I’d gone down on it last night. She hurried away from the media like a woman running away from the source of a disease. I had to struggle to keep up with her fragrance, the scents of expensive perfume and top-shelf vodka.
She handed me a sheet of paper. Their itinerary. Nobody had told me about an itinerary.
I said, “I thought he was going straight to his hotel?”
“He wants to sign stock at these bookshops.”
“Well, in traffic this could take all day.”
“We have time.”
But I didn’t.
She pointed out a large, hard-case Samsonite and two smaller suitcases. The Samsonite felt like it had a dead fat man inside and the smaller suitcases had to be loaded with bricks. Freeman and his woman had packed like they were going on a yearlong safari in the Serengeti.
I grunted and loaded the Smarte Carte, lower back aching from tossing and turning on Panther’s futon. Freeman’s woman led me through the crowd, me feeling a little self-conscious and still struggling with this pain behind my ear, her walk like straight-ahead jazz.
She asked, “Our car ... ?”
“In the structure across the street. I’ll bring the car curbside.”
“Brilliant. That would be lovely.”
Without looking my way, she shot me an indifferent hand gesture. It was the kind of dismissive hand movement that reminded me there were two kinds of people in this world: those who rode in the backseat, and those who opened the doors so people could ride in the backseat.
My cellular rang again while I was caught at the crosswalk. Pasquale’s name popped up. That meant it was my crown of thorns. Hadn’t talked to Rufus two days in a row in a long time.
Rufus coughed. “You’re at the airport with Thomas Marcus Freeman.”
He sounded lethargic, like he was down, having a bad morning health-wise. I didn’t ask for any bad news. Either way he had my full attention. I asked, “How you know that?”
“He was just on the news. You were in the background. Straighten your tie.”
“Damn.”
“How’s your head?”
“Hurting.”
“I was reading Dawning of Ignorance last night.”
“Yeah. Knew that book sounded familiar. It’s not a ... a ...”
“Gay book?”
“One of them specialty books you read.”
“Not a specialty book. Get me an autographed copy.”
“Rufus, man, you know I don’t give a damn about an autograph.”
“Just a signature and a date, not personalized. That way it’s worth more when he dies.”
“What’s this preoccupation you have with death?”
“When you can see a big clock over your head counting down, it’s your reality.”
I almost snapped at Rufus. He told me that seeing me on television gave him a reason to call. Little brother was worried about his big brother. The way I showed up on his doorstep with my head busted had robbed him of his sleep the same way it would’ve done Momma.
He asked, “How much you owe the crazy psycho sadistic bitch?”
I took a breath. “Fifteen large.”
“Are you serious?”
“Got the money from her to bury Momma.”
“You owe her the whole fifteen thousand?”
“She’s calling in her loan.”
That wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t a total lie. Rufus knew about as much about my life as I did about his. Knew as much about my truth as I did his.
He coughed. “Look, I called around and found Ray Ray. He ain’t in jail this week. Let me give you his number.”
“This is my problem, Rufus.”
“You’re my brother. She was my mother too. This is my problem.”
We hung up. At least I know I did.
I hustled the luggage to the black sedan. I read the names on the tags. The two that weighed the most had tags with Freeman’s name. The third bag had the name FOLASADE TITILAYO COKER. Freeman’s woman had a proper, African-mixed-with-English accent and a name to match. I looked at the tag because Miss Africa never introduced herself. Folasade Titilayo Coker. A smaller tag was on the bag, red with the word MANUMIT in black letters.
I bent my knees, deadlifted that overweight Samsonite, then heaved the other bags inside the trunk. The last carry-on bag zipper busted open, its goods spilling out.
A hundred little Freemans ran out and frowned at me.
Bobbleheads. The bag was weighed down by a ton of Freeman bobbleheads.
Each had a book held high in each hand. Reminded me of Charlton Heston as Moses when he stood on the mountaintop waving the Ten Commandments at the sinners.
I shook my head and stuffed the chocolate-colored narcissists back in the bag. Had too many of the little bastards in my hand. Dropped one outside the car. Freeman’s