Drive Me Crazy (27 page)

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Have to go in at least two more days.”

“Forget that job.”

I shook my head. “Working on something.”

She looked at me, her Southern eyes telling me that she had been born a hustler, would be a hustler until her last breath. Panther shifted around, asked, “What kinda plan you got?”

I told her about Arizona and the pickpocket. About getting the fifteen large.

She said, “A scam artist comes up to you at a bar. What’s her angle?”

Then I told her about Freeman. What Arizona had in mind. That I was the inside man.

She nodded. “Again, ask yourself why this heifer picked you.”

I leaned against the dresser and thought. Again exhaustion and aggravation made everything opaque. Searched, tried to wade through that mental black ink, but thoughts fell in and vanished like a man in quicksand. No answers. All I could do was wonder. Wondered if there was some connection between Arizona and Lisa. Didn’t make any sense for there to be.

Freeman’s face appeared on the television. My unibrowed salvation haunted me too. I imagined that the pickpocket and Arizona were in Sherman Oaks watching the same broadcast.

Panther raised a brow, cleared her throat. “Thomas Freeman? I know that guy.”

“How you know Freeman?”

“I don’t
know him
know him. Went to one of his book signings.”

“When was that?”

“Long time back. Years ago. At least three. Maybe four.”

Panther was wide awake. Alert. Her time of night. My body wanted to shut down.

I yawned. “Where you meet Mr. Bobblehead?”

“Bobblehead?”

I dug in my bag, took out that bobblehead Freeman had given me as a gratuity for a day’s labor, tossed it to Panther. That got a good laugh out of her. Me too. Eased our tension.

She said, “Met ‘im at a black bookstore on La Brea.”

“Which one?”

“Forgot. Only three people showed up. I wanted to bounce up out of there but I was sitting right in front of him, center stage. Didn’t want to be rude. He wasn’t as ... as ... as ...”

“Arrogant?”

“Not like he’s acting now. He’s showing out. It’s like he has a different personality.”

“How was he back then?”

“Flirty. Tried to get me to go to a late dinner, you know how it goes.”

“No, I mean—”

She shushed me, tossed the bobblehead back on the bed, turned up the volume.

Distribution is in white hands . . . gatekeepers and rule makers ... treachery never stops
. . .
we get the same stereotypes over and over ... conspiracy is pissing on our legs telling us it’s raining ...

Panther said, “He sounds like the Al Sharpton of literature.”

I repeated my question, “How was he back then?”

Panther waved her hand, kept motioning for me to shut up.

Freeman went on and on, edges of a repressed Quitman, Mississippi, accent coming and going. The camera pulled back enough to show that the other writers were sitting with tight lips and arms folded, irritated by his rant. Then a shot of the audience. Sade was in the crowd.

I was in a hotel room with a stripper who had been in and out of love with a married man, staring at an African Queen on a thirteen-inch screen, imagining her accent and her smell.

Panther was in a zone, impressed by the million-dollar man.

Everybody loved a winner.

She lowered the volume. “When I met him, he was cool, talked a lot about himself, not really humble, but not like that.”

“Bling bling changes people.”

She made a humming sound, tilted her head. “Don’t see how he got successful.”

“What you mean?”

“The first one of his books I bought ... horrible ... think I threw it in the garbage.”

“Heard it was pretty bad.”

“The book was full of words like
conversely, thereupon,
and
thus.
Who talks like that?”

“Jesse Jackson.”

“Besides Jesse Jackson. Brotherman used those words five times each on the first page. The second book, same thing, got my money back. Couldn’t get past the second chapter.”

“Didn’t know you read.”

“I do more than run guns and swing this real estate from a pole, Driver. ”

The camera panned and showed the briefcase Freeman had on the table next to him.

Panther asked, “What’s in the briefcase? Secret to the A-bomb or something?”

Just like whoever was watching C-SPAN, I stared at that intellectual property handcuffed to his side, the seven-figure labor of love he guarded with his life. His Maltese falcon.

Then I told Panther what was in the briefcase; the book he was writing,
Truth Be Told.

She made an incredulous face. “A million dollars for one of
his
books?”

“Yeah. That’s what it said online.”

“You know what I’d do if I had that kinda money?”

“Supersize your breasts. Buy a Porsche 356 Carrera Speedster.”

“No, Driver.” Her voice was soft, vulnerable. “I’d adopt my sister’s two kids. Both of them. Maybe even adopt another kid. Some kid who had lost its parents. Give the kid a chance. Pay off Momma’s house. I already pay her mortgage. That’s what I’d do with that money.”

“Cool.”

“What would you do with that kinda money, Driver?”

“Supersize your breasts. Buy a Porsche 356.”

She showed me both of her traffic fingers.

Panther picked up her damp clothes, looked angry as hell, so much hate for Lisa and her bullyboys in her eyes as she hung everything up in the bathroom. On the way back I handed her the book I had,
Dawning of Ignorance.
She looked at Freeman’s picture, flipped it open.

“Driver, that girl you met, they’re gonna jack his briefcase?”

“Steal his computer. Ransom it back to him.”

“Have to tell you, it sounds stupid. But hey, I’m just a simple girl from Atlanta.”

I nodded. “Okay Miss Atlanta, why does it sound that way to you?”

“He has to have it backed up somewhere. Like five or six copies lying around.”

“I thought the same thing. But he did an interview this morning, said he didn’t show it to anybody. Not even his fiancée. Anyway, the grifter I met, she’s been in contact with him, think they might be freaking or something, and she seemed to be sure about it.”

Panther raised a brow, made a thinking face. “And they’re gonna give you a cut.”

“Trying to come up on enough to get out of hot water.”

