Drive Me Crazy (42 page)

I slowed when I passed by Lisa. Slowed down and stared.

White dress dancing in the wind.

I sat there, heart aching as much as the rest of me, wishing a lot of things. None of those wishes would come true. Father Time marched in one direction. I had to do the same.

I gave it some gas. Motor stuttered a bit before it roared. Something shifted in the backseat. I looked back. A can of gas and a roll of duct tap. My heartbeat tripled again. The backseat was damaged. Had a hole in the right side, a hollow tunnel. That was why I could hear them talking.

I put the Deuce in gear and rattled out to the streets, drove slow, looking for landmarks and street signs, saw that I was down at Dockweiler State Beach, right off Imperial Highway. The black beach was what we called it. Headlights went by. Nobody slowed down or stopped.

Imperial Highway took me up by LAX and put me on the 105. The 105 to the 110, the 110 to the 10, the 10 to La Brea, La Brea to Edgewood to Highland to the gritty streets in Hollywood. Didn’t know if I was doing the right thing, but I drove that Deuce back into the mouth of Hollywood, my mind spinning. Had taken as much freeway as I could, didn’t want to take a chance on the streets. Didn’t know if the hoopty I was in was hot. Didn’t know if the registration was current. Didn’t want to chance the police stopping behind me at a light, running the tags. Didn’t want to stop at a pay phone and ask anybody to come get me. Johnny Law could pull up then. I ignored the pain the best I could and drove. I was a driver. I knew the city. Knew that bitch like she was my own woman. Loved Los Angeles enough to die for her. Hated her enough to kill her. It was a long and painful drive. Surreal. Like I was on acid, riding through a Salvador Dali painting. I don’t know art but I know he had some weird shit. Hollywood was forever away, but I made it back to the land of broken dreams.

My car was still there. No ticket on the window this time.

I waited until no headlights were near me and left the Deuce sitting on one of Hollywood Boulevard’s side streets. I reached in the backseat and got that gas can, poured gas all over anything I had touched and where I had been held hostage. I tossed a match as I limped away, dusting as much sand off me as I could. I hurried around the corner and got in my ride without anybody seeing me, flames rising behind me, my DNA being incinerated.

The wealth of pain came back as soon as I got in my ride.

I wiped sand from my face, put my soggy shoe on the pedal, and drove as fast as I could.

I couldn’t drive far. Just wanted to drive far enough away to dissociate myself from that Deuce. Ended up going two blocks over to Club 360. I put my suit coat on and went toward the crowd. Club was still bumping, but a lot of people were outside. I had expected that would be a crime scene too. Thought that by now the jackal would have been wrapped up and carted away.

No one was on that side of the street.

The crowd was so fucked up, so busy laughing and leaning on each other they didn’t give a shit about me digging in the bushes and coming out with that cellular. With the filth and sand all over my skin they probably thought I was one of L.A.’s homeless. Street people were always ignored. I needed that phone. Had to call for some help. Panther answered on the first ring.

I caught my breath, held the pain at bay, and asked, “Where you at?”

“Why it take so long for you to call?”

“Relax.”

“You okay?”

“I think so. Yeah. I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“Not now. Where you at?”

“When I called your brother... we were worried. I’m at his crib.”

“How things between him and his friend?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“They fighting?”

“Pasquale’s mad, but he’s not tripping.”

“Good. That’s. Good.”

I told her where to meet me, hung up, walked my agony across the street.

The jackal was still there. He looked like one of L.A.’s homeless, a man down and out on his luck and taking a break from life’s struggle by napping on the concrete.

I had planned to take the .380, plant it in his right hand, make sure it had his prints.

I had wiped down the stun gun, had thought about sticking those prongs in his flesh. Pushing them deep enough to get covered with his DNA.

I didn’t.

That would’ve been too complicated. A fool’s move.

I took the .380 and stun gun with me.

 

 

I drove on Highland until it changed into Edgewood, then went south on La Brea, stopped in the parking lot of the Starbucks that was on the east side of the street, just north of San Vincente. Panther pulled up right when I did. Rufus was in the car with her.

