Drive Me Crazy (30 page)

Wolf looked like a man corroding, six feet of inner angst masked with a rusty smile.

The accumulation of the hurts from this marriage and the one before, maybe many relationships before that. Men hurt. We were people. Couldn’t count the number of motherfuckers who cried in jail. Didn’t matter what size, build, or color. Robust men broke down just like the frail ones, shed tears like babies when they finally gave up their ghosts.

Wolf saw my fresh wound, the pain inside me, the past he had brought up when he had mentioned my ex-wife, how she had left me rotting in that cell. I saw the pain, but nothing else in his eyes. Nothing that told me which way his mood was slipping. He was unreadable. All I knew for sure was he was in pain. Any man who touched Lisa lived in agony.

Lisa adjusted the scarf around her neck, followed her husband into the office, each of her steps jittery. Her eyes met mine before she vanished. Hate colored her pupils. Nothing but hate.

Two seconds later she was laughing with her husband.

I remembered what Wolf had told me. That the poet Fontaine had said that every man was three men. Who people thought he was. Who he thought he was. Who he really was.

The same went for women. A lot of us had the enemy living between our sheets.

I headed to the garage, got into one of Wolf’s sedans. Became a red dot on his computer screen. Big Brother was watching. Even had people reporting when I borrowed a Pilot pen.

I pumped up the music, had the volume as loud as I could stand it, a DMX tune keeping me alert, jamming me into a new mood, but the same song played over and over in my mind.

You’re my
sancho.
I’m your
jeva.

This wasn’t over. Not close to being over.

Should’ve killed her ass. Should’ve killed her while I had the chance. Could’ve put her head in a FedEx box, left it waiting for the lion and jackal on the front seat of their Expedition.

One million wretched thoughts later.

In L.A., distance was measured by time, by how long it took to get somewhere, not by the miles. Santa Monica was fifteen miles away from LAX, but the bumper-to-bumper drive took an hour. An hour of dealing with road rage, arrogant pedestrians who stepped out in front of your ride and frowned like you were an asshole, bad drivers who did a California roll at red lights, motherfuckers who cut you off and flipped you the bird because you obeyed traffic laws.

DMX had been put to sleep. Radio off.

I was in driver mode. Professional. Non-expressive. Like I could be somebody else. Daytime offered me a new persona, the way it allowed Batman to change into Bruce Wayne. But still, even with the suit on, I was the same as Sammy Davis, Jr., in
Ocean’s Eleven.
I just needed to make my own ends and walk into the sunshine, smiling while the credits rolled.

There was a lot of movement in front of Shutters Hotel, a lot of chatter spoken in at least six different languages. Cars and taxis blocked the front of the building, the rich and not so famous had valet parking working overtime. Early morning checkout pandemonium.

A different world. No brothers in unbuttoned shirts with their pants hanging on their hipbones. No sisters wearing queen-sized earrings echoing the same gotta-be-gangsta mood.

I followed suit and left my town car with the valet, handed him a few bucks to watch over the ride, and stepped inside. I’d talked to Arizona while I drove this way. Had talked to her and found out what her master plan was. I went to the house phone and asked for Thomas Marcus Freeman’s room, called and let him know I was downstairs.

He went off on me, “Why are you calling my room?”

“It’s pickup time.”

“Don’t ever call my room. I come down when I come down.”

He hung up, slammed the phone down in my ear.

I cursed that motherfucker. Wondered if I’d have to beat his black ass this morning.

My cellular rang again. Rufus’s home number on caller-ID. The number to their main house. I grunted, answered expecting to hear my brother’s voice, but it was Pasquale. He never called me. Never. His voice was splintered, laced with anger, like he was coming unglued.

I asked, “What’s going on?”

“Somebody broke in my home.”

He had my attention. “Trashed your place?”

“I said I was robbed, not invaded by Molly Maid.”

“They mess up your walls?”

“Damn right my walls are fucked up. My home is ruined.”

“They broke in ... shit. What all they do?”

