Drive Me Crazy (20 page)

I let Mr..357 peep in ahead of me. Finger on trigger, I followed his lead.

I hit the light switch closer to the front door.

Two. I knew what that meant. The number of days I had left.

That message was spray painted on every wall I could see. Bright red and deep blacks. Large numbers, small letters, all the same message. Two styles. Only two styles. They worked as a team, each tripping out with their own can of paint, acting like kids on a playground.

That graffiti job wasn’t all they’d done while I was at work. They had taken their time, had a little fuck-up-my-place party, left cans of beer and cigarette butts everywhere I could see.

That was the mild damage. The room had been destroyed.

My Green Goblin statue was in a hundred pieces, had been stomped into the floor.

Sofa slashed, gutted, and its insides thrown all around the room like confetti in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Television had been kicked over, busted, dead where it lay. Socks, drawers, most of my clothes were all over the joint, everything I saw had been cut to pieces.

Kitchen.

Everything from chicken to syrup to oatmeal to flour was all over the cabinets and floor.

Windows were closed. Bleach was strong.

I didn’t see anybody hiding, but I didn’t put the gun away. Coughed, followed that thickening stench and turned on every light I could find.

Bathroom.

That’s where that stench was the strongest. It was mixing with another foul smell, one twice as rank. This second stink was heavier, not moving, waiting patiently like death.

Stopped moving. Listened.

Heard water running. Like a peaceful river.

Every slow step wetter than the one before.

Looked down.

Carpet damp, soggy, every step like sloshing through a Berber marsh.

Pushed the bathroom door wide open, the business end of my friend leading the way.

Humidity painted my face.

Heat from the hot water rushed out into the cool air.

I hit the light switch, brought that terror to life with a sixty-watt bulb.

Damn.

I put the gun down, took my coat off, rolled up my pant legs, cursed like I had Tourette’s.

Bathtub was overflowing. Had to rush and turn the steaming water off.

My Italian suits, ties, and shirts, all my gear down to the rest of my socks and drawers were swimming in the bathtub, drowning in the clear water as it turned black and red and gray.

Three empty bleach bottles rested on top of my clothes. Three gallons total.

One gallon for each suit I owned.

My first mind was to pull the suits out, try to save them, but the way the bleach had stolen all the color told me that they were a done deal. Bleach had been poured on first, used to marinate my clothes, then the water had been turned on. I turned the water off, coughed while I opened a window, slipped on the wet linoleum, got my balance, leaned against the door, then slapped the wall over and over with the palm of my hand. If I owned the place I would’ve knocked holes in every wall, would’ve torn this building down brick by brick.

The other rank smell came from the toilet. They had shitted in my toilet.

I rushed out the bathroom. Couldn’t breathe. Had to find enough air so I could scream.

I cursed all kinds of curses, kicked everything that was already broken.

Wanted to put Lisa facedown, stomp her head until her teeth were gone.

If I hadn’t screamed I would’ve heard my car alarm going off sooner.

People didn’t respond to car alarms. Took me a minute to recognize it was mine.

I hurried back downstairs, pants still rolled up, guns in backpack, and took to the alley.

My car was screaming like it had been stabbed in the heart.

I eased up on my ride, made sure nobody had done that to draw me out into danger. Walked the alley, peeped in nooks and crannies, then came back and hit the remote.

The back window had been broken out. A red brick rested on the backseat.

I looked down at the asphalt, saw where tires had burned rubber leaving my world.

Tire prints were as unique as footprints. Those came from big tires. An Expedition.

My cellular rang. I answered without saying a word, just listened.

She did the same.

She whispered, “
What did you say to my husband?
”

It was Lisa, her voice so bitter.

I growled, “What your boys did ... that’s pretty fucked up.”

“
What the fuck did you say to my husband?
”

I matched her tone, said, “Call your bullyboys off before somebody gets hurt real bad.”

“You don’t understand how this works, do you? You’re not in charge.
I am.”

