Drive Me Crazy (33 page)

She asked, “Ever been across the pond?”

“Pond?”

“Ocean.”

“Nah. Far east as I made it was ... made it as far as Memphis, Tennessee.”

“You must travel.”

“Keep telling myself that.” Camp Hill, Alabama, came to my mind in a flash, that memory swimming around like a ghost. I blinked that ghost away, paused, then I saw her face, the image of my ex-wife, heard her screams and cries, then needed to hold a hit of Jack, stare at its complexion. I shook that memory off, checked my watch again. “What’s Nigeria like?”

“Oh, God. Until I moved to the States I spent most of my time in London, Brixton actually, but home, Nigeria, is nice, warm, palm trees and coconut trees. But it is also very class-conscious. London has this North London and South London thing going. People never cross the river and go from south to north. Nigeria has its own thing too. You know, with an educated upper class, and a non-educated upper, both might be wealthy, but they still snob each other.”

“That class thing sounds a lot like Black L.A. to me. Y‘all have a Crenshaw Boulevard?”

She laughed a little.
“Y‘all.
Americans slay me with that word.
Y’all.
Marcus’s people are the kings and queens of
y‘all. Y’all
do this.
Y‘all
do that.
Y’all
come back.”

I adjusted my rearview, looked at her, played along. “Heard you were a writer too.”

Her laughter died an abrupt death. “Where did you hear that?”

“Dunno. Think I overheard somebody talking yesterday.”

“Yeah, I ... I self-published a book.”

“Self-published, what does that mean?”

“Means I did it myself.”

“You didn’t get a big tour and bobbleheads?”

“No big tour. No merchandising whatsoever.” Her misty eyes and turned-down lips went up to the signs praising Freeman. She took out another bottle, stared at it, thinking, then put it back in her purse. She mumbled, “No publisher championed me or financed my tour.”

“That self-publishing thing, that cost a lot? I mean, was that hard to do?”

She mumbled some more, “No enthusiastic crowds. No huge banners. No limousines.”

“You’re not promoting too?”

She blinked out of her stupor. “No. Those days are behind me.”

“Too bad. I’d like one of your bobbleheads.”

That got a brief smile and an uncomfortable laugh out of her.

I said, “Maybe I’ll run inside after I park and pick up one of your books.”

That was my subtle hint for her to get out and go.

All she did was shift and shift and shift, shake her head nonstop, sink deeper into the backseat. “When I was out there, my book never made it to a bookshop of this magnitude.”

I repeated, “After I park, I’ll run inside and buy one so I can get your John Hancock.”

A moment passed before she answered. “It’s out of print.”

“Out of print? What does that mean?”

“You won’t find one.”

“After I park, can I run in and ask them to order me one?”

“Out of print means just that, out of print. It no longer exists.”

I asked, “Can I buy one from you?”

She gave me a polite smile. “I don’t have any.”

“How much it cost to self-publish your book? Couple hundred bucks?”

“Cost me ten thousand dollars.”

“You spent ten large on doing a book, didn’t sell any, and you don’t have one left?”

“I destroyed them.”

“All of them?”

“Had a bonfire party with every last one.”

“Why would you do that?”

She laughed a plastic laugh. “What, are you interviewing me?”

I laughed too, mine made of the same recyclable material. Something wasn’t adding up.

I switched gears, thought about the kind of women I was involved with, everyone from Panther to Lisa, then looked back at the African Queen, posted up a smile, said, “I’m just ... I find you ... cool ... fascinating. Most beautiful women aren’t that smart, not like you. Not the women I know. Freeman is lucky. You’re beautiful and intelligent, if you don’t mind my saying that.”

She smiled a little, this smile girlier. Almost blushed. Not used to compliments.

I said, “Didn’t mean to bother you about the book thing. I’m still pretty new to the job. Six months in. Never picked up a writer before. So I guess it was like this when you were out there doing the book-hustle thing. But you make it sound like your experience was pretty bad.”

