Drive Me Crazy (23 page)

I said, “You said two.”

“Honest. I like that. Let’s just say I tip well.”

She asked about Freeman. Wanted to know where they were staying.

I told her they were crashing at Shutters. I think she already knew that, but I didn’t put that question out there. It was my turn to do the gamming, so she chilled and let me talk. I told her about security, that Sade had come back to the bar by herself. That must’ve been when Arizona was on the phone with Freeman. Told her that it didn’t seem like him and Sade were on good terms, but the love was there, just didn’t know what that love was based on.

She asked, “What do you mean, based on?”

“Different kinds of love. Could be amative.”

“Amative?”

“You know, physical, a sexual thang, that kinda love.”

“Do men love any other way?”

I knew I’d never win that argument. I changed the subject, asked what else she had going on, just in case this Freeman shit was a bust. She said that one of the things she had done over the years and was good at was counterfeiting credit cards, knew all about a card’s magnetic strips.

I asked, “You doing that at the play?”

“We have credit card readers in a few places around the city.”

She fired up a smoke. I asked her how that credit card scam worked and she changed again, smiled and turned all pro, started sounding like Professor Grifter.

I said, “I heard equipment for that kinda operation was expensive.”

“It is.” She dropped her cigarette, let it burn and scent the stale air. “Not hard to get on the open market. Embossing machines cost. Silk-screening equipment doesn’t cost as much.”

“Thought you were into real estate.”

“I’m into more things than you’ll ever know. I learned managerial skills from the best.”

She was smart, but I’d met smarter people on the other side of The Wall.

I checked my watch again, felt like a clock was over my head counting down, its glow in red neon. It had been a long night and a longer day. Sleep was looking for me and I was avoiding it like the plague. I gave in to a yawn, moved the conversation back to the task at hand.

I asked, “If you can pull down this much cash, why bother with Freeman?”

With a crooked little smile she said, “Because jacking a book has never been done.”

“All fun and games for you.” “What can I say? I love my job. Would be nice to do something ... different ... creative.”

I understood, told her that with a simple nod. “You’re a trendsetter.”

“Always looking for new opportunities.”

“When did you get that idea? To jack a book for bucks?”

“Last summer I saw this thing on the news. I was in North Carolina, working a nice little grift back that way. John Grisham was getting paid seventy-five thousand to come to a library. From the time his plane landed to the time it took off, he was in North Carolina for three hours. Seventy-five thousand. I thought, what if somebody jacked his next book.”

“Damn. But you couldn’t get to the Grish.”

“He didn’t look like the type. Then I saw Freeman on C-SPAN, bragging about his big payday. The perfect mark. So full of himself. So arrogant. Did some research online.”

“God bless the Internet.”

“A grifter’s toolbox. Anyway, stumbled across something unrelated. Years ago Toni Morrison’s house burned down or something. She lost a manuscript. The article talked about the unpublished manuscript, and of course how millions of dollars in literature had gone up in flames. The part that stuck with me was how, even if she started over, she’d never be able to reproduce what she had, not the way it was. It couldn’t be duplicated, was irreplaceable.”

“I’m on the same page with you. You jack it, it can’t be replaced. So it’s worth a mint.”

“I went to a few writers’ Web pages. Freeman’s Web page was somewhere in the middle of the list, shot him an e-mail, he responded within two hours.”

“Just like that.”

“Surprised me too.”

“You send Bobblehead a picture with the e-mail?”

“Of course.”

“I’m not gonna ask what kind of picture you sent.”

“Nothing you haven’t already seen.”

We laughed and traded yawns.

We talked a little more. Everything had to happen tomorrow, no later than the next day.

I told her, “Make sure I get the call to drive the new black aesthetic.”

She nodded.

I said, “I need fifteen.”

She nodded. “We’ll do what we can do.”

Anger was rising, but I felt better. Cash in my pocket made my load feel lighter.

I ran my hand over her hair, asked, “Gonna invite me up?”

The gate to the garage whined open. Another new BMW pulled in, just like Arizona‘s, only it was jet black. The pickpocket was driving. Now her hair was short, in a pixie cut, longhaired wig removed. She saw us talking, nodded at Arizona, drove to the end and parked.

Arizona told me, “Your timing is bad.”

“Same goes for you.”

She tossed her smoke, flipped her hair. “You should’ve answered last night. Had the place to myself. She stayed over in Encino with her boyfriend. Her costar in the play.”

“Mrs. Robinson likes ‘em young.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I’m tired anyway.”

“You look it. Get your rest.”

The pickpocket was sashaying our way, her thin heels clicking against the concrete. D&G belt. High-end purse that had a lot of little Gs in the leather. Ralph Lauren shades at night. Leather pants and a white top that exposed the ripples in her flat stomach. Same long coat she wore in the play was keeping her warm. She was talking, laughing. On her cellular.

She pushed a button, muted her phone and told Arizona, “Freeman.”

“He called you?”

“Blowing up my phone.”

“So he’s an ass man.”

“Don’t hate the butt, mutt.”

They both laughed and said a few things to each other in Spanish. Her friend was asking about me, her eyes told me that, so did her body language. Didn’t like her. Not at all.

Her eyes told me she felt the same way about me.

The pickpocket went back to getting her mack on with Freeman.

“So, they’re running a book event you did on C-SPAN tonight?” The pickpocket rolled her eyes. “Sure I’ll stay up and check it out. I bet you did tell them a thing or two.”

I wondered where Sade was. Probably in a vodka-induced coma.