Silence.

“This is the beginning of your end, Driver. I’m not even warmed up yet. Would be a damn shame if every time you pulled out on the streets one of my friends from LAPD found a reason to give you a ticket. Lose your license and I can have Wolf fire your ass with cause and you’d lose your chance at getting a job anywhere a bus doesn’t roll. Maybe they could find a ton of drugs in your apartment. Or hidden in your car. With your record—how many more years do you think you’d lose? You’re forty. Let’s see, that would be your second strike, so, let me think, you’d be at least sixty when you got out. You better stock up on Viagra while you can, Playa.”

I swallowed my rage.

I whispered, “Don’t fuck with me like that.”

“A real man always pays his debts and keeps his word. You’ve done neither.”

My teeth gritted.

I snapped, “Don’t believe you did a B&E and destroyed my apartment ... and my suits ...”

“Consider that penalties and interest.”

More silence while I beat her ass over and over in my mind, my teeth gritting.

“Driver, only two ways out of this.”

“I’m listening.”

“Get my money.”

“Option number two?”

“Do what I paid you to do.”

Silence.

“Bet you’re wishing you had returned my calls. I begged your ass to call and talk to me. How many times did you ignore me? Bet you’re wishing you did now, huh? Can’t believe you had the nerve to get a job, to come to my business and work damn near every day. To stand in my face, torture me with your presence. You know how that makes me feel?”

“Lisa—”

“Instead of being an Uncle Tom and drinking beer with my husband, yeah, bet you wished you hadn’t ignored me, rejected me like that. Or talked to me like I was somebody and not just some bitch off the street. When you first started seeing me nothing was a problem.”

I held the phone away from my right ear. She bounced back and forth from being business to emotional, didn’t give me room to squeeze in a gnat-sized word, so I let her rant until the batteries ran down. Wait for the Energizer Bunny to lose energy, that was all I could do.

“Told you, I haven’t fucked with you yet. You have no idea. I’ve been nice. That punk move you pulled, whatever you said to my husband at work, that changes things. That punk move should cost at least a one-day penalty. But I’m a woman of my word. Unlike you I do what I promise. To tell the truth, as mad as I am, I’m debating if I should activate an acceleration clause, have that balloon payment due by this time tomorrow.”

In my mind, again, I felt her kicking, struggling to break free, heard her neck breaking.

I counted to five, had to do that so I didn’t say the wrong thing. “Look, you know I can’t pull down fifteen large just like that, but what if I could hustle you some good faith money?”

Seconds went by like hours. She responded, “Hustle up half and we can talk.”

I’d stomped out to La Cienega, wanted to get into the light, never knew who was still lurking in the darkness, was in front of my building, hand in backpack, head throbbing again.

I heard Wolf’s voice in the background. He was coming up the stairs to his wife.

I couldn’t hear what Wolf asked, but she went into June Cleaver mode, sweet as sugar, and replied, “Not sure who the Lakers are playing tonight, sweetie. You want to eat at Staples Center instead of dinner at Windows? Fine if you do. Just let me know how I should dress.”

He said something else.

She laughed like a schoolgirl. “If I wore nothing, we’d never make it out the house.”

She hung up.

The same vision played over and over in my mind, my own TNT movie. Saw Lisa, my big hands around her little neck, her feet inches off the floor, kicking, watching life seep from her breath by breath, her refusing to die, me refusing let her live another day, hour, second.

Didn’t trust her. I turned right, hurried my car down the alleyway and stopped in the McDonald’s lot on La Tijera, parked in the back, away from all the families in search of Happy Meals. I searched my ride top to bottom, checking to see if her bullyboys had left a package of dope in my ride. Nothing. The echo of drug-sniffing dogs rang in my ears and I damn near tore that car apart. Drove back down La Cienega, found a spot on the streets, underneath a light. Sat there, sweating, gripping the steering wheel. They could’ve doped up my apartment. Hurried back upstairs, backpack bouncing against my leg. Flushed the toilet and opened all the windows. Lisa had me seeing flashing red and blue lights, had my mind back in the Adjustment Center.

