mind.
No. They had just handed Sade a replacement passkey and that meant they probably changed the code. But I could still use the key to walk by the low-level guard. That was a start.
I got on the elevator, rode up to the top floor, the one that held all the suites, spied out and hoped to see Sade walking toward her oversized room, maybe catch her going in the door. Then I’d be sure what floor she was on. I did that for all five floors. After that little joyride I went back down and left the hotel, whistling like I belonged there, like I was one of them.
I handed one of the Mexican workers a tip and thanked him for letting me park illegally, then got in the sedan, tossed Freeman’s miracle book in the passenger seat, and pointed my problems in the direction of Wolf Classic Limousine. That passkey was in my sweaty hand. I rubbed it all the way back to Wolf’s garage. Rubbed it like it was a magic lamp.
11
Nobody was in Wolf’s office. I moved by his family pictures, his immigrant parents and the biracial children from his first marriage. His wedding picture and another glam photo of Lisa stared at me. I sat in his leather chair, adjusted Lisa’s picture, made her stare at the walls.
The memory of the first time I’d walked in this room hit me hard as a Tyson punch.
I shook yesterday off my shoulders, put on my glasses, got comfortable in his captain’s chair, used his PC, and logged on to the Internet. Needed to do some research.
Google.com was a good spot to start. I typed in THOMAS MARCUS FREEMAN. Over a hundred sites popped up. I did the eenie-meenie-minie-mo thing, clicked on Publishers Weekly.
It said that Freeman was born in Quitman, Mississippi, grew up in New Jersey. Went to FAMU, joined a fraternity, lived in Florida, married and divorced, now twenty-seven, engaged, on his fifth book, Truth Be Told, and had just cut a deal that was worth a million dollars.
I surfed over to Amazon, read reviews. One club said Pool Tables and Politics, was one-dimensional. I clicked on a review for his second book; it said that All That Glitters: A Black Man’s Obsession with Material Things was one step below a doorstop. Preachy. Seriously flawed. His first two books had more single-star reviews than the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
At least the brother didn’t give up. My old man used to tell us to never give up.
Freeman had a third book that dropped back in the fall of ‘01. truth is stronger than lies, all small letters. Not many reviews; all agreed that it was his best, but I guess it didn’t sell. Three-year gap, like he went into hibernation, then came out swinging, dropped Dawning of Ignorance. Another one of those long book reports disguised as a book review said it was tight.
It was written like fiction, but it brought up some serious issues that we as black people, we as a nation need to address. This will anger a lot of people, but that’s what the truth does.
Tiredness hit me in waves. It was a struggle. Had to give in and yawn a few times.
I surfed around and read more on Freeman, all of it pretty much the same jibber jabber. They hated the first two; the third didn’t get any attention; the fourth made him a rock star.
He wasn’t Donald Trump rich, but with my account, one was just as good as the other.
A million dollars and he handed out bobbleheads as tips.
Then I went out to the Department of Corrections Web site. In prison a man lost his identity, reduced to a series of numbers. Just like Mandela would never forget 46664 was his prison number for over twenty-five years while he was in South Africa’s Robben Island jail, I’d never forget the numbers that represented me for the two I was locked down. Martyr or murderer, no prisoner ever forgot. One by one, I typed in mine. Stared at the screen and waited.
“Driver?”
I jumped a bit. Left my memories. Wolf was in the doorway. Watching me.
I didn’t know how long he’d been there. I’d been too deep in thought.
Without hesitation I logged off the computer and faced his six-foot frame. He stood with his shoulders square, had on a deep blue pin-striped suit, his tie as dark and shiny as his kicks, blond hair slicked back into that ponytail, stroking his goatee.
“Hey, Wolf.”
“You