shed tears like babies when they finally gave up their ghosts.
Wolf saw my fresh wound, the pain inside me, the past he had brought up when he had mentioned my ex-wife, how she had left me rotting in that cell. I saw the pain, but nothing else in his eyes. Nothing that told me which way his mood was slipping. He was unreadable. All I knew for sure was he was in pain. Any man who touched Lisa lived in agony.
Lisa adjusted the scarf around her neck, followed her husband into the office, each of her steps jittery. Her eyes met mine before she vanished. Hate colored her pupils. Nothing but hate.
Two seconds later she was laughing with her husband.
I remembered what Wolf had told me. That the poet Fontaine had said that every man was three men. Who people thought he was. Who he thought he was. Who he really was.
The same went for women. A lot of us had the enemy living between our sheets.
I headed to the garage, got into one of Wolf’s sedans. Became a red dot on his computer screen. Big Brother was watching. Even had people reporting when I borrowed a Pilot pen.
I pumped up the music, had the volume as loud as I could stand it, a DMX tune keeping me alert, jamming me into a new mood, but the same song played over and over in my mind.
You’re my sancho. I’m your jeva.
This wasn’t over. Not close to being over.
Should’ve killed her ass. Should’ve killed her while I had the chance. Could’ve put her head in a FedEx box, left it waiting for the lion and jackal on the front seat of their Expedition.
23
One million wretched thoughts later.
In L.A., distance was measured by time, by how long it took to get somewhere, not by the miles. Santa Monica was fifteen miles away from LAX, but the bumper-to-bumper drive took an hour. An hour of dealing with road rage, arrogant pedestrians who stepped out in front of your ride and frowned like you were an asshole, bad drivers who did a California roll at red lights, motherfuckers who cut you off and flipped you the bird because you obeyed traffic laws.
DMX had been put to sleep. Radio off.
I was in driver mode. Professional. Non-expressive. Like I could be somebody else. Daytime offered me a new persona, the way it allowed Batman to change into Bruce Wayne. But still, even with the suit on, I was the same as Sammy Davis, Jr., in Ocean’s Eleven. I just needed to make my own ends and walk into the sunshine, smiling while the credits rolled.
There was a lot of movement in front of Shutters Hotel, a lot of chatter spoken in at least six different languages. Cars and taxis blocked the front of the building, the rich and not so famous had valet parking working overtime. Early morning checkout pandemonium.
A different world. No brothers in unbuttoned shirts with their pants hanging on their hipbones. No sisters wearing queen-sized earrings echoing the same gotta-be-gangsta mood.
I followed suit and left my town car with the valet, handed him a few bucks to watch over the ride, and stepped inside. I’d talked to Arizona while I drove this way. Had talked to her and found out what her master plan was. I went to the house phone and asked for Thomas Marcus Freeman’s room, called and let him know I was downstairs.
He went off on me, “Why are you calling my room?”
“It’s pickup time.”
“Don’t ever call my room. I come down when I come down.”
He hung up, slammed the phone down in my ear.
I cursed that motherfucker. Wondered if I’d have to beat his black ass this morning.
My cellular rang again. Rufus’s home number on caller-ID. The number to their main house. I grunted, answered expecting to hear my brother’s voice, but it was Pasquale. He never called me. Never. His voice was splintered, laced with anger, like he was coming unglued.
I asked, “What’s going on?”
“Somebody broke in my home.”
He had my attention. “Trashed your place?”
“I said I was robbed, not invaded by Molly Maid.”
“They mess up your walls?”
“Damn right my walls are fucked up. My home is ruined.”
“They broke in ... shit. What all they do?”
Pasquale sounded insane. “What do you think they did? Stole all of my art. My Woodrow Nash sculptures ... my collection of jazz ... Lady Midnight, Cool Cat, Bourbon Street, everything is gone. They broke glass, turned over my pedestals ... you should