turned those blue eyes my way, lips moving up at the edges, as if she were seeking approval.
I asked, “Where’s the world-famous book writer?”
“On the phone. More interviews. I’ve had all the literary shibboleths I can endure.”
“Tell ‘im I said thanks for the bobblehead.”
“He was a straight ass for doing that.”
I chuckled. Was funny hearing her curse with that thick accent. I said, “It’s all good.”
“No it’s not.” She opened her purse, took out a C-note. “Allow me to tip you properly.”
I waved it away, turned down her pity gift. Reverend Daddy used to tell us about when he first moved to California, a black man wasn’t welcome on this side of town, wasn’t welcome west of the 405 or south of the 10. A black man had to kiss ass to work in Santa Monica and Westwood, then had to be gone back to his world, the geographical prison the white man allowed, before the sun sank into the ocean. Freeman’s gesture had made me feel that low. Or maybe, despite my suit and job, Freeman had just reminded me who I really was. Still, insults from my own people were the hardest to swallow. A cheap tip was worse than getting no tip. If a customer didn’t tip you could always assume he didn’t know any better, maybe he was in a hurry and forgot. Getting stiffed with a bobblehead was like somebody spitting in your face.
Sade said, “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I’m not offended.” I lied, as usual, with the ease of telling the truth. “Not at all.”
“And if I did anything improper today, if I offended you today, I apologize.”
“Anything like what?”
She smiled a little. “People think I come across as being curt, or having a brusque manner, or they mistake my shyness for unfriendliness, but I ... I ... it’s my defense mechanism—”
“Ma‘am, I’m just the driver. It doesn’t bother me one way or the other.”
I sat there nursing my liquid caffeine. Sade had some loose change in front of her, had started tossing pennies in an empty glass the way people tossed pennies in a wishing well.
My head ached. Neck was tense. Both shoulders felt tight. I wasn’t in a talking mood. Right now, in the middle of pandemonium, I just wanted to enjoy L.A., stare at the ocean and palm trees, watch that beautiful city I loved before I got back out into the traffic I hated.
Sade sat next to me, shifting, restless, things on her mind. I felt bad for the way I’d cut her off. I told her, “You don’t look like the type who would hang out at a bar.”
“I partake of institutions of this sort in order to overcome my social ineptitudes.”
“I come for the peanuts.”
Her introverted expression came back. I saw that she had changed shoes. They were chocolate, pointed on the toe with a tall, thin heel, had a nice design stitched in the rich leather. Sexy shoes. The kind of kicks that were pretty enough for you to want to know their names.
I told her, “You have stranger anxiety.”
That rattled her, made her blink a few times. “Am I that obvious?”
“To me. It’s cool. I’m like that sometimes, have to warm up to people.”
She cringed. “Those overzealous crowds that Marcus deals with, I could never do that.”
“He’s the man. Maybe I should try writing a book and milk that cash cow.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. Writing is one of those rarefied fields, like vexillology and tea tasting, at which only a select few can actually earn a living. Most writers starve to death and die unknown. Even the most brilliant of the lot have an impossible time selling their books.”
I nodded.
She made love to her drink and gazed around the room. My mind dragged me back to my problems. To Lisa. To Wolf. Had an inner struggle with my character, the kind of battle not even Jack Daniel’s could fix. My mind moved from Lisa’s threat. Then to Freeman’s briefcase.
Eyes and ears.
I looked toward the lobby. There was a single employee guarding the entrance to the elevators, only letting people by if they showed a passkey, the same post-9/11 security many hotels had. Had to have a key to get upstairs, or be with a guest. My eyes went back to Sade. Her attention remained on her drink. She came across as a dignified and brilliant good girl.
Sade quipped, “I do not understand this symbiotic relationship between celebrities and fans, the way they feed off each other,