Drive Me Crazy (17 page)

“Around eight, maybe ten hours.”

“They should consider having a congestion charge here, like they have in London.”

“What’s that?”

“You pay to go into the city during peak hours. Around five pounds. It would cut down on traffic considerably. The traffic we were in today ... simply horrible.”

“First chance I get, I’ll write Governor Schwarzenegger about that.”

The bartender came over. A pretty Italian woman. Reddish-brown hair. Tanned skin. Freckles. Her name tag read DANIELA. Sade spoke to her in Italian, did that without a thought.

She pressed her lips together, then softly asked,
“Che martini mi consigli?
”

Daniela answered,
“Dovresti provare i miei martini al cioccolato.
”

Sade paused, put a finger up to her lips in a thinking pose. “
Sono buoni?”

“Grandiosi. Come bersi una tavoletta di cioccolata.
”

“Aa, il mio genere di drink.
”

Daniela the Bartender made a chocolate martini for Sade, then put it in front of her with a smile, like an artist who had created a masterpiece.

Sade sipped, made a sensual sound, and gave her two thumbs up. “
Perfetto
.”

Daniela’s expression said she was impressed with Sade. “Your Italian is excellent.”

Sade smiled with love.
“Si, il mio primo amore era un meraviglioso uomo Italiano
.”

“That is who you are here with?” Daniela motioned at Sade’s ring. “Your first love?”

Sade shook her head.
“Ha sposato una meravigliosa donna Italiana.
”

“Life goes on.”

Sade raised her glass. “Life goes on.”

Daniela walked away, went to tend to the other empty souls filling this ocean-scented oyster-and-calamari world. Sade kept sipping her sweetened vodka and letting out soft moans. She was like a smoker who finally got to hit a cigarette. She dropped her class-conscious grin, turned those blue eyes my way, lips moving up at the edges, as if she were seeking approval.

I asked, “Where’s the world-famous book writer?”

“On the phone. More interviews. I’ve had all the literary shibboleths I can endure.”

“Tell ‘im I said thanks for the bobblehead.”

“He was a straight ass for doing that.”

I chuckled. Was funny hearing her curse with that thick accent. I said, “It’s all good.”

“No it’s not.” She opened her purse, took out a C-note. “Allow me to tip you properly.”

I waved it away, turned down her pity gift. Reverend Daddy used to tell us about when he first moved to California, a black man wasn’t welcome on this side of town, wasn’t welcome west of the 405 or south of the 10. A black man had to kiss ass to work in Santa Monica and Westwood, then had to be gone back to his world, the geographical prison the white man allowed, before the sun sank into the ocean. Freeman’s gesture had made me feel that low. Or maybe, despite my suit and job, Freeman had just reminded me who I really was. Still, insults from my own people were the hardest to swallow. A cheap tip was worse than getting no tip. If a customer didn’t tip you could always assume he didn’t know any better, maybe he was in a hurry and forgot. Getting stiffed with a bobblehead was like somebody spitting in your face.

Sade said, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“I’m not offended.” I lied, as usual, with the ease of telling the truth. “Not at all.”

“And if I did anything improper today, if I offended you today, I apologize.”

“Anything like what?”

She smiled a little. “People think I come across as being curt, or having a brusque manner, or they mistake my shyness for unfriendliness, but I ... I ... it’s my defense mechanism—”

“Ma‘am, I’m just the driver. It doesn’t bother me one way or the other.”

I sat there nursing my liquid caffeine. Sade had some loose change in front of her, had started tossing pennies in an empty glass the way people tossed pennies in a wishing well.

My head ached. Neck was tense. Both shoulders felt tight. I wasn’t in a talking mood. Right now, in the middle of pandemonium, I just wanted to enjoy L.A., stare at the ocean and palm trees, watch that beautiful city I loved before I got back out into the traffic I hated.

Sade sat next to me, shifting, restless, things on her mind. I felt bad for the way I’d cut her off. I told her, “You don’t look like the type who would hang out at a bar.”

“I partake of institutions of this sort in order to overcome my social ineptitudes.”

“I come for the peanuts.”

