Drive Me Crazy (15 page)

“Gay book?”

“One of them specialty books you read.”

“Not a
specialty
book. Get me an autographed copy.”

“Rufus, man, you know I don’t give a damn about an autograph.”

“Just a signature and a date, not personalized. That way it’s worth more when he dies.”

“What’s this preoccupation you have with death?”

“When you can see a big clock over your head counting down, it’s your reality.”

I almost snapped at Rufus. He told me that seeing me on television gave him a reason to call. Little brother was worried about his big brother. The way I showed up on his doorstep with my head busted had robbed him of his sleep the same way it would’ve done Momma.

He asked, “How much you owe the crazy psycho sadistic bitch?”

I took a breath. “Fifteen large.”

“Are you serious?”

“Got the money from her to bury Momma.”

“You owe her the whole fifteen thousand?”

“She’s calling in her loan.”

That wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t a total lie. Rufus knew about as much about my life as I did about his. Knew as much about my truth as I did his.

He coughed. “Look, I called around and found Ray Ray. He ain’t in jail this week. Let me give you his number.”

“This is my problem, Rufus.”

“You’re my brother. She was my mother too. This is my problem.”

We hung up. At least I know I did.

I hustled the luggage to the black sedan. I read the names on the tags. The two that weighed the most had tags with Freeman’s name. The third bag had the name FOLASADE TITILAYO COKER. Freeman’s woman had a proper, African-mixed-with-English accent and a name to match. I looked at the tag because Miss Africa never introduced herself. Folasade Titilayo Coker. A smaller tag was on the bag, red with the word MANUMIT in black letters.

I bent my knees, deadlifted that overweight Samsonite, then heaved the other bags inside the trunk. The last carry-on bag zipper busted open, its goods spilling out.

A hundred little Freemans ran out and frowned at me.

Bobbleheads. The bag was weighed down by a ton of Freeman bobbleheads.

Each had a book held high in each hand. Reminded me of Charlton Heston as Moses when he stood on the mountaintop waving the Ten Commandments at the sinners.

I shook my head and stuffed the chocolate-colored narcissists back in the bag. Had too many of the little bastards in my hand. Dropped one outside the car. Freeman’s fat head bounced and rolled across the concrete. Left knee hummed when I bent to pick it up, wanted to go south. That pain, too much alcohol, and not enough sleep made me feel my age in a bad way.

Footsteps echoed in the musty garage.

I stood tall like a bear and turned around.

They were in the shadows, watching me. The lion and the jackal.

Lisa’s bullyboys were twenty yards away, leaning against different cars, both smoking and chilling out like they were waiting on a bus. I made a couple of steps in their direction, my expression asking them to bring it on. The lion flicked his smoke my way, did an about-face, headed deeper into the garage. The jackal did the same, smoke pluming around his head.

They walked away fast, but not too fast. They knew I couldn’t follow them, not now.

I watched them until they were completely gone, until their smoke had dissipated.

My angry lungs reminded me to breathe again.

I tossed the bobblehead to the curb, zipped the bag up, and got inside the sedan. That was when I saw a sheet of paper underneath the windshield wiper.

I grabbed it.

It was a newspaper article. Months old. About a man who was tortured and murdered, his killers never found. They’d left that under my windshield wiper like it was their business card.

My stomach turned like peroxide and baking soda was mixing up inside me.

Should’ve gone after those bastards. But it was two against one. Ten years ago, hell maybe even five years back, I would’ve said that was cool, bring it on, and would’ve gone King Kong on those niggas and beat both of those motherfuckers into the pavement.

This sit-down job had softened me, made me stiff over the last six months. My body told me I was forty every chance it got. I could fuck twice as strong but might not be able to fight half as long. Right now the odds were in a young man’s favor.

I punched in Lisa’s cellular number. This time she clicked her phone on, but she didn’t say a word. I snapped her name. She hung up. I called back. It went straight to voice mail.

