The Million Dollar Demise

by RM Johnson

  Freddy laughed. “And ya’ll did it?”

  “Yup. It took them a year to settle out of court, but we split two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It’s almost gone, but I been living off that for three years now.”

  “Girl.” Freddy shook his head. “You don’t change.”

  “Gotta live, but that don’t mean you gotta work.”

  Freddy took a sip from his orange juice. Joni did the same, eyeing Freddy from over the rim of the glass.

  After a moment, Joni cautiously said, “What did you do in Chicago?”

  “It’s best you don’t know that.”

  “Okay. Fine. What happened to Kia, the girl you left me for?”

  “It’s best you don’t—”

  “Un-uh,” Joni said, waving a finger. “You in my house, I’m serving you eggs and shit, I think I need to know at least that much.”

  Freddy looked down at his food.

  “She thought she was too good for me. She left.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s cool.”

  Joni picked at her food some more.

  “Why you bring that little boy? He yours? You know how much I wanted a baby with you. You throwing that child in my face, trying to make me feel bad?”

  “He ain’t mine.”

  “Oh.”

  Joni balled up her napkin, set it on the food that she hadn’t been eating. She reached for Freddy’s plate. “You through eating?”

  “Yeah,” Freddy said, stopping her hand with his own. “Leave it. I ain’t done talking.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “I heard your phone conversation.”

  Joni snatched her hand back. “So what?”

  “That fool on the other end of the phone got anything to do with why your face looking like that?”

  Joni turned her black eye away from Freddy. “Don’t worry about that. It’s under control.”

  “Is it?” Freddy said, grabbing Joni, this time by the forearm.

  “Yeah,” Joni said, trying to pull away.

  “No. Is it?” Freddy said, squeezing her a little to emphasize the question.

  Joni stared into Freddy’s eyes for a long moment, as if she wanted to confess something, but was afraid. “Yeah.”

  Freddy let Joni go. “Make sure. I know I don’t live here, and I ain’t your man no more, but I ain’t gonna sit here like no punk and see you done wrong. Make sure whoever he is know that.”

  18

  The next morning, Lewis leaned over in his chair, staring at the entrance to the courtroom. He had been watching it for the last fifteen minutes straight. This was his follow-up court appearance from yesterday, and he knew that Nate and Monica would not walk through that door, but Lewis still stared unblinkingly, hoping and praying they would.

  Monica’s attorney was seated. He anxiously glanced down at his watch for what seemed the twentieth time, then looked over his shoulder at the door. Lewis’s attorney sat beside him, a suppressed smile on his face. Above and in front of them, the judge looked irritated, as if counting the seconds off in his head till he would let the attorneys know that he was tired of waiting.

  This moment was torture for Lewis, but not nearly as bad as last night had been. Yesterday after Freddy had called him, told him that he had shot both Nate and Monica, Lewis stumbled backward, almost fell from shock.

  If any other man had told him that, he would’ve had to ask him if he was serious. But he knew Freddy. He had been standing just outside Freddy’s father’s bedroom the afternoon Freddy stepped out of it, blood covering his face, hands, arms, and T-shirt. He held the baseball bat, shiny with blood, that he had used to kill the man in his sleep. If Freddy said he had shot Monica and Nate, Lewis knew that he had.

  After Freddy’s admission, he hung up. But Lewis dialed him right back, because he didn’t just have questions about Monica and Nate. His little girl had been there, too. What the fuck had Freddy done with Layla?

  Lewis got Freddy’s voice mail. Angrily, he slammed the phone into the cradle, rang him again. Voice mail. With no other options, Lewis left a message.

  “Freddy, call me back. Where the fuck is my little girl? You need to be calling me!”

  Enraged, Lewis was escorted back to his cell. He threw himself onto his bunk as the cell door slid closed in front of him. The guard, a black man the same age as Lewis, stared at him through the bars for a moment, as though he thought Lewis had something to tell him.

  There was something, Lewis thought. He had just found out that his onetime best friend had possibly murdered the woman Lewis loved, and her ex-husband. Lewis should’ve been up off that bunk, at those bars, demanding that the guard do something. Call the police. Tell them to go to Nate’s house. Lewis knew where the bodies were. He could give them directions. But Lewis did nothing, just sat there staring up at the guard, hating himself for not doing more.

  Freddy said he shot Monica and Nate, but that didn’t mean they were dead, Lewis hoped. And Layla could’ve been up in her room asleep. Maybe she slept through the entire ordeal. And Monica and Nate could’ve been alive, could’ve been sprawled out on that living room floor, bleeding but still breathing, hanging on to dear life with the hopes that someone might find them.

  The guard walked away, and Lewis pulled his feet into the bunk, rolled on his side, brought his knees toward his chest. For the entire night he could not sleep—could not get rid of the image of Monica covered in blood, bullet holes riddling her body.

  During the night, Lewis prayed that the gunshots had been heard. That neighbors had called the police. Then he kept telling himself that’s what had to have happened. An ambulance came, Monica and Nate were rescued, taken to a hospital, and were being worked on at that moment as Lewis suffered. And his daughter was found upstairs sleeping. And now she was being held somewhere safe and sound.