Arizona waved and followed the pickpocket to the elevator, four heels clicking in exhausted rhythms, asses moving with Grey Poupon sashays. They vanished on the elevator.

I took the gun away from the small of my back, held it down at my side as I headed to my car and its broken glass. Put the piece in my lap. Turned the heat up high. Drove toward a ruined apartment, glass crumbs falling in the backseat every time I hit uneven pavement.

I walked in my door, stepped across the soaked and bleached carpet, turned on the lights.

I was three thousand richer.

Twelve thousand away from being able to sleep at night.

Crumpled-up dollars made puddles at her feet.

Panther did a few spins and offered her rear to the crowd. More crumpled dollars. Her shiny dress flew off and she was down to her G-string. Her body oiled. She fondled her blond wig and took to the pole, did a gymnastics move and ended up upside down, came down slowly, gyrating, then flipped slow and easy, landed in a Chinese split. She double-timed the beat and did some erotic African moves, lower body rotations that sent out waves of pleasure.

A tanned Asian girl passed by. Six-inch stilettos. Long black hair. Long satin kimono.

She said, “Hey, Driver.”

“Hey, China Doll.”

She stopped at a table next to me, did a dance for a brother and his woman, mostly for his smiling woman. That was the norm in a spot like this. The ratio of men to women had to be fifty-fifty up in here, all competing for the same soft-legged pretty girls at ten dollars a song.

I walked over to the stage, sprinkled a few dollars. Panther came over, dancing in her thigh-high boots, isolating butt cheeks, first making one move, then the other, then together.

I said, “Thought you weren’t working tonight.”

“Didn’t hear from you.”

“You have an attitude with me now?”

“What you think?”

“Need a place to crash.”

“And?”

“Can I still come over?”

“For what?”

“What did I do?”

“What you think?”

“Why don’t you just tell me and we’ll both know.”

“I’m working, Driver.”

I let that go and headed back over to the bar, grabbed me a Jack on the rocks, watched Panther wag her onion for a moment then turned away, looked at other dancers. It was easier for me to watch other women work. Watched women dancing for women. For men. For couples. Watched the Asian girl take a brother into a back room where special things happened for the right price. Was hard to watch Panther do this. Don’t know when I started to mind. Crept up on me. Her life. Didn’t seem right and didn’t seem like my place to tell her anything different.

My past. Seemed like I saw my past sitting in front of me, swimming in that glass.

Sometimes I stared at my JD and saw her complexion. Didn’t matter if I drank from a glass or a paper cup, her face was in every drop. I swallowed and heard her calling my name.

I let that go. Anger sent me back to the problems I had now.

Panther came off stage, passed me by. All attitude. Nothing like the woman I’d been inside this morning, not at all like the woman I’d seen this afternoon. She ended up flirting with the guy standing next to me. A blue suit sporting a hundred-dollar tie and crisp white shirt. Flirting hard and strong. She sat next to him, her hand on his leg, laughing, telling him how fine he was. Then she started dancing for him, swerving her backside up against his crotch.

My right hand started shaking. Needed to hit somebody.

I stopped Sexy Chocolate as she passed, asked her to come perform for me. She nodded toward Panther and shook her head, telling me no. I grabbed her arm and pulled out a C-note. That changed her mind. Panther cut her eyes at me, then did the same toward Sexy Chocolate.

Sexy Chocolate stopped dancing. “Driver, I don’t know whassup, but I ain’t involved.”

She told me to keep my money, politely stepped off, headed across the room.

Panther finished her dance, stuffed her ten spot in her garter, walked away without acknowledging me. China Doll wouldn’t come my way. Same went for Diamond, Mercedes, Spanish Fly, Butter Pecan, Alize, Milkshake, Chardonnay, Honey Dip, and a few others.

I downed my Jack and headed for the exit.

People with day jobs had started leaving the strip mines about the same time I walked out. The irresponsible and unemployed stayed until the last song. Waitresses started leaving around one-thirty. Then Panther came out. She had on pink sweats, a leather jacket, Adidas bag over her shoulder. Some guy was walking with her. Big, wide dude. One of the bouncers. She saw me by her car, said something to him. He turned around, went back toward the club.

Cool. Jack had calmed my nerves. I didn’t feel like hitting nobody anyway.

She stopped right by me, ran her hand over her hair, let out an exasperated sigh.

“Two minutes, Driver.”

“Five.”

“You just lost ten seconds.”

I nodded. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

She shifted, dropped her bag, leaned her butt against her car.

“Today ... at lunch ... got emotional—” She cleared her throat, waited for a car to drive by us. “Got carried away. Said it.”

I sucked my bottom lip. Tired as hell. Didn’t need this shit right now.

“That did it.” She nodded. “Told you I love you. You didn’t respond. You didn’t even acknowledge that I told you I loved you.”

“That’s why you’re acting crazy?”

“I opened up. You blew me off.”

“You hung up.”

“You had all day to call me back. Told you that and I haven’t heard from you.”

“Didn’t blow you off. Hell, I opened up too.”

“You did not.”

I snapped, “With all the shit I’m dealing with, did the best I could, dammit.”

That shut her up.

Head busted with a 7-Up. A Glock pointed at me. Stalked. Apartment trashed. Clothes either soaked in bleach or ripped to shreds. This bullshit was the last thing I needed.

She took her tone down a bit. “Why didn’t you call me to let me know you were okay?”

“Been busy.”

“You have a cellular on your hip at all times. What, you couldn’t find two seconds?”

I shifted, ran my fingers over that day-old scar behind my ear. I understood women the way most poor people understood the economy.