It was a busy day, level orange alert.

A news van from KCOP pulled up curbside. Since I doubted if Bin Laden was flying in, somebody like Beyoncé or Halle Berry had to be rolling through. With my head hurting, I didn’t give a care if Jesus had come back and was being escorted by Elvis, Martin, and Malcolm.

A crowd came down the escalator. I put my sign up.

A woman on the crowded escalator caught my eye. She owned the complexion of chocolate caramel Ghirardelli and had well-defined facial features, all small and keen. Long legs, short torso, those legs hidden behind faded jeans. A long-sleeved blouse that showed some cleavage, comfortable and sexy in a conformist way. Long hair in a single braid. Coming down like an angel from heaven. Nobody noticed her. It was almost like she was invisible.

She glanced at me, caught my eyes for no longer than a heartbeat, shifted like she felt a wave of heat down below, then looked away from me.

On her marriage finger she wore a rock. Her ring sparkled like old money, ski trips in Canada, and vacations in the Hamptons. My eyes went down, took in her shoes. They were expensive, but they were boxy, the kind of kicks you wore when you wanted to be unnoticed.

She moved on by, stopped not too far away from me.

Any other day I might’ve made a subtle play for her. Might’ve handed her a business card, my cellular number circled in red. Not today. That wasn’t my disposition.

About two minutes went by. A dark-skinned brother appeared. Medium build. Five-seven, five-eight at the most. He sported a thin goatee and a unibrow that reminded me of old-school crooner Al B. Sure! Three dimes and a quarter made up his entourage: two black, two white, all had carry-on luggage. He was talking to them and signing their books like he was a literary rock star. I raised my sign, THOMAS FREEMAN printed in block letters.

The dark-skinned brother nodded, then went back to his fan club.

I tore my sign in half.

The client had on Levi‘s, Nikes, and a white T-shirt that read TRUTH IS STRONGER THAN LIES in red lettering, and WWW.THOMASMARCUSFREEMAN.COM right below that in black, red, and green letters. And he had a silver briefcase handcuffed to his right wrist. If he had been suited up, I would’ve thought he was CIA carrying top secret documents.

I met him at the bottom of the escalator, smiled and said, “Mr. Freeman?”

He raised a finger, waggled it in my face. “It’s Freeeeeee-Man.”

Asshole pronounced his last name like it was two words. Said Freeeeeee-Man like the Emancipation Proclamation was written for him and the rest of us were still in shackles.

My lips went up into a bullshit smile, the kind that hid thoughts.

He asked, “They send a stretch limo?”

“Sedan.”

“What? You gotta be joking.”

The news crew came inside. The reporter was a thin high-yellow sister, the kind L.A. employed. She wasn’t attractive. Thin plus high-yellow wasn’t an equation for beauty. She had a book in her hand, Freeman’s solemn picture on the back. I got out of the way, let them talk, overheard them telling Freeman that they were almost ready to tape. Freeman pulled out a small mirror, checked his teeth, wiped that unibrow, got ready to snag his fifteen minutes of fame.

Again, I moved out of the way, checking my watch. I had to get out of here. Had to try and come up with that earnest money. Or maybe I should just have hurried upstairs with the little cash I had and bought a one-way ticket to the farthest destination I could afford.

But a man never ran from his problems. Reverend Daddy taught us that. He used to make me and Rufus hit the heavy bag for hours. He made us do all kinds of manual labor, which was why I was decent with fixing cars and a pretty good handyman. He did that to give us a strong backbone, but I think he was harder than most because of Rufus. He figured being a slave master would make men out of both of us. Momma never stopped him from his heavy-handed disciplinary ways. She looked at her baby boy and hoped for the same thing.

I took another hard breath when the reporter addressed Freeman. “They are boycotting you at the independents here in Los Angeles, and there was an incident in St. Louis—”

“They should boycott Jayson Blair, the man who set real writers back a hundred years.”

My cellular rang. I pulled it out. The caller-ID read OUT OF AREA.

I didn’t answer.

People bumped into me. Digital cameras came out of nowhere. The paparazzi started flashing. Crowds were addicted to celebrity, even if they didn’t know who the celebrity was.

My cellular rang again. Same OUT OF AREA caller.

I answered by saying my name. “Driver.”

