Sweeter Than Honey

by Mary B. Morrison

  A raspy voice resonated in my right ear, “You have beautiful green eyes.”

  “Huh? What?” I said, looking at the woman’s hardened nipples showing through her thin blue dress. I’d had my share of threesomes, foursomes, and thensomes with both men and women and could tell from the way her plump red lips suctioned her middle finger before flicking her tongue on the tip of her nail that she knew how to please more than a dick. Her long, lean legs were now crossed. Toenails and fingernails nicely manicured. She tucked her long black artificial hair behind her ear. Nice wig but it didn’t match the natural brown strands of her eyebrows that the black liner pencil had missed.

  “I complimented you on your eyes. They’re beautiful. Like you.”

  Damn, her deep voice was sexy. If I hired her to book appointments, every man in the bar would immediately drop off his date at the hotel and head straight to IP. If I had sex with her, we’d come until the sun set.

  “Thanks,” I said, turning away and sipping the warm brown liquor from the clear snifter.

  What were Benito and Valentino up to? Whatever ship was getting ready to sink wasn’t going down with me on it, because I traveled with my life preserver at all times.

  My phone rang. On the caller ID the number showed private. I always ignored private calls, but it might’ve been Sunny so I answered, “Yes?”

  “Don’t yes me. This is your mother.”

  The heartbeat thumping in my throat practically knocked me off my stool. Composing myself, I casually replied, “You’ve got the wrong number.”

  Rita did have the wrong number. Giving birth didn’t make a woman a mother. I hadn’t been her daughter since conception. For a second, I thought about Jean, my father, wondering what he looked liked. Where he lived.

  “You know I wouldn’t call you if I didn’t have to. I don’t need a damn thing from you. Honey needs you. She’s dying from cancer. I want you to take your ungrateful ass straight to the airport and get on the first plane into Flagstaff. Do you hear me?”

  Once a bitch, always a bitch. I wanted to hang up in Rita’s face. But I couldn’t. “How’d you get my number?”

  “You still askin’ dumb questions. I always know where you are.”

  Well, Rita’s response clarified quite a few unanswered questions I had. My mother didn’t look for me because she didn’t want me.

  Shifting my focus to my sister, I asked, “How sick is she?”

  “I just said she’s dying. What are you, deaf or something? We’ll see you at eleven sharp at Flagstaff Med. There’s a six fifty-five morning flight from LAS to FLG that stops in Phoenix and arrives at Flagstaff at ten forty. Oh, and come prepared to stay a few days. The doctor said we might need some of your bone marrow or something. Honey is calling me, I gotta go,” Rita said, hanging up the phone.

  God, I hate her. But I love my sister. Always have. Always will. I didn’t want Honey to die without holding her, without telling her how much I love her. But lying up in a hospital volunteering for doctors to cut, remove, then donate any parts of my flawless body was out of the question. Swallowing what was left of my drink, I tossed a twenty on the bar and pushed away from the counter.

  The lady in blue seemed preoccupied as she looked across the lounge scanning the room for remnants of a prospective date.

  “Good luck,” I said, turning my back on the woman.

  Then I heard her raspy voice echo, “Nice seeing you, Lace.”

  Aw, hell no!

  Tapping her on the shoulder, I firmly asked, “What did you just say?”

  “I said, ‘Nice lace.’”

  Before leaving, I took a long, hard look at that bitch’s brown eyes peering beneath her gray contacts. I’d heard her right the first time. She’d called me Lace.

  CHAPTER 16

  Benito

  “What are you doing with a body bag in your basement?” I asked Valentino, trying not to look at the dead body lying at my feet, wondering if my bloody shoes or soon-to-be bloody hands would become Exhibit A if I got charged with her death.

  If I’d taken Lace’s advice and gotten a job, I wouldn’t have been so available to Valentino. Why did Johnnie Cochran have to die before I had a chance to hire him? I’d heard he’d done pro bono work. Surely he would’ve represented a national icon like me for free. I was certain Lace would let me rot behind bars before bailing me out believing I’d killed this girl.

