“Look at the numbers,” he retorted. “They love Thomas Marcus Freeman. ”
“Marcus, I love you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Don’t kid yourself about the other people. It’s the book. The words. The poetry of that resounds the ... the ... the truth about their own situations, their own lives. They don’t know you. They have no idea who you are.”
He chuckled. “You’re the expert on Thomas Marcus Freeman, right?”
“Please, don’t start referring to yourself in third person.”
“Answer the question. Are you the expert on Thomas Marcus Freeman?”
“I’m your lover. I’m your fiancée. I’m your friend. I tell you this for your own good. At the airport, while you were doing that interview, I overheard one of your fans say that your ignorance and low self-esteem springs from your tongue every time you open your mouth.”
“What do you know about the book business?”
“I’m only the messenger.”
“About having to hustle? What do you know about that? Tell me, Folasade.”
The more they argued, the more she sounded both African and British. Freeman’s anger yanked him back to his Quitman, Mississippi, roots, his accent and words getting more Southern.
“I know you should get together with Kobe and do an infomer cial on infidelity.”
“I’m not messing around, Sade.”
“Have you graduated to the point where you and Collymore can do an ad for dogging?”
“Nobody is dogging.”
“Should I contact your publicist and arrange that? Or have you become her Beckham?”
Freeman spoke in a soft voice, said, “I love you, Folasade. Only you.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
He whispered, “Sisimi. Mo fe e.”
“Stop. I’m not playing with you, Marcus. Stop it.”
First there was more silence between them, then giggles from her and whispering sounds from him. The leather seats sighed, made some tender noises as Sade scooted closer to Freeman.
“I know what you need, Sade.”
“Give me romance, Marcus.” She whined. “Stimulate my mind first.”
“We need a vacation.”
“We do need a holiday, Marcus. This ... this book ... it’s ... it’s killing us both.”
“Maybe we can go to Zurich in March.”
“That would be nice.” Her voice softened. “I know this beautiful resort in St. Moritz.”
“Maybe we can go snowmobiling. You know how you like snowmobiling.”
She laughed a naughty laugh. Then came the wet sounds of deep kissing.
“When are we getting married, Folasade?”
“My head hurts, Marcus. Can we please get Starbucks?”
“Driver, Starbucks.”
I nodded without looking back. “A Starbucks is right across from the bookstore.”
Sade said, “Brilliant. That’s lovely.”
Her eyes came to mine in the rearview. Then we both looked away.
Like I was being paid to do, I kept driving. Eyes and ears.
Freeeeeee-Man! Freeeeeee-Man!
Reps from Borders Books and Music met Freeman curbside, all smiles and handshakes, each one waving a Freeman bobblehead. Moses on the mountaintop waving the rules. They came to the car so they could escort him through his legion of loyal fans. Women were flashing digital cameras, the high-tech women taking pictures with their cellular phones, some extending their cellular phones and begging him to talk with their momma or cousin or best friend.
Freeeeeee-Man! Freeeeeee-Man!
Others were fanning themselves and yelling out his name like he was their first cousin resurrected. Freeman leaned forward and waved, serious like he was the Democratic nominee.
Sade saw that crowd and moved back into a corner, shut down.
Freeman told her, “Me, Sade. They come to see Thomas Marcus Freeman. Read the banner. Listen to the name they’re calling. Driver, you want to let me out or what?”
I went around and opened his door. Freeman got out of the car, went on without her, never looked back. No kiss good-bye so she could feel special in front of the crowd. I didn’t know a lot about women, but I did know they liked to feel special. I looked in at Sade.
I swallowed, asked Sade, “Did you want to get out?”
“Let the sheep follow their Moses into the bookshop so I can have some room to walk.”
My clock was ticking. Needed Sade out of the car. My weary eyes went to the crowd.
I closed her door, headed back to the driver’s side, got back in, still cursing in my mind.
The pickpocket was already here. She had shoulder-length dreadlocks this time. That Mrs. Robinson smile all over her face, the kind that made a man feel heat in his loins. A blouse that was tight, short enough to pimp out her abdominal six-pack. Tight jeans over a tight ass. I understood what Arizona meant about having an ass like that and ruling the world. No wonder Freeman had called her first. Arizona looked more