in on Wolf, his heartbroken face taking up the entire screen. I saw it in his face. He wasn’t going to turn me in. I knew because when he stepped to the podium and thanked the community for its love, in the end he told them, “There are no suspects.”
No suspects. No spooks would be sitting outside my door.
My hands loosened around my glass. A boulder the size of Texas rolled off my back.
Wolf’s face vanished from the screen. And out of my life.
Friendship was over. That hurt me deep, hurt more than any of the pain I already had.
I went to the pay phone and called Panther. She was watching the news conference.
She asked, “Where are you?”
“On the way back.”
“You can’t keep doing me like this.”
“I love you, Panther.”
She paused. “Wow.”
“Look, what kind of man do you need me to be? Think about that.”
“Driver, you’re about to make me cry.”
“Earl.”
“What?”
“My first name is Earl.”
“I know that.”
“Call me Earl.”
“You want me to call you by your first name?”
“Yeah. Fuck that Driver bullshit.”
“So, you’re gonna start calling me Cynthia?”
“Yeah.”
“Yuck. Earl and Cynthia. God, we have some old, corny names.”
“Don’t bother me none.”
“Where are you, Earl?”
“On the way back, Cynthia.”
She laughed. “I called some people about cleaning up our apartments.”
“Cool.”
“And I cooked. Rufus asked Pasquale and he said it was cool, let me use the kitchen.”
“Where are they?”
“Outside by the pool. Think they’re playing bones.”
We hung up. I was anxious to get away from this place. The books I’d had, Manumit and Dawning, didn’t have them anymore. Had left them at the bar. Didn’t matter. Not to me.
I left Shutters the same way I had come in, unseen and unnoticed.
Ten white-and-gold boxes of See’s Candies were neatly stacked on the passenger seat of my car. It was easy to get inside my car. I didn’t have a rear window.
My sobriquet name was on the top box written on a plain white card.
Red letters.
Feminine handwriting.
Driver. I love chocolate.
Driver. Hoped I would never see that name again.
I opened the top box. Chocolates. Two layers. It was uneven. I pulled up the top layer. Money was underneath. Hundred-dollar bills. I dumped the chocolate. Looked like at least ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. I swallowed. Then my eyes went to the other gifts. I opened another one. It held the same distribution in dead presidents. My eyes went to the other eight. Had to be one hundred large. Fifty percent of what angering Sade had cost Freeman.
I looked around. Didn’t see anybody. Didn’t see her silver BMW.
She had just left my ride. The warmth in my seat and the scent of cloves told me that.
The traffic light in front of me danced from red to green to red to green.
Did that a few times, then it stopped. I waited. The stoplight show never started back up.
Arizona was gone to wherever people like her go at the dimming of the day. Imagined her speeding away, top down on her ultimate road machine, hair dancing in the breeze. Bet she had one of those cigarettes up to her mouth, taking smooth inhales, that cunning smile painting her face as she exhaled the scent of cloves to the wind.
She was a hustler.
I was a working man.
I nodded toward the darkness, toward that mystery, knowing I’d cross paths with her again.
Until then I could work on buying my own redemption.
I drove away hoping Cynthia liked chocolates.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sara Camilli, my wonderful agent, thanks. Here we are at book ten.
My new editor, Brian Tart, and his copilot, Julie Doughty, much love to you and all the peeps at Dutton/NAL. Thanks for being so wonderful and patient with me on this one. Thanks for the support in a major way.
To the people in publicity, Kathleen Schmidt, Lisa Johnson, Betsy Dejesu, thanks.
Omonigho Ufomata, thanks for allowing me to come into your world and ask you question after question. The parts of Folasade that are positive and correct I owe to you. If I made any errors, that was all on me. Hope I represented that fictional woman in a wonderful way.
Thanks to the peeps who read this and its many changes: Amy D. Mason, Dana Wimberly, Anthony Lyons, Jenai Chin, Emil Johnson, Lolita Files, Yvette Hayward, Olivia Ridgell, Sibylla Nash, and Tiffany Pace. Okay everybody, group hug. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Not so tight. Again. Mmmmmmmmmm. Better.
And Tish Tosh wanted to see her name in my book. She didn’t do anything. she was just feeling left out, hating on everybody, wanted to see her sobriquet in print.