Drive Me Crazy (32 page)

I swallowed, asked Sade, “Did you want to get out?”

“Let the sheep follow their Moses into the bookshop so I can have some room to walk.”

My clock was ticking. Needed Sade out of the car. My weary eyes went to the crowd.

I closed her door, headed back to the driver’s side, got back in, still cursing in my mind.

The pickpocket was already here. She had shoulder-length dreadlocks this time. That Mrs. Robinson smile all over her face, the kind that made a man feel heat in his loins. A blouse that was tight, short enough to pimp out her abdominal six-pack. Tight jeans over a tight ass. I understood what Arizona meant about having an ass like that and ruling the world. No wonder Freeman had called her first. Arizona looked more like a woman you’d take home to Momma. She was long-term parking. The pickpocket had the kind of ass a man wanted to saddle up and ride off into the sunset. Or up and down Sunset. She wore heels, sexy pointed-toe shoes that helped pimp out her rotund ass that much more. Shoes were rust-colored, just like her leather jacket, a jacket that she wore wide open. Forty-plus with the body of a twenty-year-old.

Freeman’s stoic image and name were up all over the joint. Thirty-foot banners. Bold letters. Reds, golds, and greens. Like it was a movie premiere at Mann’s Chinese Theatre.

THOMAS MARCUS FREEMAN
AUTHOR OF
POOL TABLES AND POLITICS
AND
ALL THAT GLITTERS
AND
truth is stronger
than
lies
READS AND SIGNS His
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
DAWNING OF IGNORANCE

I didn’t know what was going on at the time.

Had no idea what was going on back at Shutters.

Later on I’d find out the way everything went down.

The Asian woman got out on Freeman’s floor, soaked in Starbucks. Watched Freeman storm into his room. Saw the maid’s cart down the hallway, went down and peeped to make sure the maid was on the floor. An older Spanish woman. Too busy cleaning up someone else’s mess to look up. Then the Asian woman went and stood near the elevator. When Freeman came back out, she passed him in the hallway again, let him rush and get on the vertical carriage. Then she took out the bottled water she had in her bag. She undressed. Head to toe. Got butt naked. Wearing her birthday suit was no big deal to her. She worked in that uniform three, sometimes five nights a week at Strokers. Worked naked in six-inch stilettos, music bumping while she was swinging from a pole, breasts and vagina on display, smoky dollars raining at her feet.

After she undressed at Shutters, she stuffed her clothing in a plastic bag and hid them in the trash container by the elevator. She took her bottled water, opened it, and poured the overpriced purified water made by Coca-Cola all over herself. Next she took out a bottle of shower gel, soaped herself up head to toe, used a bath sponge and got a decent lather going. She let her hair down, let it shadow her features so the cameras—if there were cameras and if those cameras were on—wouldn’t get a good shot of her face. Then she ran down the hallway all wet and smelling good, breasts bouncing like two kids on a trampoline, and rushed to the Spanish maid, embarrassed and hysterical, the bath sponge throwing soap and water every which- away, bad acting at its best, but good enough to shock the maid and make her say things in Spanish and genuflect. The Asian woman told the Spanish maid that she thought she heard somebody knocking at the door while she was showering, went to the door, didn’t see anybody, took a step out, then the door closed hard, hit her foot, she jumped out of the way to keep her pedicure from being messed up, and she got locked out.

A naked Asian woman running up and down the hallway at a swank hotel.

Then, of course, just like any normal person in California, she threatened to sue the hotel. Her toe might be broken. And her pedicure, well, they owed her a free night because of that.

The maid didn’t question her story. Maybe she’d seen stranger things. She just wrapped the con woman in a towel as fast as she could and let her in the room so fast it wasn’t funny.

Two minutes after Freeman had gone, the Asian woman was inside his room.

Elvis had entered the building like a motherfucker.

The silver briefcase was on the unmade bed, locked and heavy.

She showered the gel off her body, rushed through Freeman’s personal things without drying off, piled up everything she wanted to take. She pulled Freeman’s suitcase out of the closet and put everything she had gathered inside. She pulled out a pair of gray sweats that Freeman had packed, put them on, then wiped down everything she had touched. Made sure none of her hair was left behind. She grabbed the suitcase and wheeled it out the door like it was no big deal. Her hair was still down, shadowing her face, head down, eyes on the ground.