A soft voice. “What happened to your head?”

I paused, held in my urge to bark and curse. “Who is this?

“Why are you agnostic?”

I paused. “Arizona?”

“You look good in your suit. Like female Viagra.”

I looked around. People were coming from all directions. No Arizona. Airport noise—chatter, blowing horns, rumbling planes, car engines—came through the phone on her end.

“Well, Mr. Freeman.”

“It’s Freeeeeee-man.”

“Let’s focus on your career. Boycotts in Detroit, pretty much the same all over the country because, now that you’re on the fast track, you no longer go to the black bookstores.”

I turned around, searched the escalator, curbside, then looked through the crowd again.

Arizona said, “Don’t break your neck. You won’t see me until I need to be seen.”

“You’re here at LAX? What, you leaving town?”

Arizona answered with, “Frank Sinatra keeps looking at you.”

“Frank?”

“That’s good. That’s a tell.”

“Who keeps looking at me?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

She hung up.

“Get your facts straight. I do African-American stores across the country, the ones who have it together. And yes, I’ve had senseless boycotts in St. Louis ... death threats in Detroit ...”

“How do you respond to that?”

People started to crowd me in. Luggage ran over my shoes. People stared at me like I was in their space. Wasn’t in that kind of mood right now, not for strangers to keep stepping on my toes. Was about ready to start throwing elbows and beating motherfuckers down.

I tried to move away from the media circus. Couldn’t. Crowd was too unmoving. The more people stopped, the louder Freeman talked. The louder he talked, the more people stopped.

“When I go to black bookstores, black people don’t show up. They are in the white-owned establishments sipping on caffe Ameri- canos and caramel macchiatos with an extra shot of espresso. They sold out. How do I have the power to make African-Americans shop in African-American stores? Tell me how to redirect my people and we’ll both know.”

I made it to the edge of the crowd. Looked around. Wall-to-wall, no sign of Arizona.

Freeman jumped dramatic, looked deep into the camera. “I’m the new black aesthetic. My next book, Truth Be Told, the one I keep locked on my wrist at all times, when it drops this summer, black prose, as we know it, will change forever. I’m about to revolutionize literature.”

“Speaking of Truth Be Told, the rumor is you received a million-dollar advance on a book no one has ever seen. That’s rare, especially for an African-American.”

“Especially when African-American income is up and book buying is down.”

“Exactly. Do you think that puts pressure—”

“No one sees my work until I’m ready for it to be seen.”

“We’re almost done. I have to admit that the first book I read from you, Pool Tables and Politics, bordered on tedious philosophizing and navel-gazing.”

Freeman grunted like he’d been mule-kicked in his gut.

She went on, “I refused to read anything from you, until Dawning of Ignorance. I loved it. Your writing has matured. Dawning of Ignorance is so much better than your previous, not dismissive, and based on the reviews on Web sites like Amazon.com you’ve redeemed your—”

Freeman made a pharaoh-esque gesture and just like that he was done, walked away from the camera, went to his fans, whipped out a silver pen and started signing autographs.

The camera was still on Freeman, the reporter left hanging like strange fruit.

Somebody tapped my shoulder. I jumped. Damn nerves were shot. I turned around and expected to see Arizona, but I looked right into the face of the woman I’d seen on the escalator. She’d taken her shades off. Her eyes caught me off guard. Not the kind of eyes I expected to see on a woman with a complexion close to mine. They were deep blue, beautiful and disturbing all at once.

She had a book in her hand. Freeman’s tight-lipped expression ate up the back cover.

I asked, “You trying to get your book signed?”

She shook her head. “I’m with Thomas Marcus.”

“You’re his manager ... publicist?”

Her voice was professional, but still small, timid. “His fiancée.”

A rock weighed down her left hand, but I never assumed. More than once I’d picked up a client, then had to wait for his mistress. Same for the women. Wasn’t my job to question. All I knew was whether they squatted in South Central or the South of France, they were all players.

She pushed her lips up into a jet-lagged smile. “Come with me.”

She diverted her eyes, never made eye contact, her expression uneasy. She turned around, made her way toward baggage claim. My knee ached from where I’d gone down on it last night. She hurried away from the media like a woman running away from the source of a disease. I had to struggle to keep up with her fragrance, the scents of expensive perfume and top-shelf vodka.

