of dope in my ride. Nothing. The echo of drug-sniffing dogs rang in my ears and I damn near tore that car apart. Drove back down La Cienega, found a spot on the streets, underneath a light. Sat there, sweating, gripping the steering wheel. They could’ve doped up my apartment. Hurried back upstairs, backpack bouncing against my leg. Flushed the toilet and opened all the windows. Lisa had me seeing flashing red and blue lights, had my mind back in the Adjustment Center.
I spied out the windows, made sure LAPD wasn’t screeching to a halt in front of my building, hurried and searched high and low, looked in every cabinet, closet, inside the toilet.
Another surprise.
In my bedroom closet they had left a set of clothes untouched.
One black suit. One shirt. One tie.
It was a message. Everything they did was a message from Lisa.
Work clothes.
She wanted me to come to work looking spic and span.
No.
Burial clothes.
She had left me burial clothes.
Sirens screamed by my apartment. Those noises got to me. Tensed me.
Again I rushed from wall to wall, searched high and low again, hunted for contraband.
Couldn’t find a damn thing.
Shit.
She had me tripping.
Didn’t find any drugs her bullyboys might have stashed.
Just the clothes they had left behind.
I stared at that suit.
That message rang loud.
My cellular rang again, jumped. This time it was Rufus. I answered, gruff and tight.
He asked, “You get me a signed book?”
I hung up.
14
It took two hours to make a twenty-mile drive. L.A. had over five million vehicles and all of them were going north on the 405, blocking my way from asphalt jungle to asphalt jungle.
Bleach. That stench rose from the bottom of my shoes, singed my nostrils.
I took the Ventura Boulevard exit and headed toward Studio City. Passed by Billy Blanks’s gym, crossed Woodman like the instructions said, then cut a left up Ventura Canyon. It was a land of high-end apartment dwellers. Just like on my side of town, the streets were worn, crime was high, and parking sucked up here too. I guess we had equality on some levels.
I took out my cellular and called Arizona. She picked up on the third ring.
She answered with a question: “Where are you?”
“Coming down Ventura Canyon. Just crossed Moorpark.”
“Park at the first place you find.”
“You coming out?”
“You can come in. I’m getting out the shower. Have to throw on some clothes.”
A conniving woman had gotten me in trouble. Now I had to see another scandalous woman to see if I could get out of this quicksand.
I found a spot underneath a large evergreen tree. I left the interior lights off and unzipped the backpack. Panther had given me two burners: a .357 and a .380. The .380 was smaller, easy to hide. There were bullets, a shoulder holster, and a leg strap in the bag too. Panther had gone all out, straight gangsta. Made me wonder about her, what kind of woman she really was. I thought about using the leg holster. If I sat down my pant leg could rise up and the leg holster would show what I was trying to hide. Same for the shoulder holster if I opened my jacket.
I kept it simple and went old school, did like Reverend Daddy used to do when he went out on a special visit, just put the .380 in the small of my back.
Arizona was resting in Sherman Oaks at the Premiere, a small city of luxury apartments right off Woodman. Close enough to Hollywood and far enough away from the urban areas to create the illusion of pseudo culture and safety. Black people dotted the demographics.
Surrounded by streetlights, miles of high-end apartments, and the silhouette of palm trees, I felt anger and impatience start up some hardcore Chicago Steppin’ inside my gut.
I heard a door opening farther up the hallway, followed by the echo of sandals flip-flopping at a comfortable pace. Another door opened and Arizona showed up at the wrought-iron gate. That was the birth of another tense moment.
She had thrown on that same silky white blouse and dark skirt I’d seen her in earlier. Her fresh and sweet smell came to me. With no makeup on she looked younger, but her body yodeled that she was a grown-ass woman. Her expression was impenetrable, professional.
The gate let out a high-pitched squeal and slapped the stucco wall when she pushed it open. I took the steps one at a time. Without any greeting we made our way down the hallway.