  I took the first right on Iberville. My steps converted into a light jog. It was 11:51 P.M. I’d made it to what she called the underpass. Interstate 10 was above my head. Below the freeway were parked cars. I’d heard the Indians gathered here during Mardi Gras for their own festive historical celebration. I heard voices resonating from across the street, sounded like men having conversations, but I couldn’t see faces.

  I mumbled as I reread my text message. The northeast corner of cemetery block number two. Walk three raised graves to the west, face southeast, then look down into the grave that is three feet high. I’ll be waiting.

  What kind of madness was this? I paced back and forth in darkness using my cell phone for light. I wasn’t sure if I’d found the right open grave. Process of elimination, I waited beside the grave that appeared three feet high but I wasn’t about to get in unless I was positive this was the right grave.

  A woman’s voice said, “Bambi, get in. I don’t have all night.”

  My legs trembled as I sat on the edge. I swung my legs over, put my feet in, kept my purse strapped to my shoulder. The tomb reminded me of the California mud baths except there was no mud and I was not here to get pampered. I felt dry dirt beneath my soles. That was good. I prayed I wasn’t going to sink below the earth. Facing her, I squatted inside the open grave. My ass touched the ground, my back leaned against the cement wall.