Drive Me Crazy (31 page)

“Why are you wearing that sweatshirt?”

“Wanted to be casual. West Coast people are so laid back. Everyone wears jeans and T-shirts out here. If I had a pair of trainers I’d wear them, but I didn’t bring any trainers.”

“Don’t start acting up, Folasade.”

“Because it’s my sweatshirt, Marcus.”

“What about the agreement?”

“It’s just a friggin’ sweatshirt.”

“Do I need to call my attorney and have him handle this?”

“Consider the repercussions from such a phone call. Start a battle and end up in a war.”

She adjusted her purse with a rebellious movement, did the same with the leather coat she had draped over her arm, started to walk away, straight-backed, the stroll of a charm-school girl.

Sade headed for the door. Freeman followed her. I brought up the rear, a little bit confused. Sounded like she was his business manager. Either that or she was big-time pimping, a serious macktress who had put her man in check. Either way Freeman was her paycheck.

If this worked out, Freeman would be my paycheck too.

Without looking at me, Sade told me, “Driver, I need Starbucks.”

Her tone had changed, lost all friendliness, like the kindness had been sucked out of her.

Freeman shook his head. “This is why I tour by myself. You don’t respect my time.”

“And I still need Starbucks.”

We had to maneuver around the tourists and their oversized luggage. A svelte Asian woman with red hair hurried up the walkway. She had her purse and bottled water in one hand, one of those cardboard holders from Starbucks in her other hand, balancing four cups in the holder the way a waitress carried a tray at a nightclub, like she was a pro at multitasking.

Freeman was too busy running his mouth to notice the woman. He ran right into her, knocked her to the ground, her Starbucks spilled all over her and Freeman. Nothing she had was hot, everything some sort of apple cider, the kind of drinks you gave to children at breakfast.

Sade stepped back from the mess, lips moving up into a smile, a chuckle on her lips.

Freeman ranted that he had to go back upstairs and change.

The Asian woman went right behind him, ranting, just like Freeman. When she got to security she was so busy talking and apologizing to Black Aesthetic that nobody stopped her.

The Asian woman got on the elevator with Freeman, frowning, wiping herself down.

The elevator doors started to close.

The Asian woman glanced my way.

Sade went as far as the fireplace, then stopped at a spot away from the people, a hermit back in her shell, arms folded, eyes to the ground, a look of apprehension painted on her face.

My cellular rang.

I answered.

She said, “Looks like you’re gonna owe me two thousand.”

“Looks like.”

“Now he has to go back to his room. She’ll get off on the same floor, walk the same way, see what room he goes in. Then he leaves with you. Was that slick or was that slick?”

“How she gonna pull a B&E?”

“We have something figured out.”

“She gonna seduce him?”

She laughed.

We hung up.

That sweatshirt issue was no big deal, but it stuck with me. He hadn’t known what she was wearing, didn’t know she had on a sweatshirt. Sounded like he wanted her to dress like Jackie Onassis or Coco Chanel, because he was the superstar and she was the dime-piece on his arm representing him. Still, something wasn’t right about their attitudes about that. Then the broad smile that Sade gave me when I’d told her I’d called her room, that stuck with me too.

I waited a minute then went over to the house phone. I asked the operator to connect me to Folasade Coker’s room. That was the name I’d seen on her luggage tag. The phone rang until the hotel answering machine came on. I hung up and called the operator again, asked them to connect me to Thomas Marcus Freeman’s room. He answered on the second ring.

I hung up.

Again I asked the operator to connect me to Folasade Coker’s room. Again no answer.

My eyes went to Freeman’s blue-eyed woman. Her skin, her hair in that long braid, those long legs and short torso, her keen features. Classy. The kind of woman most men wished for.

I called Rufus again. This time it rang four times before his message center came on.

Twenty nerve-wracking minutes passed. I was pacing, but not as bad as before.

Freeman got off the elevator.

He had on black jeans, white shirt, black leather coat. Still no briefcase.

No sign of the Asian girl either.

