Drive Me Crazy (22 page)

“No, but I recognize the reflection of myself in others. Saw it in you. You loved somebody.” She leaned against the counter, pulled her hair away from her exotic face, hummed along with the classical music. “You’re a good-looking man, Driver. So fucking beautiful.”

“As beautiful as the man you’re trying to forget?”

Her eyes turned sensitive. That memory softened her conniving heart and stole her edge. She regrouped and gave me her one-sided smile. “Before we go any further, you in or out?”

“On the fence.”

“You’re even agnostic about business decisions.”

I told her, “You haven’t guaranteed me a cut.”

“There are no guarantees. Sometimes it’s jackpot, sometimes it’s a dry run, a bust.”

“Bust or jackpot, I need an advance.”

She thought on it. “Let’s say I advance you ... mmm ... two thousand.”

“Seven.”

“Two. Be glad I didn’t tell you to walk.”

I considered my situation and my lack of options before I said, “In.”

“Be sure. No cooling-off period.”

I repeated, “In.”

She smiled like I had said the magic word. I halfway expected her to sit me down and make me watch an Amway-type videotape about this scamming business, maybe even have people who worked with her pop in and give testimonials about how much money they made and how they loved their jobs. We shook hands, straight business. Her skin was warm.

She looked for trust in my eyes. I did the same with her. Thieves were liars and cheats. There was no honor among thieves. I knew because I lived with the best the South had to offer for two years. Still I nodded my agreement anyway. She held her grip and did the same.

She said, “I’m the boss on this operation. Everyone answers to me. Everything comes through me. If you have a problem working for a woman, let me know that now.”

“Long as a paycheck is on that end, no problem on this end.”

I let her hand go first. Her thin fingers made an erotic trail across my wide palm, made my Adam’s apple dance in my throat. Her eyes moved up and down my frame.

I asked Arizona, “Who do you serve?”

“When you have money, everyone serves you.”

Arizona rubbed up against me as her sugary walk took her into the bedroom.

The sofa welcomed my weight with an easy give and a mild sigh from the springs.

She came back in the room five minutes later, hair down, face made up, looking like the siren who had played me last night. She had her dark purse on her shoulder and a long leather coat across her arm. Her perfume had a light scent, the kind that could easily go unnoticed.

She said, “Let’s go for a ride.”

“Where?”

“You want that advance, right?”

She pulled a box filled with garment bags from the other side of the bed. We packed up the fancy outfits, put one in each garment bag. I carried the awkward load. She led the way. I followed. To the elevator. Then to the garage. She hit her remote. The lights on her silver BMW flashed. Doors unlocked. Engine started purring before we made it to the car.

She made a frustrated sound. “Keep hitting the wrong buttons.”

“New toy?”

“Something like that.”

She fumbled with the remote until the trunk opened, crept up nice and easy.

I loaded the merchandise. New car smell perfumed the air.

I envied her ride in silence. A car told you about a person’s character, how they saw themselves, how they wanted the world to see them. Cars weren’t just transportation, they were symbols. All about perpetrating and projecting. L.A. people were attached to their rides. Ugly women and mackless men could hop in a ride like this and let the car do the sweet-talking.

The leather seats were like warm butter, smooth and soft to the touch.

We passed by my ride. That back window shattered.

Arizona drove toward Hollywood, went down Ventura, a strip that had a lot of stores like Gap and Baja Grill, a regular Traffic Light Row. She dug in her purse and took out a small black device, pointed it at the intersection and pushed a button. The traffic light changed back to green, just like it had done for her last night when she left Back Biters.

I asked her, “What’s that device?”

“It’s a MIRT. Mobile Infrared Transmitter.”

I was impressed. “How does it work?”

“You point it and it changes red lights to green lights. It’s the same technology that ambulances use to get to emergencies faster.”

My cellular rang. UNKNOWN CALLER on the ID.

I answered and heard a lot of happy noise in the background, the sounds of people chattering, forks and spoons clanging against plates, soft jazzy music. It sounded like one of those special and discrete Hollywood parties that Rufus and Pasquale went to from time to time.