  “See, that’s the difference between a sergeant and a general. A general prepares for war in time of peace. Get your monkey ass downstairs, nigga. Now!”

  Some black men were worse than white men. Give a brotha a little power or authority and he thought he had to prove himself worthy of being the white man’s equal. A black man in America would never be equal to the white man, but the black man would readily sacrifice another black man trying to make it. See, boss, I done good. I caught this here nigga trying to be like us. I’m a good overseer. If ya wants me too, I’s hang this nigga, boss.

  Didn’t matter if the black man was Mike, Ike, Michael, Wesley, Red, or Richard, the white man had all of those brothas believing they’d made it, whatever it was, simply because those black men had become successful utilizing their talents. But those same black men still couldn’t fight, sing, act, joke, or laugh without the white man’s permission.

  The white man giveth and the white man tooketh away whenever he felt like it. Black men were whitewashed. Selling the white man’s drugs to black people in his own community. Shooting black mothers, babies, and his own brothers over territory the fools didn’t even own. Killing people over the white man’s drugs and white man’s money while the white man vacationed in Europe off the currency he’d stolen from the stupid black man, then exchanged for euros while the black man sat behind bars serving twice the time for the same exact crime committed by a white man.

  Didn’t Valentino know that the white man could take all of his shit, lock his ass up, and swallow the key to his future? I sure did. When Uncle Sam slapped a for-sale notice on everything except my ass, Valentino bailed me out and introduced me to Lace.

  Like a gofer, I’d raced to the basement and sure nuff discovered a stack of body bags behind door number one. Sweat streamed from my pores. “What the fuck am I getting myself into?” Counting from bottom to top, I mouthed, “One, two, three…twelve, thirteen.” I closed my eyes praying that the eleven escorts plus Lace’s names were nowhere on the remaining bags. There were two more doors, but I was in the damn basement afraid that an alarm would sound if I tried to escape. “Fuck.”

  I stood there wondering how many black men were delivered through the back door to the U.S. from Iraq in body bags. Or dismembered? Or discharged, mentally unstable, left to their own devices to find a job or a black woman with a job? How many more soldiers would senselessly die before the war on black oil ended? If the president and Congress were so pro war, why didn’t they pick up semiautomatic weapons, load their wives, husbands, and children in tanks, then roll through the hot-ass desert praying they didn’t get blown the hell up?

  Those who had the power made the laws, were above the law, and didn’t have to abide by the law. Any black man who didn’t vote or wasn’t involved with politics quietly gave the white man control over his life, thereby surrendering all the rights his ancestors fought, marched, and died for.

  Young black men barely eighteen were stripped away from their mother’s bosom, good black family men were unconsciously taken away from their families, while single black men disappeared into the darkness of the night never again to date, marry, or love a black woman—all had one thing in common. They were all sold by Uncle Sam on a modified form of slavery with a license to kill or be killed while the white man watched or reported the highlights on CNN.

  The stroke of a pen etching a signature, a commitment, a promise, encouraged by brainwashing lies of how a black man could pursue a career in music, obtain a communications degree, or receive a large cash bonus by serving his country was dangled in the black man’
s face like fried chicken. The underlying truth the government didn’t tell the black man was he’d just signed up to manufacture one more body bag with his name on it. Maybe I didn’t want to have sons after all. But how can the black man continue his legacy with a world absent of his kind?

  Valentino yelled from upstairs, “Hurry up, nigga. I ain’t got all night.”

  Snatching the thick black rubber bag from the top of the stack, I dragged the bag up the steps. Bleach, ammonia, and other cleaning products were next to a plastic bucket of steaming water waiting for me.

  “You got gloves, man? That water looks hot.”

  “Not nearly as hot as your ass if I bust a cap in it.”

  The chemical mixture and damn near boiling water blistered my flesh while Valentino stood over me pointing.

  “Get that last piece of meat, then get her.”

  As tears streamed down my face, I shoved the half-naked mutilated body into the bag, zipped it up, secured the straps across her breasts, waist, and legs, then asked, “What’s her name?”