I spied out the windows, made sure LAPD wasn’t screeching to a halt in front of my building, hurried and searched high and low, looked in every cabinet, closet, inside the toilet.

Another surprise.

In my bedroom closet they had left a set of clothes untouched.

One black suit. One shirt. One tie.

It was a message. Everything they did was a message from Lisa.

Work clothes.

She wanted me to come to work looking spic and span.

No.

Burial clothes.

She had left me burial clothes.

Sirens screamed by my apartment. Those noises got to me. Tensed me.

Again I rushed from wall to wall, searched high and low again, hunted for contraband.

Couldn’t find a damn thing.

Shit.

She had me tripping.

Didn’t find any drugs her bullyboys might have stashed.

Just the clothes they had left behind.

I stared at that suit.

That message rang loud.

My cellular rang again, jumped. This time it was Rufus. I answered, gruff and tight.

He asked, “You get me a signed book?”

I hung up.

It took two hours to make a twenty-mile drive. L.A. had over five million vehicles and all of them were going north on the 405, blocking my way from asphalt jungle to asphalt jungle.

Bleach. That stench rose from the bottom of my shoes, singed my nostrils.

I took the Ventura Boulevard exit and headed toward Studio City. Passed by Billy Blanks’s gym, crossed Woodman like the instructions said, then cut a left up Ventura Canyon. It was a land of high-end apartment dwellers. Just like on my side of town, the streets were worn, crime was high, and parking sucked up here too. I guess we had equality on some levels.

I took out my cellular and called Arizona. She picked up on the third ring.

She answered with a question: “Where are you?”

“Coming down Ventura Canyon. Just crossed Moorpark.”

“Park at the first place you find.”

“You coming out?”

“You can come in. I’m getting out the shower. Have to throw on some clothes.”

A conniving woman had gotten me in trouble. Now I had to see another scandalous woman to see if I could get out of this quicksand.

I found a spot underneath a large evergreen tree. I left the interior lights off and unzipped the backpack. Panther had given me two burners: a .357 and a .380. The .380 was smaller, easy to hide. There were bullets, a shoulder holster, and a leg strap in the bag too. Panther had gone all out, straight gangsta. Made me wonder about her, what kind of woman she really was. I thought about using the leg holster. If I sat down my pant leg could rise up and the leg holster would show what I was trying to hide. Same for the shoulder holster if I opened my jacket.

I kept it simple and went old school, did like Reverend Daddy used to do when he went out on a special visit, just put the .380 in the small of my back.

 

 

Arizona was resting in Sherman Oaks at the Premiere, a small city of luxury apartments right off Woodman. Close enough to Hollywood and far enough away from the urban areas to create the illusion of pseudo culture and safety. Black people dotted the demographics.

Surrounded by streetlights, miles of high-end apartments, and the silhouette of palm trees, I felt anger and impatience start up some hardcore Chicago Steppin’ inside my gut.

I heard a door opening farther up the hallway, followed by the echo of sandals flip-flopping at a comfortable pace. Another door opened and Arizona showed up at the wrought-iron gate. That was the birth of another tense moment.

She had thrown on that same silky white blouse and dark skirt I’d seen her in earlier. Her fresh and sweet smell came to me. With no makeup on she looked younger, but her body yodeled that she was a grown-ass woman. Her expression was impenetrable, professional.

The gate let out a high-pitched squeal and slapped the stucco wall when she pushed it open. I took the steps one at a time. Without any greeting we made our way down the hallway.

I growled, “That bull you did at the airport, I don’t like people messing with me.”

“Sensitive. I like that in a man.”

I stopped walking.

She came to a gradual halt, faced me, unaffected by my size or temperament.

She asked, “So, who do you serve?”