The silver briefcase was tucked inside the luggage.

She tossed her used towels into the maid’s cart.

At the elevator, she opened the trash container, got her clothes, put her sandals back on.

She went downstairs, passed by the security that was guarding the elevators without making any eye contact, pretty much blended with all the other moneymakers in the lobby.

She went through the crowd, straight out the front door, headed for the roundabout unseen and unnoticed, went to the window for valet parking and gave them her ticket.

Valet pulled her car around, smiled, and loaded her bag in her trunk for her.

As they opened her car door, she gave the worker a two-dollar tip.

She drove away. Smiling.

As Sade would say, brilliant.

Back at Borders Books and Music.

I was resting fifteen miles from Shutters Hotel, on Howard Hughes Parkway, parked in front of the bookstore, watching Freeman get admired, waiting for Sade to get out of the sedan.

Sade sat in the backseat, staring at that banner. Staring and not saying a word.

Sade said, “The titles of the first three are larger ... much larger than
Dawning.”

Her stiff body language told me she wasn’t moving, just staring up at Freeman’s praise.

She said more words, dots and accents in the air, then said, “Unbelievable.”

Felt like I was supposed to talk back. Didn’t know what to say. Just wanted her to get out. I checked my watch, looked up at the banner, said, “Hadn’t heard about the
truth
book.”

“Was his best book. It went as fast as it came. That was right around Nine-Eleven-Oh-One. Almost a year to the day after we met. We were both taking the same writing class. Had a conversation and got on pretty well. One thing led to another. Seemed like serendipity.”

Lights. Camera. Action. Today L.A. was Freeman’s city. Over five hundred excited people were waiting for him, ninety percent of them anxious women, more of his loyal fans rushing in like they were going to see the resurrection of Jerry Garcia at a Grateful Dead concert.

She said, “His book never made it out of the boxes. Died on the vine.”

My cellular wasn’t ringing. Checked my watch. Needed to hear from Panther. If Lisa had a GPS on her ride then she knew Panther was riding her boys tough. She wouldn’t get too close, just close enough to let them motherfuckers know that two could play this game. Let them know that I was after their asses too. Just like Panther had said about Lisa, I had some personal shit with the bullyboys. Every time I thought about them I wanted to pull out one of these burners and send some heat to the closest one. Shoot him once to hear him scream. Shoot him again to shut his ass up. Then do the same to his friend. What order I got them in didn’t matter.

“I asked my mum what she would say if I brought home a chap they didn’t approve of. She said, ‘Well, as we Yoruba always say, why smell what you won’t eat?’ ”

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

Sade was rambling, letting out the thoughts that were cluttering her mind. My mind was cluttered as well, was back at Shutters on the Asian woman who had made her way upstairs to try and do a B&E and on Panther tracking the lion and jackal.

Sade sighed hard, dug around in her purse, repeated what she had just said.

I cleared my throat, stopped bouncing my leg, said, “I have no idea what that means.”

“My people, they are always using proverbs and stuff.” She laughed. “Mum’s point is if I know that they wouldn’t approve of a guy, why would I date him? So basically, why smell something that you already know you won’t eat.”

I said, “Your peeps don’t approve of the Black Aesthetic.”

“They do not.” Stress weakened her voice. “No, my peeps don’t approve of Marcus.”

“Why not? He’s successful.”

“Because he’s ... Marcus is ... at times ... our ideologies ... we’re from different cultures.”

“Because he’s African-American?”

“To be honest, I prefer the term Black over African-American because ‘African-American’ is misleading.” She had pulled a tiny bottle out of her purse. She’d hit the mini-bar. She struggled, then twisted it open. Sipped her colorless and odorless liquor. Sighed. “A white person who was born in Africa, then moved to America would be an African-American. Charlize Theron, the actress in that movie
Mon
ster, is South African; that makes her African-American.”