Lisa said, “Playa, Playa. Watch your back while you’re having fun in the valley.”

She hung up.

I looked around to see who she had on my tail, searching the headlights for trouble, thinking that I’d have to use the .380 before the night was done, wishing I’d brought the .357 along as well. I tried to sit still but I kept moving, checking the rearview off and on.

Cars were an extension of the driver’s personality.

Arizona drove a vehicle built for speed and pleasure.

Lisa drove a vehicle made for battle, the kind used in a war.

We landed near La Brea and Melrose, the artsy side of the city lined with vintage shops, the dividing line between L.A. and Hollywood, between the working class and the dreamers. Chili and fresh turkey burgers came to me on the breeze. Pink‘s, one of L.A.’s oldest hot dog stands, was one block away. My gun was secure in the small of my back.

Arizona was taking her time asking me things. Getting me to tell her a little at a time, like she was in no hurry, not desperate at all. Having fun. She smiled at me a few times, every smile feeling like a soft kiss, the kind of smiles that made the blood drain from my brain to strengthen my loins. She was good. Knew how to use the Power of the Pretty Woman without giving up the pussy.

Arizona valet parked. Handed her keys to a Mexican dressed in black pants, white shirt, and a red vest, said a few words to him in Spanish, then she came and took my hand.

I searched the streets again, then followed Arizona’s quick pace toward a small theater. They stopped us at the door, did that like we were terrorists, then got a closer look at Arizona and moved to the side apologetically, let us in without a word.

The billboards and signs posted told me that we were at the play
The Graduate.
The cast’s headshots were plastered on the walls. I saw the face of Arizona’s friend. The pickpocket’s name was Pamela Quinones. She was playing the part of Mrs. Robinson.

I motioned toward the headshot and asked, “Pickpocket working the crowd?”

“This is legit.”

We sat in the back. There was a small audience, all Hollywood types. A few of Hollywood’s black actors were in the crowd, people who hadn’t worked since
The Cosby Show.

A couple of dramatic scenes went by and they dimmed the lights.

Mrs. Robinson came on stage. Big applause. High heels and a floor-length fur coat. The fur coat slid away from her frame, showed her flesh a little at a time. Red french-cut panties made her long legs look like stilts. Her breasts pushed against her silky bra like they were trying to break free and run home. Wonderful body, long hair, the stage lights all in her favor, lit her up like she was Lauren Bacall in
To Have and Have Not
. Her erotic moves, the way she drank her wine, her drunken sashay, the way she sang, the way she went about seducing the young and confused college graduate on stage had the audience moaning and shifting in their seats.

Arizona whispered, “She got herself done all up.”

“Done all up?”

“Tummy tuck. Breasts lifted.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

“Like an epidemic.”

The pickpocket set the room on fire when she seduced her daughter’s boyfriend. She didn’t look that old, might’ve been my age, but the makeup gave her some maturity over her costars. And this was Hollywood, where when it came to having a career on a stage, men aged at a normal rate but women aged in dog years. If she was my age and still working at a theater off La Brea, she probably had to pick as many pockets as she could to have her ends make acquaintance.

Arizona asked, “What do you know about Frank Sinatra?”

“Who?”

“Freeman’s woman. Old blue eyes.”

“Thought Freeman was the mark.”

“He is.”

I shrugged. “Just know her name is Folasade Titilayo Coker. She drinks the hell out of vodka. Speaks Italian. Just met her. Maybe I should ask you what you know about her.”

“That brat’s clinging to Freeman’s success.”

“What else you know about her?”

“Alcoholic. Loser. Spoiled. Typical rich people problems.”

I said, “Didn’t know those were rich people problems.”

“And she’s jealous of his success.”

“You get that info online?”

She said, “Straight from Freeman. We talked this evening. He said she wrote a book a few years ago. It tanked.”

“That bad?”

“He said she couldn’t sell shit to a fly.”

“No shit.”

“He was trying to figure out how we could hook up. He wanted some.”

“Some what?”