Pasquale sounded insane. “What do you think they did? Stole all of my art. My Woodrow Nash sculptures ... my collection of jazz ... Lady Midnight, Cool Cat, Bourbon Street, everything is gone. They broke glass, turned over my pedestals ... you should see these walls.”

He made it sound like they had taken a sledgehammer from wall to wall, gutted his mansion. I moved to the side, away from all the high-class people. “Where Rufus at?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m calling you.”

I rubbed my temples with my free hand.

I asked, “When was the last time you talked to Rufus?”

“Last night.”

“You ain’t talked to him since yesterday?”

“Had this ... disagreement. We fell out. And I left.”

“You didn’t come home last night?”

“Was on the lot all day.”

“Was he home last night?”

“I just got here.”

“Does it look like there was a struggle? Any blood anywhere?”

“This is unbelievable.”

“When you get there? I mean, how long you been—”

“Five, no more than ten minutes ago.”

The lion and jackal had stalked me two nights ago, turned around in Pasquale’s driveway.

I asked Pasquale, “Was Rufus there when your place was broken in?”

“Nigga, didn’t you hear me say that I just got here? My home has been wrecked. Paintings have been taken. My sculptures are gone.”

I snapped, “Stop yelling at me, motherfucker.”

“Fuck you.”

“Last time, Pasquale.”

“Oh, now you can get my damn name right.”

He went on and on about how his crib had been looted and ransacked.

I wanted to know if that punk motherfucker had any idea where my brother was.

I told him, “Look. A lot of ... some ... hold off before you call the police.”

“Are you on crack? Didn’t you hear me tell you I’ve been robbed?”

“Give me a little time. At least an hour. Let me check on something.”

“Whassup, nigga? You know something about this bullshit?”

“Look, my place was broken into yesterday.”

“Your arrogant, drug-dealing ass ... this has something to do with your bullshit?”

“All I’m saying is hold off on calling the police for a few hours.”

“You think I didn’t call the police?”

“Wish you hadn’t done that.”

“What do you know about this?”

“Cancel that call to the po-po until ... give me time to check on something.”

“Too late for that. You better talk up. LAPD is pulling up in the driveway right now.”

“I can’t ... look ... Pasquale ...”

He hung up.

I cursed a thousand times. Dialed Rufus’s cellular. It went straight to voice mail.

Everything was unfocused and opaque.

Damn. Not much more than a friggin’ hour had gone by since I choked Lisa. Didn’t know if that was enough time for her to send her bullyboys back out. I knew it was. I knew she did that to prove a point. That this wasn’t going to be over until she wanted it over.

I opened and closed my hand, still felt Lisa’s neck. Regretted I didn’t leave her body on that dusty concrete, six levels closer to hell, hated myself for not completing the task.

I went back to the front door, stepped out and took a breath, was about to leave.

Freeman.

Had forgotten all about Thomas Marcus Freeman. His initials were TME T followed by MF. That had to stand for That Mother Fucker. His momma gave him those initials for a reason.

Stood there and struggled, had to decide which way to go. I headed back inside.

Two workers were monitoring the elevators. Traffic in the lobby was as congested as the 405. Three busloads of Asians had pulled up, most out front with their luggage at their side. Outside of that crowd, at least a hundred more people were down here, most checking out.

Freeman got off the elevator. Leather jacket. Jeans. Dark shoes. Right hand stroking his goatee like he was deep in thought. His briefcase wasn’t shackled to his wrist. I swallowed. Opportunity was exploding in my mind. That million-dollar prize had to be in his room.

I put on my earpiece. Dialed another number. She answered.

I adjusted my glasses and whispered, “He just came downstairs.”

“You okay?”

“I’m cool.”

“You’re pacing a lot. You look uneasy.”

“I’m fine. Freeman’s coming this way.”

Her rushed voice came through my earpiece crisp and clear. “Briefcase?”

“Not handcuffed to his wrist.”

“His woman?”