Both had worry etched in their faces, borderline tears in their eyes. Whatever they saw when they saw me was more than enough to put a new level of horror in their expressions, stole their breaths, did the same to all questions. Everything but my suit coat was soaking wet. Sand all over my body, bruises in my skin. Hands swollen. Walking like grandpa. That was what they could see. If those prongs had done any internal damage, I didn’t know. Couldn’t tell.

Rufus and Panther got out of her car. I called for Panther to get back in her ride, told Rufus to come to me. I left the driver side door open, hobbled around the rear of the car, got in the passenger side. Rufus was inside and behind the wheel before I got my door closed.

In a gruff voice that sounded like Reverend Daddy, I told Rufus, “Drive.”

He drove. Panther followed. They didn’t drive fast, kept it normal. La Brea was a main artery, plenty of red lights, always had nonstop traffic. Looked like we’d run up on a crowd that was coming from Roscoe’s or Mixed Nuts Comedy Club.

Something shifted when Rufus changed lanes, slid from under the seat on my side.

Rufus’s eyes went to the noise. He saw the .380 and the stun gun.

He looked at me and froze up.

I repeated, “Drive, man. Drive the damn car.”

Then I jumped. Reached behind my ear, touched my head wound. I had so many new pains that that old one had been sidelined. Was afraid that it had opened up, that I had dripped blood from Dockweiler to Hollywood. My hand came back wet, but with sweat. No blood.

We were sitting at the light at La Brea and Washington when Rufus stopped tapping on the steering wheel and asked, “Ever hear the joke about Texas Mating Spiders?”

“Rufus—”

“A preacher watched his daughter playing in the garden. He smiled as he reflected on how sweet and innocent his little girl was.”

“Rufus.”

“Suddenly she just stopped and stared at the ground. He went over to her and noticed she was looking at two spiders mating. ‘Daddy, what are those two spiders doing?’ ”

“Rufus.”

“I’m nervous, dammit. All this bull with that psycho is going on, you vanish, come back looking like hell warmed over, left that message with me ... I called your girlfriend... you have more guns than Charlton Heston... look at my hand... see my fuckin’ nerves are shot, dammit.”

“Okay. Okay. The spiders.”

He took a deep breath, ran his hand over his locks, moved his hair away from his swollen jaw. “‘They’re mating,’ her father replied. ‘What do you call the spider on top, Daddy?’ she asked. ‘That’s a Daddy Longlegs,’ her father answered. ‘So, the other one is Mommy Longlegs?’ the little girl asked. ‘No,’ her father replied. ‘Both of them are Daddy Longlegs.’ The little girl thought for a moment, then took her foot and stomped them flat and said, ‘Well, it might be okay in California or New York but we’re not having any of that shit in Texas.’ ”

Silence.

I asked, “You done?”

“First time I heard it, thought it was funny.”

The police pulled up next to us. A black-and-white. I looked over at them. The driver looked at me. I nodded. He did the same, chuckled, then went back to talking on his cell phone.

Silence.

The light changed. Rufus drove, hands gripping the wheel, knuckles bruised like mine. In the car behind us, Panther had an eye that was swollen from when she’d fallen and bumped her face. We’d become a parade of the walking wounded.

He asked, “Somebody ... you ... those guns... how bad did it get?”

“Less you know the better.”

Seemed like police cars were all over La Brea, moving in all directions.

Rufus asked, “Will you be needing an alibi?”

“That would help a lot better than a joke.”

“I told you I was nervous. I tell it better when I’m not nervous.”

“I‘mma need some clothes. And shelter for a few hours. Shelter with people around.”

“Don’t worry.
Mi casa, su casa.”

“What about your boy?”

“Oh, please. Right now Pasquale is in the doghouse. He’ll do anything I ask him to.”

“I’m hurting to death over here.”

