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.”