  He had to believe that. That was the only way withholding this information would make sense. If Lewis had told that guard what he had known, that Freddy had shot Monica and Nate, the next day for Lewis’s court appearance Monica’s attorney would’ve said that Lewis had put Freddy up to it. They might try to charge Lewis with that crime. There was no telling how long his sentence would be then.

  Lewis needed to be out. That would allow him to go to Monica—that is, if she was still alive. He could be with her, help nurse her back to health. But his freedom would also allow him to track down Freddy. Lewis knew no one would have a better chance of finding Freddy than he would. His being locked up in jail would only make things worse for everyone involved.

  So for the entire night Lewis sweated and rolled on that bunk mattress till the lights came on this morning. A different guard appeared at Lewis’s cell door and told him it was time for him to be taken across the street for his court appearance.

  Now Lewis looked up as he heard the judge clear his throat, and watched him shift around in his chair.

  “Mr. Kennedy,” the judge said. “Are your clients going to make an appearance today or not?”

  Mr. Kennedy stood, looked over his shoulder one more time. “They’re going to come, Your Honor.”

  Lewis’s heart skipped. Had Mr. Kennedy spoken to them?

  It was the exact question the judge now asked of Mr. Kennedy.

  “No, not exactly, Your Honor. But I left several messages on both their voice mails, and—”

  “So you have not spoken with either them, seen them face-to-face, possibly gone by their house to ask them why they did not show yesterday and ensure they come today?”

  Mr. Kennedy lowered his eyes a moment, then looked back at the judge and said apologetically, “Judge, I’ve been very busy. They are not my only clients. I—”

  “Understood, Mr. Kennedy,” the judge said, raising his gavel, pounding it once. “As of today, Mr. Lewis Waters will be released from custody, due to failure of …”

  The judge went on, but Lewis could not hear him for the noise his attorney, Larry Charles, was making beside him, gr
abbing Lewis’s hand, pumping it excitedly, saying something about how they had done it.

  “We won, man. You’re free!”

  19

  Daphanie sat in her car in the downtown parking garage off Wacker Drive. The bank Trevor managed was around the corner and down the block. Daphanie had called him from work and told him she had to see him during her lunch hour.

  “What do you mean, you have to see me? I haven’t spoken to you in a month. You don’t return any of my phone calls, texts, or e-mails. What’s going on?”

  “Just what I said, Trevor,” Daphanie said, impatient. “Can I come by there at lunch or not?”

  “Yeah. Come by.”

  Daphanie sat staring at her cell phone call list. Nate’s number was highlighted, her thumb hovering over the Call button.

  She could place the call—tell him that she just wanted to see how he was doing. Yeah, she would hope that he would tell her that he decided he no longer wanted to reunite with his ex-wife after all. That he had kicked her to the curb and wanted Daphanie back. But if that had been the case, wouldn’t Nate already have called and told her that?

  She could call him and let him know that, if things did go sour between the two of them, he could always call Daphanie and she would come back to him. But then again, how would that look, her stepping back into Nate’s life while carrying another man’s child?

  No. There was no going back, Daphanie thought, stuffing the phone back in her purse. She threw her car door open, stepped out, and slammed the door shut.

  She would not call him and beg him to take her back, Daphanie told herself. She would simply have to forget about him. Stepping through Trevor’s office door, Daphanie noticed how nice he looked in his suit and tie.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the chair. He walked back around his desk, took a seat, folded his hands in front of him, smiled, and said, “I almost forgot how beautiful you are. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Trevor. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Better now.”

  “How about the wife? How is she?” Daphanie asked, regretting the question the moment it left her lips.

  Trevor didn’t answer. “What is it you want, Daphanie?”

  Without ceremony, Daphanie said, “The last time we had sex, you know, a month ago … You’re going to be a father.”

  A wide smile appeared on Trevor’s face. He shot up from his chair, ran from behind his desk to Daphanie, and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Oh-ho!” he said, staring her in the face. “You’re pregnant?”

  “Yeah,” Daphanie said, her face emotionless, even though she was somewhat pleased at how excited Trevor was. She just wished that he was Nate instead.

  “Congratulations. Wow!” Trevor said, releasing her, quickly pacing the floor. “I wish I had a cigar or something, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  Trevor leaned against the front of his desk, slightly winded. He was still elated. “So, what do we do next?”

  “I’m glad you asked. I wanted to tell you about the baby, because it is only right. But why don’t we just end things right now? I appreciate your contribution, but I can take it from here. We never need to speak again, and you can trust that this child will be cared for.”

  “What?” Trevor said. “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I fucking mean no. That’s my child, too. You can’t decide to cut me out of its life.”

  “You have a wife, Trevor. You’re married. If the fucking wedding ring on your finger isn’t enough to remind you, maybe the wife in your bed every night will do the trick,” Daphanie spat, standing from her chair.

  “I’ll work around that.”

  “Huh.” Daphanie chuckled cynically, walking toward the door. “There is no working around it. This child won’t be your dirty little secret. You’re not sneaking around to see it whenever you can steal an hour. My child won’t be used by you like that.”