Her introverted expression came back. I saw that she had changed shoes. They were chocolate, pointed on the toe with a tall, thin heel, had a nice design stitched in the rich leather. Sexy shoes. The kind of kicks that were pretty enough for you to want to know their names.

I told her, “You have stranger anxiety.”

That rattled her, made her blink a few times. “Am I that obvious?”

“To me. It’s cool. I’m like that sometimes, have to warm up to people.”

She cringed. “Those overzealous crowds that Marcus deals with, I could never do that.”

“He’s the man. Maybe I should try writing a book and milk that cash cow.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Writing is one of those rarefied fields, like vexillology and tea tasting, at which only a select few can actually earn a living. Most writers starve to death and die unknown. Even the most brilliant of the lot have an impossible time selling their books.”

I nodded.

She made love to her drink and gazed around the room. My mind dragged me back to my problems. To Lisa. To Wolf. Had an inner struggle with my character, the kind of battle not even Jack Daniel’s could fix. My mind moved from Lisa’s threat. Then to Freeman’s briefcase.

I looked toward the lobby. There was a single employee guarding the entrance to the elevators, only letting people by if they showed a passkey, the same post-9/11 security many hotels had. Had to have a key to get upstairs, or be with a guest. My eyes went back to Sade. Her attention remained on her drink. She came across as a dignified and brilliant good girl.

Sade quipped, “I do not understand this symbiotic relationship between celebrities and fans, the way they feed off each other, this celebrity obsession in our fast-food culture.”

I rubbed my palms on my pants; without thinking I said, “Celebrity Worship Syndrome.”

Her eyes left her drink and met mine, blinking herself out of a trance. I’d interrupted a conversation she was having with her empty martini glass. She said, “Excuse me?”

“What you saw at the airport.” My mouth was moving, words coming out, but my mind wasn’t at this bar, not all the way. I took a hard breath. “Celebrity Worship Syndrome.”

She kept her eyes on mine. “I don’t understand it. Not at all. These people are borderline pathological. They fall in love with the images they have in their mind.”

I asked, “You plan on seeing the city?”

“Please. I’m jet-lagged and on East Coast time. And Marcus has been going nonstop for the last thirty-six hours. Every time I think there is going to be a break in his schedule his publicist adds something else. This is maddening. I’ll eat in the room, more than likely.”

I sucked my lip and nodded. Now I knew they weren’t leaving, not this evening.

I asked, “You guys are staying here for a couple of days?”

“Four days. I’ll be here four days while Marcus does his dog-and-pony show.”

“He’s coming down here with you?”

“God, Mr. Black Aesthetic doesn’t even know I’m not upstairs. He probably thinks I’m in the bed. Or taking a long bath. And God knows where he is or what he’s doing right now.”

That told me a lot more. I chuckled. “Your room is that big?”

She pulled back into herself, ran her hand over her mane, and didn’t answer.

I didn’t push it.

Four days. I nodded. The questions I was asking her, each one had a purpose. I looked at her angelic face and told myself I was insane, shook those criminal thoughts out of my head.

She began venting in that nasally language again, the one where I could see the accent marks and dots over every word, her vodka perfuming every breath. But her posture remained elegant, every movement silky and modest, the body language of a charm school valedictorian.

“Never picked up a book writer before.” I asked, “Is it always that crazy?”

“Hah! It was insane in Jackson, Mississippi, and Birmingham. My God. Those people.”

I said, “Like watching a shark and a pack of remoras.”

“I’m sorry. What’s a remora?”

“A suckerfish that ... attaches itself to the underside of a larger fish and feeds off them. Remoras and sharks. Fans and celebrities. We see those relationships all the time.”

“Like parasites.”

“Not the same as being parasitic. Parasitic relationships are one-sided and damaging, at the least. The shark and remora relationship, I think the word for their relationship is actually commensalism. Twelve letters. I think the shark might benefit from the remoras.”

I backed down. Didn’t want her to think I was calling her man a shark. He was an asshole, but I’d chauffeured worse. Way worse. This didn’t faze me enough to steal my mind away from Lisa and her animal farm, the lion and jackal. Part of me had been watching the doorway, expecting them to reappear. Or expecting Arizona and the pickpocket to show up, ready to grift. No one showed up. My cellular didn’t ring. But I knew we’d all meet again.