She had shut me out.

I called Wolf’s office.

Wolf answered. “Thought you’d be on the way to Santa Monica by now.”

The CEO was at his office computer, looking at the high-tech tracker on his cars. This sedan was a red blip on Wolf’s computer screen. Lisa could find me with the click of a mouse.

Wolf asked, “How is this Freeman cat?”

The black Expedition appeared in my rearview, fucking with me. I ran my tongue around my mouth, kept my eyes on them. I told Wolf, “Freeman’s ego might not fit in the car.”

Wolf blew air.

I said, “She broke out an itinerary. Thought this was just a drop-off.”

“Grit your teeth and kiss ass until the check clears. What she gave you the schedule?”

Right now I craved a shot of Jack. I said, “His fiancée is with him.”

“Heard about her from New York. Nigerian. Her parents are diplomats. Speaks a dozen languages. Rumor is her folks are class-conscious and not too crazy about her choice in men.”

“You know a lot.”

“I like to know who’s farting on my backseats.”

The lion posted up next to me. He nodded my way, smiled like we were friends, maybe telling me we’d get to know each other better, real soon. They drove away, forty thousand dollars worth of rims going in circles. I eased back and put my eyes on their license plate.

I asked Wolf, “Nobody’s available to do a handoff?”

“Everybody’s out.”

The Expedition vanished in traffic. My sweaty hands strangled the steering wheel.

Wolf stopped me from hanging up. “Nation next to Egypt. Five letters. Third is a B.”

Doing a crossword puzzle was the last thing on my mind. “Kenya. No, wait. Libya.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Wolf ...”

“Yeah?”

“We need to talk. Man to man. You have time for a sit-down later on this evening?”

“Driver, I really need you to handle Freeman.”

“This ain’t ... this ain’t got nothing to do with Freeman.”

That caught him off guard. “Have to deal with my kids. What’s going on?”

I wanted to tell Wolf about the shit Lisa had done right then. Wanted to open my mouth and let it all spill out. Almost did. But it wasn’t the kind of thing you told a man over the phone. That would be a punk move. Had to look him in his face. Maybe between now and then I’d figure out how to tell him about my part in the betrayal between brothers, in a way that would make sense to him. Somewhere deep inside me lived an ironic chuckle. Not long ago I could’ve killed him. Now I couldn’t tell the man something as simple as I’d been fucking his wife.

I asked, “Things better with you and the wife?”

“When she came back last night, she was all over me. She wants to take off for a couple of days. I might fly her up the coast for the next three days and get some quiet time together.”

That was the same thing she had done when I was supposed to take care of Wolf, gone on vacation, taken herself out of the equation, created herself an alibi on the cruise ship
Elation.

Sounded like she was doing the same thing now. Creating her alibi.

Damocles’s sword had moved from Wolf, now it hung over my head.

Freeman’s fiancée was standing curbside, alone and demure, transparent to the crowd.

Her man was still inside, fans taking his picture like he was Muhammad Ali.

I opened the back door. His woman eased inside like a lady. Did it with class. She sat down first, then brought her legs in at the same time, kept her knees together. Femininity was an art she had mastered. She looked up at me, those two blue oceans made contact with my eyes.

I said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sade.”

“Like the singer.”

“Yes.”

I told her about the broken zipper and spilled bobbleheads. She didn’t give a damn.

I got in. Seconds passed like minutes. Wetness trickled down my neck. I freaked, touched my skin, and it came back wet and clear. Not blood. Sweat was dampening my collar.

Hadn’t noticed what was going on inside the terminal. A tall sister was hugged up with Freeman while her shorter, flirty friend took picture after picture. Then they switched up.

My breathing had evened out, but my heart hadn’t moved from my throat.

My passenger hissed. “This is brilliant. Just brilliant.”

Then she mumbled something rugged in a nasally language, the kind where I could see the accent marks and dots over each foreign word.