I changed the channel on the television. Stopped on a movie channel. Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., and the rest of the Rat Pack were in the original
Ocean’s Eleven.
Men trying to come up on their fortune by ripping somebody else off. Two white men were talking about how they always had to take what they wanted growing up, always had to fight. My life had always been just as unpretty as theirs. Not a complaint, just a fact.

Panther fell into that movie just like I did. Listened to the schemers scheme.

I told Panther, “After that, I’ll be back to zero because I’m quitting that gig.”

“Broke and jobless. Now that’s attractive. Tell me more, tell me more. ”

“Broke ain’t nothing new. I can always walk around and find some labor. Fuck sitting in a damn car all day getting soft. After I pay Lisa her money, I’ll figure out something.”

“That’s some bullshit.”

“What?”

“As far as Married Woman’s concerned, you don’t owe that heifer a damn dime. Matter of fact that terrorist owes us. And when I see her, it’s on. I’m gonna collect like I’m the IRS.”

I rubbed my head, let her talk shit awhile. Then we went back to talking about Freeman.

Panther fell silent. She got up and walked the room, paced in the nude, the cornbread and buttermilk walk taking her gifts from above from wall to wall, highlighted hair in a loose ponytail, arms folded under her modest and firm breasts, anger stiffening her tongue, her tongue pushing out her top lip. I watched her. She saw me staring then came and sat by me, kissed my head, touched my hand, opened her mouth to say something, then paused until I looked at her.

“Driver, if that book is worth a million ... that’s a lot of money.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hypothetically, what if we cut out the middleman and jacked his briefcase?”

My eyes studied the seriousness in hers. She didn’t blink.

I told her, “Don’t think like that.”

“I was joking.”

“Don’t.”

Silence fell over us. The energy between us changed, moved in a bad direction. Money had a way of doing that. I got up, went to the bathroom to get some space, came back, sat down.

My eyes went back to the movie. Smooth criminals, every last one of them.

A couple of thinking minutes went by. The passkey to Shutters stayed on my mind. It would get me to the elevator, and after that the key would be useless. Kick the door down, call in a bomb threat and hope they clear the hotel, I just didn’t have any idea what to do after that.

Money changed people. Made people who didn’t have it go crazy trying to get it.

We got into the bed, the mattress sagging, the box springs giving and squeaking under our weight, the headboard slapping the wall when we moved too much. If a motel room could talk. It took a minute, but we got in a comfortable position and cuddled up, half-watched the movie, fell into a series of yawns. Moans and squeaks wormed into the room, then a series of earthquakes. All around us beds were squeaking, people were on fire, sending us their heat.

Panther shifted her butt up against me, rubbed her legs against mine, then looked back at me, her eyes dreamy, those nipples erect. I had the desire to join the festival, but I didn’t have the energy. An erection would’ve helped too. I rubbed my hand up and down Panther’s skin. Kissed her here and there. She reached back and touched my dick, held that softness in her hand, moved it up and down, made it raise up a bit. She turned around. We kissed. I sucked on her breasts, put my finger between her legs, massaged her nice and slow.

But every time I heard someone walking the stairs, every time I heard a car, I was on my feet. Wasn’t the time for romance. Not for me. I grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the window, stared out at a fatherless community that had been destroyed by riots and social neglect.

Panther didn’t complain, just grabbed Freeman’s book, turned on a light, started reading.

My eyes went to the tube.

Sammy Davis, Jr., was the poor hustling garbage collector. He was standing on a table singing that someday he’d have a chauffeur and a long black limousine, that someday he’d have a penthouse. The black man just had to be the trash man. The poorest and blackest of the lot. Singing he was gonna come up. Yeah, me too, Sammy. Someday. Some-fucking-day me too.

Lisa was lounging in Hancock Park, sleeping on custom bedding and linens, goose-down pillows, being catered damn near every meal, all the accoutrements of the rich.

Freeman and Sade were living in a similar world, all room service and caviar.

My brother didn’t have two dimes to rub together and still managed a similar lifestyle.

I was hiding out in South Central, inhaling the stench on Fuck Row.

Someday. Some-fucking-day.

Panther turned on her side, then sat up. “Driver, this book is good. Better than the crap I bought. Only on page ten, but it’s like ... like he had some serious writing classes or something.”

“Maybe that’s why he took three years off, to up his game.”

“Think so?”

“Heard actors and actresses do that when their shit ain’t working, take time off, study their craft, come back strong. Three years would be enough time to up your game.”

“Then he upped it. Better than anything I’ve read in the last ten years.”

She went back to reading Freeman’s masterpiece. I needed to clear my mind. I found a crossword puzzle in my bag, found a pen, put on my glasses, let that ease my rugged thoughts.

Across the room, minutes and pages of
Dawning
had gone by before Panther looked up and saw me watching her, crossword in my hand. She had fallen into Freeman’s world and seeing me jarred her. She read my face, sat up with her legs folded under her, watched me awhile before she asked, “Why you looking like that? What are you thinking, Driver?”

I glanced at
Ocean’s Eleven
again. Sammy, Dean, Frank, Joey, the whole crew was walking single file, credits rolling. They had won, ripped off Vegas. All of them were strutting out into the sunshine, their names on the giant marquee behind them. Crime had paid. Paid well.

I sent my attention back to Panther.

I swallowed. “How much do you think we could get?”

Pedro blew up my cellular less than an hour later. It was close to sunrise. The sexual earthquake that had been over my head had finally slowed down. Panther was on her cellular, the burner between her legs like she was on watch, talking to one of her friends.

Pedro told me, “Got that information for you.”

I fought the heaviness in my eyes. “What you find out?”

Pedro’s sister worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I’d memorized the plates on the Expedition the lion and jackal had been in, passed the info on to Pedro yesterday afternoon.

He said, “The vehicle is registered to somebody who stays in L.A. County.”

“Local talent.”