Chapter 27 Zuri
zuri
. . .
Aweek later, Cheetos stains blemished the contract Montana and I had signed.
I should’ve trashed the paper. I trusted Montana.
He’d told me that Washington would look into Edwin and the cartel connect—and left out the dead guy angle.
He’d also paid me cash for our days in Paris …
not that my heart had wanted the money. But I kept the paper anyway. Kept me sane.
“What am I gonna do?” I murmured, brushing off the orange crumbs and folding the paper again to shove it back into my purse, resting on the kitchen table.
Darius rushed over, packs of Gushers falling from his greedy little hands. “Here, Mommy.”
Something wasn’t right. He was too tiny to be on National Geographic’s To Catch a Smuggler.
“Darius,” Miss Virginia sighed. “You went behind Mémère’s back?” She bent low to pick up another yellow fruit snack wrapper.
“Darius,” I snapped, “Why would you do that?” My son’s bottom lip dribbled harder than a backpack while the past came quick.
“Darius, it’s stealing!” I shouted what foster parents had yelled at me about food that sat out. An apple inside a bowl? A hard candy in a jar? I was hungry but told I “stole” from a place I thought was my home.
“Padon, bébé.” Montana strolled into the kitchen. When did he arrive? “Lil’ man just a lil’ hungrier than usual. Darius, just two packs for you and one for me, your momma, and Mémère.”
“Two.” My son piped up, his glassy eyes now shone with happiness.
“Yes, now you head out with Mémère.” He nodded to his momma, who took Darius by the hand and led him out.
“What’s wrong, bébé?” Montana sat next to me.
I tried to force a smile I didn’t feel. PTSD and foster care flashed in my eyes, then I shared how foster care shaped me.
The five-minute remix. “They wanted checks. I sorta needed a home, but at least nobody tried anything sick. So, you know, small victories. I never wanted to go hard on my son. It just slipped out.” Elbows propped on the table, I cradled my head in my hands.
“I get it. It’s gonna take work, like not hating on your 3X head.”
“Don’t start.”
“Just apologize to Little Dude, it’ll be fine.” Montana comforted me a moment longer before an impatient Darius came running back.
“Mommy, are we going now?”
“In a minute, my love.” I pulled Darius close, cradling him in my arms, whispering apologies in his ear.
“Ugh, stop it, Mommy. Can we go?”
I gave him one last kiss before he wiggled away, running back to Miss Virginia, who’d just entered the room.
Montana smiled at me like I was the only woman in the world, then addressed my son like a dedicated fath- … individual, not giving me time to process how much we’d just connected. “Yes. We heading to the Quarter, Little Dude. Try all them praline places. Start us a new tradition.”
“Prah-leens?” Darius blinked.
“Or Hubig’s hand pies,” his mom said, running a hand over Darius’s back.
“Can I bring Brody? It’s my favorite toy!”
I placed my hand on my hip and smiled at my son. “Bébé, every toy’s your fav.”
“Bébé?” Montana’s brow lifted. “Did you put some NOLA in that, chère?”
“Maybe.” I poked his massive chest.
His eyes rolled away. He wanted a kiss. My eyes read, Not in front of your momma.
Later, Montana slowed down Canal Street, with me on the passenger side, Darius behind me, and Miss Virginia behind him. My forehead pressed against the window.
“Montana,”—Virginia’s voice sounded teasing—“remember when you ate three orders of beignets. You were eight! I had to roll you and your beignet belly out the door!”
“Momma, don’t start.” Montana chuckled. “You still knock back five orders.”
I giggled, snapping a picture of a copper statue of a trombone player.
“Can I have five orders?” Darius asked, bouncing around.
“Non,” Montana muttered. “Coz you want a king cake too.”
“I want a cake baby!” Darius shouted.
“Not so loud.” I craned my neck every which way to watch when Montana turned on Royal Street.
“This is Royal Street? HC&PP is on this street?” I asked. Yeah, odd that I needed a reminder. I worked nearby—right across from Antoine’s. But the Quarter was draped in purple, green, and gold. Beads laced across balconies. Every building looked similar now. “What are those boxes he’s carrying?”
“King cake, bébé,” Montana said.
“Ohhh! Give me the babies,” Darius crooned.