“Don’t get stupid on me.”

“Little Miss Africa came to L.A. and she’s not putting out to the million-dollar man?”

“Variety is the spice of life, you know that. He could get that and still want this.”

“No doubt.”

“He said she’s getting to be a problem. Trying to hold him down.”

“If she’s a problem, why doesn’t he kick her to the curb then?”

“Who cares? Driver, you know how men are better than I do. From where I’m sitting all I know is men hate you, mistreat you, but won’t ever stop taking you to bed.”

“But you can’t keep away.”

“No, they can’t keep away. No matter how misogynistic, no matter how codependent, no matter how low their self-esteem, they always look for comfort in the bosom of a woman.”

“Like I said, you can’t keep away.”

“Not from the intelligent ones in nice suits.” Arizona’s voice dropped down to a seductive whisper. “Too bad you didn’t answer last night.”

“Yeah. Too bad.”

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

“Business.”

“Can we take a break from business?”

“Sure.”

She leaned my way. I leaned hers. We kissed, soft tongue, gentle and sweet.

She looked at me, gave me the same eyes she did last night in the parking lot.

We kissed again.

She moaned a little. Got heated up, touched my face with her hand.

I forgot about Panther. Forgot about Lisa. Forgot about Wolf. Forgot about Rufus, Momma, and Reverend Daddy. Forgot about everything that haunted me.

Then we went back to watching the play, her hand on mine.

She was good at her game. Real good. But I had to be better at mine. I gave her the same kind of smile I gave her last night, didn’t give any more than that. Money was involved. Women were involved. Both caused the kind of trouble that sent a man to an early grave.

I asked, “You fucking Freeman?”

“So direct.”

“You said he wanted some. Are you?”

“That Pikachu-looking brother is a trip. He’s hot on my girl.”

“Oh. Thought he was hot on you.”

“Oh, God. That cockhound is calling us both.”

“Playing the odds.”

“Right. Thinks we don’t talk.”

“The player is getting played.”

“Fo’ sheezy my neezy.”

“So you’re fucking him?”

“We had phone sex. Well, he got off. I played my part.”

“No real fucking?”

“Haven’t. Lot of money at stake.”

“If it comes down to that?”

“Will if I have to.”

“The pickpocket?”

“My girl is down too. We have that understanding.”

“Big pimpin‘.”

“Business.”

“Sure. Business.”

“Right. Nothing personal. It’s business.”

“Well, you’re the prettier one.”

“She has the better body.”

“Depends on what you like.”

“Get real. You see her ass? If my booty was like that I’d rule the world.”

“If I were him I’d go for you.”

“If Freeman looked and dressed like you, shit, this would be a pleasant job.”

My cellular hummed again. Rufus’s number again. I let it roll. Then two more calls came in back-to-back, both from the UNKNOWN CALLER. Later on I’d wished I’d answered those calls. But right now I didn’t know what was going down. I ignored the hums, then powered it down and went back to checking out the play, the pickpocket in particular.

On stage the young college graduate’s affair with Mrs. Robinson went south. The aging nymph flipped from erotic to vindictive. Old with few choices. Desperate for affection. It was like watching Lisa lose her mind. Maybe I was tired but my eyes started burning and in that heat she started to look like Lisa. My wound came to life, throbbed its own beat, put waves of tension in my neck and back. I would’ve walked out, but I couldn’t do that without causing a disturbance.

I sat there, staring at Mrs. Robinson, hating that character the same way I did Lisa.

The play ended and I expected Arizona to wait for the pickpocket, but we left the theater and hurried to valet. She handed the Mexican who had handled her car a C-note. It was only five dollars to park. She didn’t ask for any change. This time no Spanish words.

Arizona made red lights change to green until we got back to Sherman Oaks.

She pulled back into the garage, opened the trunk. The load of designer clothes was gone. Three white envelopes had taken the place of the garment bags. She opened one of the envelopes, the thinnest of the three, counted out three thousand in C-notes, folded that Chicago roll in half, handed it to me, stuffed the other envelopes in her purse like it was no big deal.