Sade looked at her watch and snapped, “Well that took forever.”

“Was on the phone.” Freeman cleared his throat. “Agent called again.”

“Brilliant.” Sade
tsked
and rolled her eyes. “What’s the issue now?”

“Said editor is still asking for pages. Publisher wants a chapter to post on the website.”

“No,”
she snapped. “That is rubbish. No sample chapters. Stick to your contract.”

Freeman said, “Look, Folasade—”

“Don’t Folasade me, Marcus.”

“Truth Be Told
is behind. I can’t baby-sit you. Stay sober. Lay off the mini-bar.”

“Whatever. Zip it. Look, I have to whip and use the bathroom now.”

Sade headed across the room, asked a worker where the ladies room was, then hurried in that direction. I stood next to Freeman, neither of us acknowledging each other. In slavery days, masters never had to address or acknowledge slaves. Freeman rode in the back. I was the driver.

My cellular blew up again.

It was Rufus. He sounded bad, like he was in intense pain, his anger worse than Pasquale’s. His voice was fractured. I stepped to the side and told him to slow down, couldn’t understand what he was telling me. He told me some of what went down. My head exploded. Head wound cranked up to about an eight. That injury was alive, breathing on its own.

When I stepped outside to talk in private, I saw them. They were following their regular pattern. The Expedition that was pimped out with forty thousand bucks worth of ghetto rims. They were on the opposite side of the street. Motherfuckers were doing their taunting routine.

I eased the phone down to my side, took a few steps their way, stopped in the middle of the roundabout, sidestepped tourists and luggage, foreign languages being spoken all around.

Two eyes locked on four.

I became that bear. Wished they would get in arm’s reach so I could be their friend.

They nodded my way, then pulled away, cigarette smoke pluming from their ride.

They headed away from the ocean, vanished up Pico Boulevard.

It wasn’t over.

Seconds later a car followed them. Panther was at the wheel. The dancer who cried when she watched documentaries on Rita Hayworth, the woman who took medication for depression. Cynthia Smalls. Panther. She sent money to her mother in Georgia. Wanted to take care of her sister’s two kids, maybe even another. Her brother was on foreign land defending a country that would never love him, not the way black men like him should be loved.

I went to the sedan. Did that because I saw a slip of paper under the window. It was another newspaper article. Man found dead back East. Duct-taped and drowned in the ocean.

I tried to call Panther on her cellular. Got no answer.

Hoped Panther knew what she was doing. Didn’t need to wash a woman’s death away from my hands, not with my own tears. Didn’t need any more ghosts flying around in my mind.

I had to chauffeur Freeman to Howard Hughes Center. West Los Angeles. Off the 405 at Howard Hughes Parkway. From Santa Monica it was a traffic-filled ride. I drove, waited for my cellular to blow up, and listened to Freeman and Sade go at it like an old married couple.

Sade said, “Let’s get a few things out in the open, Marcus.”

“Not now.”

“Yes, now. I’m really tired of your groupies. The way they disrespect me in my face. If I wanted to go through this sort of thing I would’ve dated an NBA player. Then I would have expected this sort of lifestyle. Ever since this book has come out ... everything has changed.”

“You’ve changed, Folasade. You’re more jealous every day.”

“I’m jealous? Ha! You should hear yourself talking. Your interviews, what’s this
Chester Himes and Ralph Ellison level
nonsense, Marcus? Rubbish. This
on the walls of Barnes & Noble
crap is flapdoodle. You’re jealous of everyone. What are you trying to do?”

“Controversy shakes it up, sells books. Look at those white boys, Wolfe and Updike. All the press they got. And Richard Ford and Colson Whitehead, you see that?”

“It’s sad, that’s what it is.”

“No, it’s real. Mad, stupid
New York Times
press. They’ll be screaming ‘a fight, a fight, between a nigga and a white’ and sell a ton of books. That’s what it’s all about. The bottom line is the numbers. I need to come out and stir it up like that, push the sales through the roof.”

“That’s horrible, Marcus. All about numbers? If you feel that way, it’s horrible.”