Sade sipped again, made a soft and sensual sound, like she had what she needed to adjust her attitude, control her angst, calm her nerves. Or maybe that bottle was the only paradise she had in her life right now. Or she had found out that at the bottom of every bottle lived the truth. Just like me, she took a hit and made a sound, the sweet sound of an addict who finally got a fix.

She went on, “They would qualify for financial aid, all of the benefits and entitlements of a black person. And they will get the jobs and pay privileges afforded to whites.”

I cleared my throat again. More people were coming this way, the ones who always showed up CP-time. A few had bobbleheads. So many cameras were flashing that it looked like an electrical storm was in full effect. The pickpocket had worked through the crowd, had got next to Freeman. She pulled his attention away from a few other women, kissed him on his lips and they hugged. She gave him the kind of contact that could make a man lose his wallet.

Sade saw that exchange, closed her eyes, said words filled with accent marks and dots.

The pickpocket left the bookstore, her cellular up to her ear, a wicked smile on her face. My heart sped up. Sweat tried to flower on my collar. That meant she had completed her mission and Freeman was one wallet lighter. Her sashay took her east toward the parking garage, then she vanished into its entrance, her pace calm and cool. A seasoned rip-off artist.

My cellular rang. Arizona. My eyes went to Freeman’s big sign. The million-dollar man.

Two rings went by before I clicked my phone on, didn’t say anything right away.

Arizona’s voice was all business. “Hit me when they’re heading back to their hotel room.”

“Now what?”

“Guess we go from door to door, see which one the key opens. Shouldn’t take long. Only eleven suites in their hotel, won’t take long at all. It’s a walk in the park from here. Fun, huh?”

“Yeah. Fun.”

She said, “You look good enough to put in a JCPenney window.”

“Thanks.”

“Glad you didn’t let me down. I was depending on you.”

I swallowed a lump of deceit and treachery.

She whispered, “Missed you last night. Had to self-service again.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

“When this is done maybe we can celebrate.”

“Cool.”

We hung up.

The streetlights changed all of a sudden. Arizona’s silver BMW whipped out of the exit for underground parking, took to the streets with speed and smoothness. She passed by me, grinning, that high-end chariot moving anxious and even, the pickpocket at her side, all business. I caught a glimpse of them. The pickpocket’s mane was back in a pixie cut. Locks removed.

Arizona didn’t know she had been double-crossed.

I licked my lips, checked my watch. Needed Panther to ring my goddamn number.

Sade interrupted my thoughts, asked me, “Where are you from?”

“Here. L.A. Born right here.” I paused, Arizona gone from my sight. “What about you?”

“Nigeria.” Sade hummed. “Driver, I love your Black-American accent. It’s wonderful.”

I clicked on my professional smile and told Sade, “Your accent is pretty sweet too.”

“Thank you. I’m British-Nigerian. I grew up in South London, Brixton Hills.”

“I hear some of the Motherland in your accent too.”

“My parents are Nigerian. That’s the Yoruba in me.”

“Yoruba. That’s a religion, right?”

“Yes and no. In Brazil. Really big there.” She perked up a bit. “In Nigeria, there are gods worshipped that are particular to Yoruba people—you heard of the Orisha?”

“Not at all.”

“Never mind. Well, in my home, Yoruba is not a religion. My mother says that it’s some stuff some Americans made up to give people some ‘back to Africa incentive’ ... no offense.”

“None taken.”

“A lot of my family, especially my grandparents, gets insulted when people say that Yoruba is a religion. It’s a language and a tribe.” She chuckled again. “And they hate it when you use the word tribe because of the negative connotations of backwardness attached to it. European groups are never called tribes, but African ones are.”

It looked like she was about to end her mini-lecture and get out, but another book-carrying crowd whisked around the corner. Sade retreated, moved around a bit, then opened her purse. She took out another small bottle. This time she had a hard time twisting the top.

I offered, “Let me help with that.”

I broke the seal. She thanked me. Took the bottle. Sipped. Made sensual sounds.

She stared at the banner. Twisted her lips. Eyes misted up. She kept sipping, fell deeper and deeper into her own thoughts. Then the bottle was dry. She had reached her truth.