My brow furrowed. “What’s with all these bands? I’m used to the solo violinist, a cellist, even an SWV look-alike crew, but …”
“They brass bands,” Miss Virginia said. “It’s Carnival season.”
Montana rolled past the Hot Chicken & Peach Pit Maison, which had no parking available.
Montana muttered and made turns onto St. Louis and Bourbon, searching the streets for open parking.
Several right turns later, we eventually saw glimpses of Jackson Square, where artists propped canvases against iron fences.
St. Louis Cathedral came into view, towering above, as if a scene from a film, while Darius whined, desperate to have his face painted.
He wanted to be one of those silver human statues.
As Montana turned down St. Peter Street, my neck nearly snapped for a different reason. A shop tucked opposite the Maison Bourbon Jazz Club caught my eye.
The store, Mad Bold & Blown, had a logo of a Black queen crowned in onyx, her features flawless and fragile, turned to glass. She was fire-kissed and frozen mid-dream. The brand’s presence immediately grabbed my attention, similar to the allure of HC&PP’s image.
A Going Out of Business sign flickered in the wind like a bad lash extension. I hated that. Another Black woman’s dream flickering out.
While I leaned out the window to search the store’s windows for shoppers, a vendor passed me a strand of green beads.
“Throw me something, Sistah!” he hollered, holding out his hands.
My brows pinched. What? He just gave me these. I shrugged, then threw the beads back to him. The beads smacked his forehead.
Montana tapped on the brake. “Chère, my little league tryout didn’t have nothing on you.”
His mom shook her head from the back seat. “Bébé, you don’t throw beads like you mad. You toss them, gentle. Like handing down joy from the balcony.”
“Mommy …” Darius whispered.
Not you too, baby.
My son groaned. “You almost killed Mardi Gras.”
That had Montana howling.
“Find somewhere to park, boy.” I leaned over to swat his shoulder.
Years later, we parked on a side street. The sun did its best to pretend it wasn’t winter, but as Montana started to close the door, I said, “Wait.”
“Lawd, don’t tell me you cold, boo. Lemme keep you warm.”
With a voice all growl and just above a whisper, I said, “Cool it with your mom around.” These winds are whispering enough sweet nothings.
We turned a corner I hoped would lead us back to a main street, and bam! A glitter-covered alligator float sat parked in front of a deli. Massive, with giant, cartoonish teeth, its alligator eyes saw too much. Before I could blink, Darius ran off. “Mommy, a dinosaur. I gotta ride the dinosaur!”
“No, Darius,” I yelled, but he was halfway up the float’s legs, his sneakers scrambling for purchase. Montana not only spotted my son, but he also helped the kid climb.
“Look at him go. Fearless!” Miss Virginia cheered, pulling out her phone to record.
“Should he be doing this?” I glanced at the crowds, but most of them meandered away from us, toward the main streets.
She waved. “Pft. Builds character! Besides, he’s almost there.” She said, “Get to that there head, mon amour. It might have a plastic baby inside.”
“Okay, alligator, gimme the babies!” Darius growled, sounding all types of wrong while he tugged so hard a tuft of the papier-maché fell off.
“Darius, nooooo!” I shouted.
The deli door crashed open. A man rushed out, waving a footlong salami, various ingredients falling out with every step. “Hey …”
Montana snatched Darius from the neck of the alligator.
“I done watched y’all play with my float. Now you—”
Trying not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of my son’s actions, I swear, my eyes twitched.
The anger on the man’s face erased when Montana approached him, smiling. “Okay, okay, we just having fun.” Montana pulled out his wallet. “I do tours for outta towners.” He handed the man some cash.
“Tours, Montana Babineaux? You a lie.” The man pocketed the money, laughing. “Thank you. Can I have your autograph?”
“Yessir.”
“Sign the float.”
“Anywhere?” Montana asked, revealing a Sharpie as if he were that man. That damn famous. Which he was.
“That spot the bébé ruined.” The man pointed his sloppy sandwich at the Styrofoam showing where Darius ruined the design. “Put Montana Babineaux was here.”
I tilted my head. Big Country’s inflated ego stemmed from this very reason.
No consequences! The guy ran out so quick I almost questioned all my life choices.
Now, Virginia filmed and chuckled. Montana signed his name.
Big and loud. And Darius was that same old record. Asking about his cake baby. Again.