The bartender brought Sade another chocolate martini, more Italian words exchanged. I heard them mention Il Fornio, an Italian restaurant that was a few blocks away, across the street from Santa Monica Pier. Sade must’ve been asking about other good places to eat.

Sade told Daniela, “Please charge my drinks to my suite. Folasade Coker.”

Daniela nodded and moved on.

Sade gazed at her diamond ring. Without looking up she said, “Driver?”

I stopped drumming my fingers on the counter. “Yes, ma‘am?”

“I understand parasites, but how do you tell the shark from the remora?”

She let out a brief laugh. I didn’t. My mind kept dragging me to a darker room.

My injury throbbed. I clenched my teeth. Pain level about a three.

I took out my wallet so I could pay my tab and the folded bar napkin with Arizona’s number fell from my pocket. I balled it up and tossed it on the counter. Then I changed my mind, picked it up, stuffed it in my jacket pocket.

I tucked a few bills under my empty cup, enough for the coffee plus twenty percent.

She asked, “If I need to go anywhere, if I need to see the city, will you be available?”

I was about to tell her I wouldn’t be, but I handed her a black and gold business card, licked my lips, and gave her that ambiguous smile that had no meaning. “Call the main office.”

She gave me an ethereal smile in return, the corner of her eyes lighting up and letting me know she was feeling mellow and sincere. “And please accept my apology for Marcus.”

“A woman should never have to apologize for a man.”

“I understand. He’s really an honorable guy, just not good at delivering his message.”

“Then there is nothing to apologize for.”

“The bobblehead.”

I shrugged. “I might start collecting bobbleheads.”

“If there’s anything I can do ...”

“My ... my ... my brother reads ... is a fan. He reads a lot of books.” Mentioning Rufus always made me feel awkward. The things he had said about me having the good genes always bothered me. I was supposed to be the strong brother. He didn’t know how weak I’d been. My thoughts dissipated and everything felt awkward. I cleared my throat and said, “He wanted me to get him an autographed book. Maybe I can pick up one at the mall and swing by when it’s convenient for ... your fiancé, maybe you can talk your man into signing it for my brother.”

She slid me the novel she had brought down with her, the same one she carried close to her heart at the airport. Told me it was a first edition, already signed.

I thanked her. Her expression told me that my taking that book made her feel better.

She asked, “You have a wife?”

“Divorced.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“No big deal.”

“Kids?”

“No kids. Had a step ... no kids.” I adjusted my coat. She was getting too personal, that made me want to get away from her as fast as I could. I said, “Enjoy your stay in L.A.”

“You’re not driving us tomorrow?”

“You can request me if you like.”

I shot a thumbs-up to the bartender and waved good-bye to Sade.

Sade raised her glass my way and said, “To sharks and remoras.”

I raised my hand like I had an imaginary glass, saluted her toast, then nodded and headed down the stairs. Sade got up before I had made it to the lobby. She left her drink behind and headed for the elevator. She walked head up, eyes straight, as if there were an invisible book resting on top of her head. Her shoes told a tale. Those shoes told me a lot about her mood. She hadn’t changed clothes, just taken off the boxy and conservative shoes she’d had on earlier, put on a pair that pimped out her backside and showed off her ankles. She had been chilling at a bar without her fiance wearing sexy shoes, the kind that broadcasted sensual messaging features.

There was another side to her.

Lisa had taught me that a lot of women had a dark side, some were darker than others. Sade had things on her mind, felt like she wanted to talk to someone she thought she could trust.

I stalled near the fireplace, flipping through Freeman’s book but not reading a word. I absorbed some heat and watched a low-level employee play rent-a-cop and stop Sade. He asked to see her passkey. Sade looked offended, a class thing no doubt, then dug in her purse and couldn’t find hers. She shrugged, went to the front desk and showed them her ID, got another one. Sade went back to the rent-a-cop and he smiled, stepped aside, let her get on the elevator.