  “This ain’t Who Wants to be a Millionaire, nigga! Next thing I know you’ll be asking to phone a friend for help and shit. You got one more time to ask one more question and that’s yo’ ass! Hurry up and move this bitch out!”

  You think you know someone until they threaten your life to save theirs. That was supposed to be my boy. Can’t say I ever did much for him other than be his friend. But he’d taken friendship too far.

  Two hundred and fifty thousand wasn’t worth this, but it was enough to find that small town I’d thought about relocating to.

  Drying the floor as fast as I could, I accidentally splashed bleach everywhere, wiped everything up, then hurled the body bag over my shoulder and watched it fall to the floor.

  “Damn. Sorry, miss.”

  “Nigga, drag her ass and take that gold bag too. Wait a minute,” Valentino said, slightly unzipping the bag. “Here.” He slapped the gun in my hand, then continued. “Toss this inside and bury all those cleaning supplies and her shit with her. Get some gasoline, then set her ass on fire before tossing dirt in her face.”

  Placing the purse on my shoulder, I decided I wasn’t a mortician and wanted to ask where I should bury the body since I couldn’t legally burn it within city limits. But I knew better than to question my boy, so I kept walking backward, dragging the body.

  Valentino’s eyes bulged. “Wait, have you ever done a strip search before?” he asked.

  Hunching my shoulders, I shook my head, silently asking for Valentino’s mother’s forgiveness, certain Mama James was turning over in her grave like an overcooked rotisserie chicken.

  “After you get rid of her, I’m sending you to my joint to strip-search these bitches. If you do a good job, I might hire you and fire your bitch. Call me when you’re done with Summer, I mean Sunny. That’s her name, Sunny. Then I’ll teach you how to demand respect from bitches.”

  “Fuck, man! You tryna get me killed,” I said, dropping the bag. “Sunny was Lace’s favorite girl.” I could use that job, but would I live long enough to report on the first day?

  Valentino’s eyes, lips, and forehead tightened. “Keep the ointment, nigga. You’ll need it to lube your ass.”

  Good thing I didn’t have the nerves to search for that gun. Friend or no friend, I’d shoot Valentino. Or maybe after burying Sunny, I should kill myself before Lace got a chance to.

  Silently, I dumped the body bag in the trunk of Lace’s car along with the purse, then sped down Rancho Road to the highway. Ten miles south on Interstate 15 as I headed toward…truth was I didn’t know where I was headed, weaving in and out of the three lanes…red and blue lights proceeded by several bloops and I got pulled over to the side of the road listening to a cop blare from an intercom, “Do not get out of your car!”

  If I were lucky, he’d shoot first and ask questions when it was too late for me to answer. Sweat drenched my body. I darn near pissed on myself, but the thought of Lace cussing me out for messing up her leather-ventilated seat made me hold it in.

  Walking up to my window with his hand on his gun, the police asked, “Where you in such a hurry to go to that you just about ran me off the road?”

  Temporarily taking advantage of the Fifth Amendment, I sat with my hands at four and eight on Lace’s steering wheel so he couldn’t see the skin bubbling on the back of my hands.

  “Let me see your license and registration.”

  With my palm facing up, I cautiously handed him my driver’s license, along with Lace’s registration and insurance, refusing to speak unless I absolutely had to.

  “Well, I’ll be darned! You the same Benito Bannister that won that there national football championship?”

  “That’s me,” I said, nervously rotating the diamond ring on my finger to prove it. Leaning back in my seat, I prayed the cop didn’t see me sweating.

  “Tell ya what, gimme that ring and I’ll let you go with a warning,” he said jokingly.

  Forcing the ring off my finger, I wanted to scream like a bitch. I placed it in his hand, and eased my license and papers from between his fingers.

  Frowning, he said, “Looks like there’s blood on this ring.”

  “Yeah, I cut myself tossing a few balls. Gotta keep my arm strong just in case I come out of retirement. It’s no big deal, I’m used to injuries.”