 

 

Pasquale’s guest house was bigger than my apartment. I’d never spent the night at their crib before. Had never been comfortable over there. Rufus brought me some fresh towels, a pair of oversized sweats, Vicodin, and a bottle of JD. My last suit was stuffed in a garbage bag. Rufus was going to drive a few blocks away and toss it all. I showered all the sand and murder off my skin, as much as I could, then collapsed on the bed and turned on the flat-screen. The volume was low, but I couldn’t hear. Panther had taken the vacuum to the carpet, sucked up the sand that I had tracked in, then she took some cleansers and did the same in the bathroom.

My body was exhausted but I was scared to let sleep find me. Scared of what images might find me in my dreams. I waited for the news. Scared to see that too, but had to know.

Panther sat next to me. I was glad she was here.

We kissed for a while. I kissed her like I was lucky to be alive. I kissed her neck. Her legs opened and she welcomed me. She laid back and I was on top of her, her hand reaching for me, rushing me inside her, and I was moving slow, listening to her moan for Jesus and his father.

She got on top. Worked me something good.

My ex-wife didn’t matter anymore.

Lisa didn’t matter, not in that moment, not in this way.

 

 

Sunrise found me in front of the television.

After watching reports of more troops being slaughtered in Iraq, then about Jesse Jackson coming to Inglewood to protest the opening of a Wal-Mart supercenter the size of seventeen football fields, the wretched story I was waiting for hit the local news stations.

Panther was cuddled up next to me, holding me without smothering me. Touching me without clinging. She hadn’t slept a second either. The news about Iraq had her chewing her lip, shaking her head, and bouncing her leg.

BREAKING NEWS—DOCKWEILER STATE BEACH

I closed my eyes, had another one of those philosophical moments where I hoped the life and things around me were just a product of my own mind.

I opened my eyes.

Squad cars. Medical examiner. His and her hearses. News vans from every local television station. Morning traffic, congested because of all the commotion. Photographers. Looky-loos in sandals or running shoes. People hanging around the perimeter, binoculars and digital cameras in hand, ready to shoot the scene and upload it to some perverted Web page.

Remoras in search of their next shark.

Rufus tapped on the door. Panther covered herself before I told him to come in.

Rufus told me, “Found it.”

“Found what?”

He tossed me a book. Paperback. Small. Colorful cover. No picture on the back. It was written by F. Titilayo Coker. Manumit Yet to Come.

Then he tossed me his copy of
Dawning of Ignorance.

Rufus said, “Told you I had hypermnesia. Talk about a déjà vu.”

I put the books to the side and shushed him.

Our eyes went to the television.

That could’ve been me, my body covered by a secondhand white sheet.

 

 

The noontime report had more details, was updated and told about a thirty-nine-year-old African-American male and a forty-year-old African-American female being found dead on the sands of Dockweiler State Beach in Playa Del Rey at sunrise. The bodies were found sixty yards away from each other. Both had been shot.

Playa Del Rey.

Playa.

Lisa had taken me to Playa.

A gun was found on the scene. That was Lisa’s Glock.

The news peeps said the police had bodies but no details. No wit- nesses. Names were being held pending notification of relatives. Full investigation. Full-blown crime scene. Helicopters. Crime scene investigators. Yellow tape all over the place. More officers than I’d ever seen in one spot had swooped in, had their lights flashing up and down the highway.

Rufus came back to the guesthouse, looked at my wounds again, his swollen face trying to read me to see if that news had anything to do with my injuries. I remained stone-faced, emotions being held down. Then he sat down in one of the chairs, crossed his legs, folded his arms, and watched the flat-screen television with us.

An old man with a metal detector had been up at the crack of dawn, walking Dockweiler State Beach like he did most mornings, working out his arthritis while he looked for a lost pirate’s treasure. He’d stumbled across a dead black man on the beach. Before he could scream out, an early morning jogger and her dog ran up on a dead black woman, bruises on her neck, her white dress stained in red, parts of that dress still waving, moving like she was still running.

The jogger and the old man were on their cellular phones dialing 911 at the same time.

The news said that robbery was ruled out. Ruled out because they had found forty thousand dollars in Lisa’s purse. They didn’t say her name. We knew who it was.

Forty thousand.