“Have you ever been able to sell a single book, Folasade? Show me your numbers.”

Sade shut down, scooted away. I caught her in the rearview, body language tight, pointing away from Freeman, eyes out the window, an expression filled with disgust and pain.

The freeway was under my tires, passing by at seventy miles per hour, the same pace as their conversation, the same velocity as my own anxious thoughts and worries over Panther.

“Fine, Marcus. Since you insist on being rude. You should hear the wicked and evil things your so-called fans say about you. I do because I’m in the back of the room, unnoticed.”

“Look at the numbers,” he retorted. “They love Thomas Marcus Freeman. ”

“Marcus, I love you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Don’t kid yourself about the other people. It’s the book. The words. The poetry of that resounds the ... the ... the truth about their own situations, their own lives. They don’t know you. They have no idea who you are.”

He chuckled. “You’re the expert on Thomas Marcus Freeman, right?”

“Please, don’t start referring to yourself in third person.”

“Answer the question. Are you the expert on Thomas Marcus Freeman?”

“I’m your lover. I’m your fiancée. I’m your friend. I tell you this for your own good. At the airport, while you were doing that interview, I overheard one of your fans say that your ignorance and low self-esteem springs from your tongue every time you open your mouth.”

“What do you know about the book business?”

“I’m only the messenger.”

“About having to hustle? What do you know about that? Tell me, Folasade.”

The more they argued, the more she sounded both African and British. Freeman’s anger yanked him back to his Quitman, Mississippi, roots, his accent and words getting more Southern.

“I know you should get together with Kobe and do an infomer cial on infidelity.”

“I’m not messing around, Sade.”

“Have you graduated to the point where you and Collymore can do an ad for dogging?”

“Nobody is dogging.”

“Should I contact your publicist and arrange that? Or have you become her Beckham?”

Freeman spoke in a soft voice, said, “I love you, Folasade. Only you.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

He whispered,
“Sisimi. Mo fe e.
”

“Stop. I’m not playing with you, Marcus. Stop it.”

First there was more silence between them, then giggles from her and whispering sounds from him. The leather seats sighed, made some tender noises as Sade scooted closer to Freeman.

“I know what you need, Sade.”

“Give me romance, Marcus.” She whined. “Stimulate my mind first.”

“We need a vacation.”

“We do need a holiday, Marcus. This ... this book ... it’s ... it’s killing us both.”

“Maybe we can go to Zurich in March.”

“That would be nice.” Her voice softened. “I know this beautiful resort in St. Moritz.”

“Maybe we can go snowmobiling. You know how you like snowmobiling.”

She laughed a naughty laugh. Then came the wet sounds of deep kissing.

“When are we getting married, Folasade?”

“My head hurts, Marcus. Can we please get Starbucks?”

“Driver, Starbucks.”

I nodded without looking back. “A Starbucks is right across from the bookstore.”

Sade said, “Brilliant. That’s lovely.”

Her eyes came to mine in the rearview. Then we both looked away.

Like I was being paid to do, I kept driving. Eyes and ears.

Reps from Borders Books and Music met Freeman curbside, all smiles and handshakes, each one waving a Freeman bobblehead. Moses on the mountaintop waving the rules. They came to the car so they could escort him through his legion of loyal fans. Women were flashing digital cameras, the high-tech women taking pictures with their cellular phones, some extending their cellular phones and begging him to talk with their momma or cousin or best friend.

Others were fanning themselves and yelling out his name like he was their first cousin resurrected. Freeman leaned forward and waved, serious like he was the Democratic nominee.

Sade saw that crowd and moved back into a corner, shut down.

Freeman told her, “Me, Sade. They come to see Thomas Marcus Freeman. Read the banner. Listen to the name they’re calling. Driver, you want to let me out or what?”

I went around and opened his door. Freeman got out of the car, went on without her, never looked back. No kiss good-bye so she could feel special in front of the crowd. I didn’t know a lot about women, but I did know they liked to feel special. I looked in at Sade.