  “Guess you’re right, else you’d still be playing. Here, hold on to it for me,” he said, smiling. “But drive safe before you kill yourself or somebody else, ya hear?”

  “Thanks, Officer.”

  I sat there wondering where to take Sunny. After I was positively sure the cop was gone, I unlocked the trunk, then rambled through her gold bag. Her driver’s license had an address in North Las Vegas. “Hell, not only do I live in that area, I just left there.”

  When I glanced at her birth date, my chin damn near hit my neck. “Fuck! This girl really is turning twenty-one in less than an hour!”

  Knowing Valentino, I’m the one taking the rap for this if the police find out. “Fuck this.” I drove to the address on Chestnut, parked on the back side of the unit, and made sure the key worked before I returned to Lace’s car to get the body. Checking out her living room, I saw Sunny was fanatical about cleanliness. Rummaging through her kitchen, I opened the cabinet and found exactly what I needed: alcohol—vodka, tequila, rum, cognac.

  Peeling the metal strip off the cognac, I gulped until my throat burned. “Argh!” I sat on the leather sofa dreading getting that girl’s body out of the trunk until my phone rang.

  “You done, nigga?”

  “Naw, man. Not yet,” I said, swallowing and looking around the contemporarily decorated unit. “Don’t you have a hookup or somebody who can take her off my hands?”

  “You ain’t no runner, nigga. You da man. Lookahere, after you’re done dumping the body, this is how you do a strip search.”

  As I listened in disgust, I could tell clearly he didn’t want any knowledge about where I was gonna bury this girl. I wanted to throw up again, but my aching stomach was on fire.

  “I’ll stall Lace so you’ll get home before her. Finish both jobs, then call me when you’re on your way home. And thanks, man. We’re even,” Valentino exclaimed.

  “What about my job?”

  “What job?” Valentino asked, ending the call.

  I remained silent staring at the photo above the fireplace doubting there was any money involved for my services. Now he was playing mind games with me. “Damn.” I pressed my thumb and middle finger into my eye sockets. “Is that Sunny? Am I drunk?” Or was I seeing doubles? Aw, hell no. Was this bitch a twin? “Argh! Fuck. Why me?” I yelled, finishing off the bottle.

  Warm liquid streamed through my boxers, then down my thighs, soaking my sweatpants. Sliding off the pissy lime couch, I focused on what must’ve been their parents. They looked like such a lovely Christian family with their mother smiling and holding a Bible. Seemed like they’d raised them right, but where d
id Sunny’s life go wrong? People who thought they knew me well would ask the same question not if but when I was arrested for murder.

  Leaving to get her body out of the car, I closed the door but wasn’t sure if I was returning upstairs, headed to Immaculate Perception, the police station, home, or straight to hell.

  CHAPTER 17

  Summer

  Fluttering my sleepy eyes to the familiar sound of a key unlocking the front door followed by a squeak, then a soft thump, I exhaled, “Thank you, God, for answering my prayers.” God had brought my sister home. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My wobbling feet wiggled with excitement everywhere except inside my shoes as I tried to yell, “Sunny!” but no sound escaped my trembling lips.

  Abandoning my tennis shoes, I rushed barefoot to the doorway, smiling ear to ear. I didn’t want to scare Sunny so I peeped between the crack of the bedroom door, then gasped, cupping my mouth. Unless Sunny had grown muscles the size of watermelons, gained more than a hundred pounds, and had a sex change, that was not my sister.

  Squinting at his frowning face, I recognized the well-groomed, casually dressed man crossing the threshold. I’d seen him someplace, I just couldn’t recall where. But why was he at my sister’s home? Obviously she’d given him a key. Smiling again, I imagined he was Sunny’s boyfriend. Might as well introduce myself and find out if he knew where Sunny was. As I moved to open the door, an invisible force like heavy hands braced my shoulders. My feet alternated moving in place.

  Stepping backward into the bedroom, I stared at the space in front of me, then patted the air. The breeze was cold. I focused on the familiar-looking man in the living room. He made himself comfortable, then opened and began drinking from a full liquor bottle.