  “It’s my child, too.”

  “Right now I don’t really care about that,” Daphanie said, opening the door. “Why don’t you tell your wife the same thing and see what she thinks?”

  20

  Lewis stood outside the glass door of AERO, the men’s clothing store that Monica owned and operated. He had been released from jail this morning and given back the clothes he had walked in with, as well as the few belongings he had.

  Standing outside the jail’s gate, Lewis had counted the money in his wallet. Forty-two dollars. He stared down at his cell phone. He pressed the On button, but nothing happened. Of course, the battery had died long ago. Lewis couldn’t be concerned about that now. He needed to find his daughter, find out what happened to Monica. He thought of going back to her house, where he and Monica used to live. But what good would that do him?

  She would probably be living at Nate’s house by now, Lewis had thought, and immediately started walking quickly toward the street, looking for a bus stop. He slowed some when he realized that someone had to have found their bodies by now. It had been enough time since Freddy had shot them.

  Lewis could only think of one place to go, and he hoped when he got there Tabatha would be able to give him the information he so desperately needed.

  Lewis pushed his way into the store, looking around. Half a dozen customers milled about, some looking at suits, some at shoes and shirts. He walked slowly through the store as though he were being watched. When he turned to see who was behind the elevated counter, he saw Roland, Monica’s floor manager. Roland was a thin, feminine-looking man. He wore a lavender V-neck sweater. He stared at Lewis wide-eyed, almost fearfully.

  Lewis walked over to him. “Is Tabatha here, Roland?”

  Roland froze, looking even more startled. He glanced left and right as if for assistance. When no one came to his rescue, he reached for the phone.

  Lewis grabbed Roland’s hand before he could lift the receiver. “Roland, I asked you a question. Is Tabatha here?”

  “I … I …” Roland stuttered.

  Lewis was beginning to lose his patience when he noticed Roland’s eyes focus on something behind him. Lewis spun and saw Tabatha, who was tall and thin, standing in the hallway that led from the back office. She appeared as shocked as Roland when she saw him.

  “Tabatha,” Lewis said, taking steps toward her.

  “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be—”

  “They let me out,” Lewis said, urgently taking Tabatha by the arm. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Miss Tabatha,” Roland called from behind the counter, fright on his face. The phone was to his ear, his finger poised to dial 911. “Should I call the police?”

  “No,” Lewis said.

  Tabatha didn’t respond.

  “Tabatha, tell him no,” Lewis said. “If you think I had anything to do with what happened to Monica, you’re wrong. I love her. You know that.”

  She turned to look Lewis in the eyes, trying to determine if he was sincere. Tabatha said, “No, Roland, don’t call.”

  In her office, Tabatha closed the door, turned to Lewis. Only now did he notice how exhausted she looked. “So how do I know you had nothing to do with Monica and Nate getting shot?” Tabatha asked.

  “So it’s true,” Lewis said, feeling what little hope he had left seep out of him.

  “Yes, Lewis. They could’ve died.”

  “So they’re not dead?” Lewis stepped closer to Tabatha.

  “No. I’ve been to see them.”

  “And how is she?” Lewis asked, afraid to know the answer.

  “She’s in a coma, Lewis.”

  Lewis couldn’t speak for a moment, could barely breath.

  “When will she wake up?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You should be,” Tabatha said, spite in her voice.

  “Do you know what happened to my daughter? Is she okay?”

  “Layla’s fine. She
was upstairs asleep when it happened. She’s at Tim’s house now. She’s fine.”

  “And Monica? Where is she? I need to see her.”

  Tabatha didn’t answer.

  “Don’t keep this from me,” Lewis begged. “Not a month ago, me and Monica were supposed to be married. She was gonna adopt Layla. You can’t keep this from me.”

  “That was a month ago. You aren’t about to marry her anymore. She’s going to marry Nate, and something tells me you had something to do with them getting shot. Tell me you didn’t, Lewis.”

  Lewis lowered his head, looked back up at Tabatha.

  “It’s complicated, but you know I’d never hurt her like that. I just wanna be there for her, make sure she’s all right.”

  Tabatha walked away from Lewis, then turned and looked back at him sadly. “If she had never met you, you wouldn’t have to make sure she’s all right. But whether or not she still does, I know she loved you once and would probably want you to know where she is, so I’ll tell you.”

  21

  With the aid of a walker, Nate stood beside Monica’s bed. On the other side of the bed stood Dr. Brooks. He was a short, cleanshaven man with a head full of unruly graying hair. He was considered a coma specialist by all the doctors in the hospital. Dr. Brooks looked up from Monica’s chart.

  “It seems to me they’re doing all that can be done, Mr. Kenny. I have every reason to believe that she should wake from this.”

  “When?” Nate said, his arms trembling to hold his own body weight.

  “I’m sure her doctor told you we can’t predict—”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m asking you. You’re supposed to be the specialist, isn’t that true?” Nate said.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Money is not an issue. I can pay whatever it will take to wake her.”

  “Mr. Kenny …” Dr. Brooks chuckled.

  “Is there something funny?” Nate said, taking offense at what he considered to be Dr. Brooks’s lack of concern.