She handed me a sheet of paper. Their itinerary. Nobody had told me about an itinerary.

I said, “I thought he was going straight to his hotel?”

“He wants to sign stock at these bookshops.”

“Well, in traffic this could take all day.”

“We have time.”

But I didn’t.

She pointed out a large, hard-case Samsonite and two smaller suitcases. The Samsonite felt like it had a dead fat man inside and the smaller suitcases had to be loaded with bricks. Freeman and his woman had packed like they were going on a yearlong safari in the Serengeti.

I grunted and loaded the Smarte Carte, lower back aching from tossing and turning on Panther’s futon. Freeman’s woman led me through the crowd, me feeling a little self-conscious and still struggling with this pain behind my ear, her walk like straight-ahead jazz.

She asked, “Our car ... ?”

“In the structure across the street. I’ll bring the car curbside.”

“Brilliant. That would be lovely.”

Without looking my way, she shot me an indifferent hand gesture. It was the kind of dismissive hand movement that reminded me there were two kinds of people in this world: those who rode in the backseat, and those who opened the doors so people could ride in the backseat.

My cellular rang again while I was caught at the crosswalk. Pasquale’s name popped up. That meant it was my crown of thorns. Hadn’t talked to Rufus two days in a row in a long time.

Rufus coughed. “You’re at the airport with Thomas Marcus Freeman.”

He sounded lethargic, like he was down, having a bad morning health-wise. I didn’t ask for any bad news. Either way he had my full attention. I asked, “How you know that?”

“He was just on the news. You were in the background. Straighten your tie.”

“Damn.”

“How’s your head?”

“Hurting.”

“I was reading Dawning of Ignorance last night.”

“Yeah. Knew that book sounded familiar. It’s not a ... a ...”

“Gay book?”

“One of them specialty books you read.”

“Not a specialty book. Get me an autographed copy.”

“Rufus, man, you know I don’t give a damn about an autograph.”

“Just a signature and a date, not personalized. That way it’s worth more when he dies.”

“What’s this preoccupation you have with death?”

“When you can see a big clock over your head counting down, it’s your reality.”

I almost snapped at Rufus. He told me that seeing me on television gave him a reason to call. Little brother was worried about his big brother. The way I showed up on his doorstep with my head busted had robbed him of his sleep the same way it would’ve done Momma.

He asked, “How much you owe the crazy psycho sadistic bitch?”

I took a breath. “Fifteen large.”

“Are you serious?”

“Got the money from her to bury Momma.”

“You owe her the whole fifteen thousand?”

“She’s calling in her loan.”

That wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t a total lie. Rufus knew about as much about my life as I did about his. Knew as much about my truth as I did his.

He coughed. “Look, I called around and found Ray Ray. He ain’t in jail this week. Let me give you his number.”

“This is my problem, Rufus.”

“You’re my brother. She was my mother too. This is my problem.”

We hung up. At least I know I did.

I hustled the luggage to the black sedan. I read the names on the tags. The two that weighed the most had tags with Freeman’s name. The third bag had the name FOLASADE TITILAYO COKER. Freeman’s woman had a proper, African-mixed-with-English accent and a name to match. I looked at the tag because Miss Africa never introduced herself. Folasade Titilayo Coker. A smaller tag was on the bag, red with the word MANUMIT in black letters.

I bent my knees, deadlifted that overweight Samsonite, then heaved the other bags inside the trunk. The last carry-on bag zipper busted open, its goods spilling out.

A hundred little Freemans ran out and frowned at me.

Bobbleheads. The bag was weighed down by a ton of Freeman bobbleheads.

Each had a book held high in each hand. Reminded me of Charlton Heston as Moses when he stood on the mountaintop waving the Ten Commandments at the sinners.

I shook my head and stuffed the chocolate-colored narcissists back in the bag. Had too many of the little bastards in my hand. Dropped one outside the car. Freeman’s fat head bounced and rolled across the concrete. Left knee hummed when I bent to pick it up, wanted to go south. That pain, too much alcohol, and not enough sleep made me feel my age in a bad way.

Footsteps echoed in the musty garage.

I stood tall like a bear and turned around.

They were in the shadows, watching me. The lion and the jackal.