“Horrible. I stood in a mall all day like some sort of a homeless person, at a table, begging strangers to buy my book. You think you do a book about something important, something not laced with flapdoodle and sex, and people will show up and embrace your efforts.”

“They don’t?”

“Please. They pick your book up, put it right back down, then have the nerve to ask for somebody else’s book, right in your face. They choose hot and steamy over anything intelligent. You spend all day staring at a blank sheet of paper and they come and shit on your hard work.”

Silence flooded the car.

She went on, “I had delusions of grandeur. For all it’s worth, I might as well have driven down the road throwing money out the window.”

“Sounds rough.”

“It was a labor of love greeted with mass rejection. Humbling to say the least.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

She ran her tongue over her top lip, her blue eyes back on that banner. “Everyone loves
his
book. Everyone is
his
number-one fan.”

She leaned forward like she was getting ready to leave, then sat back again. She sighed, rocked like an addict, trying to decide if she was going to give in and let that little bottle win.

I asked, “What was your book about?”

She laughed again, but her eyes told me that I had asked one question too many. Impatience hardened her face. “Talk about something else. I hear about books all day long.”

I looked down at the word on her sweatshirt. MANUMIT. Her eyes followed mine.

I asked, “What does manumit mean?”

She paused, then told me, “To release from slavery.”

A wave of agitation came and reminded me that sleep hadn’t been my friend for the last two days. Rubbed my eyes. Took another breath. This job was my prison, this car my cell.

Sade said, “I’m ready to get out.”

I hurried out of the car, tiredness weighing down my body, adjusted my suit and took long strides, but had to slow down because of that pain in my knee. Head wound hurt too. I cursed Lisa to hell and limped a few steps. By the time I made it around Sade was standing curbside.

I closed the car door for her, asked, “How long will this book signing last?”

She took a hard breath, the spirits scented my face. “Hours. Marcus lives for praise and pandemonium, loves the sound of his own voice so much he talks to himself in his sleep. Will go on and on as long as one person in his dream is listening.”

“Listen, I have to move the car, but I’ll be no more than five minutes away.”

“Brilliant. What’s around here? Any bars open?”

“Still early. Looks like you have your own private stock.”

She gave me a thin, apologetic smile.

I said, “If I was off the clock, I’d grab a glass and join you, first round on me.”

Her smile changed again, widened. “That would be lovely. Join me?”

“Wish I could. I’d get up on a bottle of Jack.”

“Then do. Perhaps we can be discreet and add some flavor to something from Starbucks.”

“Maybe some other time.”

Playful disappointment painted her face.

I said, “When I’m off the clock, if you’re available, maybe we can hook up at the bar.”

She smiled again, this one not as wide, but winsome all the same.

“Now, Driver, besides Starbucks, what else is there to do in this plaza?”

“Movie theater upstairs.” I looked around, tried to remember what else was over here. “Few places to eat. Rubio Baja Grill. If you want to shop there’s a Nordstrom Rack.”

“There’s a Nordies upstairs?”

“Yeah. An outlet.”

“Starbucks and discount shoes. That’s lovely.”

I handed her another business card, my cellular number circled in red ink.

She smiled. “I kept the one you gave me yesterday.”

Sade lingered like she didn’t want to go, didn’t know what to do with herself.

She said, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Calling me beautiful. It was appreciated. Been a while.”

I nodded at her, my face in a half smile. She was quality. A diamond.

“Almost rang your limousine service last night.” She kept talking. “Was going to see if I could request you, have you tour me around when the traffic was more favorable.”

“Hate to disappoint you, but L.A. traffic is never favorable.”

“So I heard. Wanted to get out and see that Crenshaw Boulevard I keep hearing so much about. The waters were wonderful, the food magnificent, but the hotel seemed so sterile.”

“Crenshaw? You look more Rodeo Drive than Crenshaw Boulevard.”

“I wanted to get away from everything pretentious and be around some good music and real people, not obsessed book readers or cardboard cutouts and caricatures from
Baywatch.”

A thunderous applause shut her up. Flashing cameras. Freeman was on.