I paused, waited to see who else got off the elevator. “That bird is still in the nest.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Maybe she had too much vodka. She was hitting it pretty hard yesterday.” “

“Hold on.”

The bar was a few feet away, closed, but Jack Daniel’s still stood tall and whispered my name soft and sweet, asked me to come make love to a pint, one shot at a time, all back to back, each shot glass lined up like they were customers and I was the best ride at Disneyland.

She came back to the phone, said, “I just called his room. She didn’t answer.”

“She could be sleeping.”

“This changes things in a bad way.”

I squinted away some tiredness, needed some comfort. “Calling it off for now?”

“Can’t break in the room unless we know where she is.”

I asked, “You know what suite he’s kicking it in?”

“Bet you a thousand I can find out before he gets in your car.”

“Before he gets inside the sedan?”

“And I have no idea right now.”

“I’ll bet you two large.”

“We have a bet.”

I nodded and broke the connection. I moved over by the fireplace. People were reading the morning paper and sipping coffee on the cushy furniture. Freeman saw me. I didn’t go to that motherfucker. Just waited where he could see me. He came over and asked me if Sade had come down yet. Didn’t give a brother a good morning, just looked up and talked down to me.

I owned no smiles this morning. I opened and closed my hands, this time pimpsmacking and choking him until his neck snapped and wobbled back and forth like one of those cheap-ass bobbleheads, told the motherfucker, “Guess she comes down when she wants to come down.”

He frowned his way over to the house phone.

“Driver?”

I heard my name and turned around. Sade was coming out of the restaurant, almost up on me. She was more beautiful today than she was yesterday. Maybe because she was smiling. Her Ghirardelli complexion and Frank Sinatra eyes made an exhausted brother stare a little too hard. She had on jeans and boots, a red sweatshirt with the word MANUMIT across the front. Manumit was the same word that I’d seen on her luggage tag in bold red letters.

We spoke with brief smiles, our eyes, and nods of our heads.

She said, “You’ve come to collect us.”

I nodded again. Blue eyes. Long legs and short torso. Her long hair in a single braid.

She said, “I was reading the local paper and enjoying the view. The waters are so beautiful. The sunrise was wonderful this morning. Saw it from the room. Wish my room faced the ocean so I could watch the ocean waves. If it did, and I had a stock of McVitie‘s, maybe could watch
Trisha
on the telly whenever my heart desired, I’d never leave this place.”

“Sounds like you’ve fallen in love.”

“I fall in love too easily, I suppose. For all the wrong reasons.”

We both sat on her words. My eyes were on hers. Money. I bet her passion had to do with Freeman’s money. Money was power, the ultimate aphrodisiac. Compared to her beauty, Freeman was a beast. He had enough cabbage to fill up her pot. Men hooked up with the most beautiful woman they could afford. Women hooked up with the richest man they could find.

I told her, “I called your room.”

She looked surprised, her blue eyes brightened up. Her right hand went to her left, toyed with that sparkling engagement ring. She bumbled, “You called ... when did you call?”

“Mr. Black Aesthetic wasn’t too happy about me calling your room.”

Her mouth was open, no words, a slight smile, then she shifted like she was about to say something, then shifted again like she changed her mind. The smile lessened.

I motioned toward Freeman, told her he had an APB out on her.

She sighed, did one of those dismissive hand moves, this one aimed at her man.

Our eyes went across the room, to Mr. Black Aesthetic. Freeman took out his cellular. He shook his head and a frown furrowed his unibrow as he punched in a number. Sade chuckled when her cellular phone rang. She rolled her eyes and took it out of her purse, clicked it on.

She answered like a whip, “I’m right behind you. On your left. Your other left.”

Freeman turned and turned until he saw Sade standing next to me.

Sade hung up. He closed his phone and marched over. “Where were you?”

“At a table facing the ocean having a bagel and orange juice, waiting on you.”

He shook his head. Ocean air thickened between them.

He asked, “What’s up with that sweatshirt?”

“It’s cold.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Good morning to you too.”