Drive Me Crazy (18 page)

Sade wasn’t amused.

I waited until she got on the elevator then dug in my pocket. I stared at the passkey I had lifted from Sade’s purse. I walked toward the elevator, passkey brandished. Security let me by without question. My eyes went to the illuminated floor indicator, tried to figure out what floor she had gone to. I’d seen people do that in the movies. Didn’t know if that worked in real life.

With this passkey I could get by security unquestioned. There were almost two hundred rooms in this palace by the sea, but only twelve of them were suites. She’d said her room was so big, so phat that Freeman didn’t know she was gone. That narrowed it down to twelve doors for Sade to have walked through. Twelve rooms that could hold what Arizona was trying to steal.

I’d broken into houses growing up, stolen cars, sometimes for fun, but mostly out of need. I chilled for a minute, had words with myself, told myself that I could go for it by myself.

If only I knew Freeman’s room number ...

A thousand unlawful what-ifs clouded my mind.

No. They had just handed Sade a replacement passkey and that meant they probably changed the code. But I could still use the key to walk by the low-level guard. That was a start.

I got on the elevator, rode up to the top floor, the one that held all the suites, spied out and hoped to see Sade walking toward her oversized room, maybe catch her going in the door. Then I’d be sure what floor she was on. I did that for all five floors. After that little joyride I went back down and left the hotel, whistling like I belonged there, like I was one of them.

I handed one of the Mexican workers a tip and thanked him for letting me park illegally, then got in the sedan, tossed Freeman’s miracle book in the passenger seat, and pointed my problems in the direction of Wolf Classic Limousine. That passkey was in my sweaty hand. I rubbed it all the way back to Wolf’s garage. Rubbed it like it was a magic lamp.

Nobody was in Wolf’s office. I moved by his family pictures, his immigrant parents and the biracial children from his first marriage. His wedding picture and another glam photo of Lisa stared at me. I sat in his leather chair, adjusted Lisa’s picture, made her stare at the walls.

The memory of the first time I’d walked in this room hit me hard as a Tyson punch.

I shook yesterday off my shoulders, put on my glasses, got comfortable in his captain’s chair, used his PC, and logged on to the Internet. Needed to do some research.

Google.com
was a good spot to start. I typed in THOMAS MARCUS FREEMAN. Over a hundred sites popped up. I did the eenie-meenie-minie-mo thing, clicked on
Publishers Weekly.

It said that Freeman was born in Quitman, Mississippi, grew up in New Jersey. Went to FAMU, joined a fraternity, lived in Florida, married and divorced, now twenty-seven, engaged, on his fifth book,
Truth Be Told,
and had just cut a deal that was worth a million dollars.

I surfed over to Amazon, read reviews. One club said
Pool Tables and Politics,
was one-dimensional. I clicked on a review for his second book; it said that
All That Glitters: A Black Man’s Obsession
with Material Things was one step below a doorstop.
Preachy.
Seriously flawed. His first two books had more single-star reviews than the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

At least the brother didn’t give up. My old man used to tell us to never give up.

Freeman had a third book that dropped back in the fall of ‘01.
truth is stronger than lies,
all small letters. Not many reviews; all agreed that it was his best, but I guess it didn’t sell. Three-year gap, like he went into hibernation, then came out swinging, dropped
Dawning of Ignorance.
Another one of those long book reports disguised as a book review said it was tight.

Tiredness hit me in waves. It was a struggle. Had to give in and yawn a few times.

I surfed around and read more on Freeman, all of it pretty much the same jibber jabber. They hated the first two; the third didn’t get any attention; the fourth made him a rock star.

He wasn’t Donald Trump rich, but with my account, one was just as good as the other.

A million dollars and he handed out bobbleheads as tips.

Then I went out to the Department of Corrections Web site. In prison a man lost his identity, reduced to a series of numbers. Just like Mandela would never forget 46664 was his prison number for over twenty-five years while he was in South Africa’s Robben Island jail, I’d never forget the numbers that represented me for the two I was locked down. Martyr or murderer, no prisoner ever forgot. One by one, I typed in mine. Stared at the screen and waited.