Sade put her shades on and waved good-bye with her fingers, then lowered her head, tightened her shoulders, maneuvered around a crowd of latecomers, women who damn near ran her down, all of those women racing toward the store, cameras, books, and bobbleheads in hand.

Sade seemed so small. They bumped her like she was invisible, like she was a ghost passing through someone else’s world. No apologies. The swarm moved on and hurried inside the store. Sade recovered, headed for the escalator, her straight-back charm-school sway shaken and disturbed. Looked like she stopped and took a breath, shook her head, profane dots and accent marks filling the air. I caught her profile as she ascended to another level, her face struggling to relax as she moved away from the pandemonium. She turned around and faced me.

 

 

I raced the sedan downstairs. Rufus was down there waiting for me.

He told me that he’d hide out one level down, told me to turn right and look for a U-Haul. That white and orange rental was easy to spot. Same for Rufus. His pale skin and gray eyes made him look like a colorless cat. Easy to find in a crowd of people, black, white, or otherwise. Over six feet tall. Messenger bag hanging over his shoulder. Dada jeans. Daredevil sweatshirt. Timberland boots. Honey-blond locks. Soft-shouldered stance. I hit my bright lights, screeched into handicap parking. His hips brought him my way, first with the hurried walk of a Vegas showgirl, then he squared up his shoulders and strengthened his body language, went into an almost unhurried gangsta stroll, mimicked the way Reverend Daddy walked.

Memphis ran through a fog that blanketed my mind.

I got out of the car, moving like quicksand was up to my waist. Slammed the door and my anger echoed like thunder. Took my glasses off. Rubbed my eyes. Faced my doppelganger.

When Rufus got closer I saw that his Daredevil sweatshirt was ripped, boots scuffed, scratches on his neck. His face had the most damage. His thick locks were pulled back into a ponytail. He’d taken a hard blow, hard enough to swell his left jaw up like a blowfish. Not as bad as Ali looked after he had that rumble in the jungle with Joe Frazier, but it looked like he’d been in a battle for his life.

Back in the day Reverend Daddy had an old boxing bag rigged up in the garage. The bag was black, had duct tape wrapped around the center where it had taken the most blows. He put it up there when we were boys. Made us cut grass, trim hedges, and hit that bag until we couldn’t hit it anymore. He said that evil was out in the streets training every day. We had to do the same. Think that bag might’ve been rigged up before we were born, from back in the day when Reverend Daddy used to get his workout on. In between sermons he broke a few jaws back in his day. His right hook wasn’t a secret. Made sure we knew how to deliver the same pain.

That was years ago.

Rufus had dug deep into his bag and called on those skills today.

I didn’t know my brother could do that, didn’t know he had that kinda animal inside him. He couldn’t kick ass like I could, was closer to being a pacifist than an aggressive man, couldn’t take a blow or deliver a punch the way I did, but he had done his best.

He’d been the last man standing in what he called hand-to-hand combat.

Reverend Daddy would’ve heard Rufus’s story, been happy, might’ve smiled. Might’ve been prouder than he was the day Rufus pointed a gun at Ulysses’s head and pulled the trigger.

Maybe. Maybe not. Reverend Daddy was in the ground so I’d never know, not for sure.

To be honest, somehow I doubt that Reverend Daddy would’ve been proud of his youngest son. Think I was just hoping for that happy ending. Maybe just missing those days.

Rufus hated those memories. I loved them.

Still Rufus had dug into the bag and used what Reverend Daddy had taught us.

Momma taught us in a different way. It didn’t end at lifting chickens from Boys Market. She schooled us on the art of self-preservation, the kind that was born with the death of Reverend Daddy and the birth of desperation. Within a year after Reverend Daddy was gone, we knew how to steal clothes from The Broadway, take what we had stolen back in a gift box, get full credit plus tax. Rufus would steal mail, cash checks, use credit cards, the whole nine.

Then came the drugs. The streets taught him how to make a dollar out of fifteen cents.

Here we sat. Brothers. Sons of a preacher man. Sons of a thieving woman.