My eyes went to Freeman. The smaller woman was trying to out-flirt her girlfriend, holding Freeman tight, pressing her breasts deep into his chest, her face damn close to his.

“Driver, please, remind the
new black aesthetic
that he has a phoner.”

“Phoner?”

“Just get him, please.” She flipped from being timid to frustrated, her real personality must’ve been rising to the top. “He has fallen in love with the sound of his own voice and will go on and on as long as someone, as long as anyone listens. This tour has become ridiculous.”

I hit the emergency flashers, waited for airport security to pass by.

 

 

The short woman hugged up on Freeman saw me coming, then adjusted her rimless glasses and turned away. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She looked all of sixteen, but her body said she was older. Her silky white blouse and dark skirt made her curves come to life.

It was Miss Baklava Glue. Arizona. She’d decided she wanted to be seen.

The woman with her was a lot taller and a little older, had a fuller build, all curves. Her hair was in a pixie cut. She was about my age, had dimples too. I’d seen her somewhere before.

Arizona moved away from Freeman and hurried by me. I turned back to call her name and bumped into her friend. I hit her hard. She stumbled away like she’d hit a brick wall, almost twisted her ankle. I reached out and grabbed her to stop her from going down to the ground. She got her balance and moved on like nothing had happened, jogged and caught up with Arizona.

Arizona kept going, purse in one hand, jacket over her other arm.

Freeman held onto his briefcase, asked, “What’s the problem, my brother?”

I told Freeman that his fiancée said he had a phoner.

He adjusted his briefcase and matched my long stride with a quick Napoleonic strut.

His eyes were on Arizona and her friend. He grunted. “She had to tag along.”

The
she
that he was talking about was his woman. He’d brought sand to the beach and his face told me he regretted it down to his bones. His woman’s blue eyes were watching his every move, lips tight. His African queen was ready to piss a circle around what was hers.

I let him inside the car, my eyes hunting for the lion and the jackal. They were gone. Before I made it to my door my cellular sang. I answered. It was Arizona. I didn’t want the clients to hear me curse like a sailor with Tourette’s syndrome, so I moved to the trunk, opened it and pretended I was adjusting the luggage, my words muffled by airport noises.

Arizona was on the island where the shuttles stopped, her back to me, at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green. Her hands were on her hips, so she must’ve had on a headset.

I growled, “You with those motherfuckers in the Expedition?”

Her voice remained even. “What motherfuckers in what Expedition?”

I paused and rubbed my face, peeped over the back window. Freeman’s woman had her legs crossed and was going over what looked like a comprehensive schedule. Freeman’s hands were free. He’d taken off the handcuffs and put the briefcase either on the floor or on the seat.

Arizona glanced my way, licked her lips.

I gritted my teeth, told her to tell me what the hell was going on.

“I need your help, Driver. It’s business.”

“Give me more than that.”

“Short con.”

“The mark?”

“In your car. Page me when you can talk.”

“Talk now or there won’t be another conversation.”

“Later.”

“I hang up and don’t call this number again.”

“Driver—”

“Five, four, three, two—”

“I was supposed to meet him last night. Sade found our e-mails on the computer, which were pretty erotic, typical online stuff, all fantasy on his part. She made him change his flight plans, tagged along to protect her investment. Her presence has mucked up the program.”

“You worked me getting this job?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on. You just met me last night.”

“I’m good.”

“Let me guess. Freeman didn’t request a black driver.”

She said, “And I made sure he didn’t get a stretch limo.”

“Why
^?
”

“He’d let up the privacy glass. Then you couldn’t hear him talk.”

I stared her down. Smart woman to be so young. That gave me a new kind of fear.

I asked, “What am I supposed to be hearing?”

“Eyes and ears, Driver. It would help if you told me where he’s staying. ”

“If you’re talking to the bastard, you should know.”

“It changed. I think his publisher changed it. And he’s not telling because his woman is with him.”

“Hypothetically, what else you need?”