“Driver?”

I jumped a bit. Left my memories. Wolf was in the doorway. Watching me.

I didn’t know how long he’d been there. I’d been too deep in thought.

Without hesitation I logged off the computer and faced his six-foot frame. He stood with his shoulders square, had on a deep blue pin-striped suit, his tie as dark and shiny as his kicks, blond hair slicked back into that ponytail, stroking his goatee.

“Hey, Wolf.”

“You shouldn’t use the computer in my office. Use the one out front.”

“The receptionist was on it playing Scrabble.”

He loosened his tie. “Anyway, don’t want everyone else to think this is public domain.”

I stood up, moved away from his mahogany desk. He met me halfway and we shook hands. His handshake was different, stronger than usual, he held on longer than usual, did that the way a man did when he was establishing dominance and superiority, claiming his territory.

He was the boss. I was the employee.

I said, “Had stuck my head in to holler at you. Logged on for a minute.”

Lisa was right outside the door, I heard her voice, talking with another co-worker, laughing like a politician. She passed by and I caught a glimpse. She was dressed in a sharp, classy black pantsuit, low and expensive heels, glasses on, hair pulled back in a metal clasp.

She came back to the door, ignored me and called her husband, “Baby?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Honey, I told Guadalupe not to cook tonight.”

“Don’t tell me you’re cooking?”

“Of course not. I made reservations downtown at Windows. That cool?”

Wolf joked, “Nothing like a sky-high view of bumper-to-bumper traffic.”

She laughed with him. That tugged at my heartstrings, tugged hard.

Lisa looked political and privileged, not like a woman who had pulled a Glock on a man last night, not like the kind of loon who threw a 7-Up can at my head, then tried to run me down.

She tilted her head in fake surprise. “Thought you were in your office by yourself.”

I took a step back, our positions an unintentional triangle. “Lisa. Whassup?”

“Good evening.” Monotone. Strictly business. “How’s it going, Driver? ”

“It’s going. How was San Diego?”

“San Diego was San Diego. Damn. What happened to you?”

“What?”

“Looks like you fell and bumped your head.”

“Looks like.”

“Be careful, Driver.” She turned to Wolf. “I’m going to get a 7-Up. Want one?”

Wolf answered, “Nah.”

“What about you, Driver?”

My frown eased up into that ambiguous smile.

She moved by me, her sweet-scented toilet water wafting my way, tiptoed and kissed Wolf. Her slender tongue darted into his mouth and she grabbed his ass. She wiped her lipstick from his mouth then hugged him and gave him soft touches. She gave him more love signals than I could stand to watch without feeling like I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Lisa waved good-bye to me, did that with two fingers, sent that message and walked away, singing her favorite song, fingers popping, ass wagging and fake breasts bouncing, never looked back, heading toward the front of the office laughing like the world was hers.

My tongue was pressed against my teeth. “Wolf, I have a situation.”

“A situation. What kind?”

“Lisa.”

He stood taller, lost that James Dean stance, became a bear. “Go ahead.”

Looking at him eye-to-eye, man-to-man, with my guilt, it was hard.

I asked, “She bring back any groceries last night?”

He paused for a moment. “Driver, stop right there.”

“Look, there are some things we need to put on the table, things you need to know.”

He firmed up. “Please, Driver. C‘mon, man.”

“Wolf, this ain’t easy for me ... but this is serious. Shit ain’t right.”

He cut me off. “After all I’ve done for you, let me be happy with my wife. I’ve been through enough bad times to last me two lifetimes. I’m happy today. Some other time for bad news. Maybe when things are going bad tell me the bad news. Not when things are good.”

He faced me. He was angry. Could tell by the way he ran his hand over his ponytail.

I repeated, “She bring back any groceries last night?”

A new, unreadable emotion flooded his eyes, gray eyes born in a silver spoon world.

“Your wife left you, Driver.”

That hit me hard, caught me off guard. “My wife didn’t leave me.”

