whip and use the bathroom now.”
Sade headed across the room, asked a worker where the ladies room was, then hurried in that direction. I stood next to Freeman, neither of us acknowledging each other. In slavery days, masters never had to address or acknowledge slaves. Freeman rode in the back. I was the driver.
My cellular blew up again.
It was Rufus. He sounded bad, like he was in intense pain, his anger worse than Pasquale’s. His voice was fractured. I stepped to the side and told him to slow down, couldn’t understand what he was telling me. He told me some of what went down. My head exploded. Head wound cranked up to about an eight. That injury was alive, breathing on its own.
When I stepped outside to talk in private, I saw them. They were following their regular pattern. The Expedition that was pimped out with forty thousand bucks worth of ghetto rims. They were on the opposite side of the street. Motherfuckers were doing their taunting routine.
I eased the phone down to my side, took a few steps their way, stopped in the middle of the roundabout, sidestepped tourists and luggage, foreign languages being spoken all around.
Two eyes locked on four.
I became that bear. Wished they would get in arm’s reach so I could be their friend.
They nodded my way, then pulled away, cigarette smoke pluming from their ride.
They headed away from the ocean, vanished up Pico Boulevard.
It wasn’t over.
Seconds later a car followed them. Panther was at the wheel. The dancer who cried when she watched documentaries on Rita Hayworth, the woman who took medication for depression. Cynthia Smalls. Panther. She sent money to her mother in Georgia. Wanted to take care of her sister’s two kids, maybe even another. Her brother was on foreign land defending a country that would never love him, not the way black men like him should be loved.
I went to the sedan. Did that because I saw a slip of paper under the window. It was another newspaper article. Man found dead back East. Duct-taped and drowned in the ocean.
I tried to call Panther on her cellular. Got no answer.
Hoped Panther knew what she was doing. Didn’t need to wash a woman’s death away from my hands, not with my own tears. Didn’t need any more ghosts flying around in my mind.
24
I had to chauffeur Freeman to Howard Hughes Center. West Los Angeles. Off the 405 at Howard Hughes Parkway. From Santa Monica it was a traffic-filled ride. I drove, waited for my cellular to blow up, and listened to Freeman and Sade go at it like an old married couple.
Sade said, “Let’s get a few things out in the open, Marcus.”
“Not now.”
“Yes, now. I’m really tired of your groupies. The way they disrespect me in my face. If I wanted to go through this sort of thing I would’ve dated an NBA player. Then I would have expected this sort of lifestyle. Ever since this book has come out ... everything has changed.”
“You’ve changed, Folasade. You’re more jealous every day.”
“I’m jealous? Ha! You should hear yourself talking. Your interviews, what’s this Chester Himes and Ralph Ellison level nonsense, Marcus? Rubbish. This on the walls of Barnes & Noble crap is flapdoodle. You’re jealous of everyone. What are you trying to do?”
“Controversy shakes it up, sells books. Look at those white boys, Wolfe and Updike. All the press they got. And Richard Ford and Colson Whitehead, you see that?”
“It’s sad, that’s what it is.”
“No, it’s real. Mad, stupid New York Times press. They’ll be screaming ‘a fight, a fight, between a nigga and a white’ and sell a ton of books. That’s what it’s all about. The bottom line is the numbers. I need to come out and stir it up like that, push the sales through the roof.”
“That’s horrible, Marcus. All about numbers? If you feel that way, it’s horrible.”
“Have you ever been able to sell a single book, Folasade? Show me your numbers.”
Sade shut down, scooted away. I caught her in the rearview, body language tight, pointing away from Freeman, eyes out the window, an expression filled with disgust and pain.
The freeway was under my tires, passing by at seventy miles per hour, the same pace as their conversation, the same velocity as my own anxious thoughts and worries over Panther.
“Fine, Marcus. Since you insist on being rude. You should hear the wicked and evil things your so-called fans say about you. I do because I’m in the back of