Lisa’s bullyboys were twenty yards away, leaning against different cars, both smoking and chilling out like they were waiting on a bus. I made a couple of steps in their direction, my expression asking them to bring it on. The lion flicked his smoke my way, did an about-face, headed deeper into the garage. The jackal did the same, smoke pluming around his head.

They walked away fast, but not too fast. They knew I couldn’t follow them, not now.

I watched them until they were completely gone, until their smoke had dissipated.

My angry lungs reminded me to breathe again.

I tossed the bobblehead to the curb, zipped the bag up, and got inside the sedan. That was when I saw a sheet of paper underneath the windshield wiper.

I grabbed it.

It was a newspaper article. Months old. About a man who was tortured and murdered, his killers never found. They’d left that under my windshield wiper like it was their business card.

My stomach turned like peroxide and baking soda was mixing up inside me.

Should’ve gone after those bastards. But it was two against one. Ten years ago, hell maybe even five years back, I would’ve said that was cool, bring it on, and would’ve gone King Kong on those niggas and beat both of those motherfuckers into the pavement.

This sit-down job had softened me, made me stiff over the last six months. My body told me I was forty every chance it got. I could fuck twice as strong but might not be able to fight half as long. Right now the odds were in a young man’s favor.

I punched in Lisa’s cellular number. This time she clicked her phone on, but she didn’t say a word. I snapped her name. She hung up. I called back. It went straight to voice mail.

She had shut me out.

I called Wolf’s office.

Wolf answered. “Thought you’d be on the way to Santa Monica by now.”

The CEO was at his office computer, looking at the high-tech tracker on his cars. This sedan was a red blip on Wolf’s computer screen. Lisa could find me with the click of a mouse.

Wolf asked, “How is this Freeman cat?”

The black Expedition appeared in my rearview, fucking with me. I ran my tongue around my mouth, kept my eyes on them. I told Wolf, “Freeman’s ego might not fit in the car.”

Wolf blew air.

I said, “She broke out an itinerary. Thought this was just a drop-off.”

“Grit your teeth and kiss ass until the check clears. What she gave you the schedule?”

Right now I craved a shot of Jack. I said, “His fiancée is with him.”

“Heard about her from New York. Nigerian. Her parents are diplomats. Speaks a dozen languages. Rumor is her folks are class-conscious and not too crazy about her choice in men.”

“You know a lot.”

“I like to know who’s farting on my backseats.”

The lion posted up next to me. He nodded my way, smiled like we were friends, maybe telling me we’d get to know each other better, real soon. They drove away, forty thousand dollars worth of rims going in circles. I eased back and put my eyes on their license plate.

I asked Wolf, “Nobody’s available to do a handoff?”

“Everybody’s out.”

The Expedition vanished in traffic. My sweaty hands strangled the steering wheel.

Wolf stopped me from hanging up. “Nation next to Egypt. Five letters. Third is a B.”

Doing a crossword puzzle was the last thing on my mind. “Kenya. No, wait. Libya.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Wolf ...”

“Yeah?”

“We need to talk. Man to man. You have time for a sit-down later on this evening?”

“Driver, I really need you to handle Freeman.”

“This ain’t ... this ain’t got nothing to do with Freeman.”

That caught him off guard. “Have to deal with my kids. What’s going on?”

I wanted to tell Wolf about the shit Lisa had done right then. Wanted to open my mouth and let it all spill out. Almost did. But it wasn’t the kind of thing you told a man over the phone. That would be a punk move. Had to look him in his face. Maybe between now and then I’d figure out how to tell him about my part in the betrayal between brothers, in a way that would make sense to him. Somewhere deep inside me lived an ironic chuckle. Not long ago I could’ve killed him. Now I couldn’t tell the man something as simple as I’d been fucking his wife.

I asked, “Things better with you and the wife?”

“When she came back last night, she was all over me. She wants to take off for a couple of days. I might fly her up the coast for the next three days and get some quiet time together.”

That was the same thing she had done when I was supposed to take care of Wolf, gone on vacation, taken herself out of the equation, created herself an alibi on the cruise ship Elation.

Sounded like she was doing the same thing now. Creating her alibi.

Damocles’s sword had moved from Wolf, now it hung over my head.