“Man, please. She abandoned you. Left you rotting in a cell in Memphis.”

I repeated, “Rotting.”

“Your words, not mine.”

My throat tightened, as did my hands. He was bringing up things I’d shared while we sipped on beers and JD at Back Biters. Things I talked about when the sun was gone and the memories were too much to bear, things I didn’t want to be reminded of in the light of day.

Wolf said, “Remember how you told me you loved that woman from Camp Hill?”

The sound of my teeth gritting filled my head.

“Don’t go there, Wolf. My ex-wife and your wife are two different women, dammit.”

“You should know.”

That stopped me. “Be a man, Wolf. Tell me what you’re saying.”

“This isn’t about me. You’re the one who said he had the problem, the debt.” His gray eyes came to mine. “Now, your turn. Be a man. You look me in the eye. You tell me.”

I held up where I was, stared at my employer. He was shaking. My livelihood was on the line. Like most people in America I hated my job but was afraid to lose it. Hold on. Maybe I didn’t hate my job. Hated working underneath a cloud that might storm on me any minute.

I asked, “You okay, Wolf?”

He ran his hand over his ponytail. “When a woman falls in love, she has a brand-new walk. When she falls out, the same. When you know she’s not in love with you, it hurts. When she comes back you don’t care what she did when she was gone. You just want her back.”

A tense moment slipped by. Thoughts colliding like pinballs. If I told Wolf the truth, this gig was over, that was a given. This was all I had. Didn’t want to give it up. Not yet. He could call LAPD. The truth about the murder plot, about the money I had taken, didn’t know how all of that would go. Didn’t want to be on lockdown ever again. Couldn’t lose my job, not before I had another payday lined up. Lisa was his wife, that undying love for her in his eyes. That love was a huge barrier, a wall that was too high to get over and impossible to go around.

But I was pissed. He’d derailed me, brought up shit I’d told him while we sat at Back Biters, JD loosening my tongue. Anger was drop-kicking both logic and sanity out the window.

“She love you, Wolf? Or does she do all she can to emasculate you?”

That unreadable emotion changed to anger in the raw. Controlled anger.

If the roles were reversed I would’ve come at him, cannons blazing like the start of the Civil War. But he wasn’t me. He was from a world where wars were fought with attorneys.

“Did your wife love you, Driver? That’s what you need to think about.”

Wolf stood there, shoulders weighed down. Wolf was a strong man, but no match for the emotions that had crippled him. Love was kryptonite, made the strong handicapped.

“Honey, everything okay in here?”

Lisa had crept back down the hallway. I looked at her, Wolf did the same. I owned a frown, he smiled. Her chest rose and fell, unevenness that came from nervous breathing.

She said, “Sounded like it was getting a little loud back here. What’s going on?”

I faced her. “Since we’re all here, you want to talk to me about the money I owe you?”

She tilted her head, her move so simple, so perfect, so perplexed. Her disposition was as warm as a mink coat and just as soft. “What money?”

My hands were folded in front of me. Shoulders squared off, facing her.

“So, I don’t owe you any money?”

Her eyes went to Wolf. Still acting perplexed. “What’s your friend talking about, baby?”

I firmed my tone. “I’m talking to you, Lisa. Do I owe you any money?”

“Driver, don’t ever address my wife like that. You understand?”

“Ask her what she paid me to do, Wolf.”

“Watch your tone, Driver. This isn’t a bar in South Central. Do you understand?”

I backed down. I didn’t like the way he talked to me, but I backed down. I’d come at him the wrong way, become emotional, made another bad move. The way he stood up for his wife reminded me that real love was thicker than a few two-dollar drinks at Back Biters.

Lisa looked scared. She had real fear. I’d never seen her unnerved before.

Wolf told her to meet him in the garage, at their luxury cars. He said that like he was pulling the strings, like he was the boss. She hesitated. Her lips pushed up, her eyes dark. She turned and left, the click-clack of her heels telling us that she was heading toward the front, her steps hesitant, just as uneven as her breathing. Then her pace quickened. She was pissed.