Drive Me Crazy by Eric Jerome Dickey Read Free Book Online Page B

head. “Lights didn’t come on.”
    “What?”
    “Motion sensor’s not working. Lights didn’t come on.”
    I didn’t care. “Rufus, need you to look at a cut behind my ear.”
    Rufus was fidgety, too nervous for me to play it off. Whenever he saw me his eyes turned into dull stones, then misted up with bad memories. My eyes became harder, darker.
    Sirens. Drug-sniffing dogs. Handcuffs. The memory of being driven away by the police. Talking to Momma on the phone from behind bars. Writing my ex-wife and praying to hear from her. The fights. Being in The Hole. All of that came back in a rush for me too.
    Luggage was by the front door. Four suitcases.
    I asked, “Going on vacation or something?”
    “Made reservations. Was going to San Francisco for a few days.” He moved his stray locks away from his face. Anger peppered his tone. “Flight left without us on it.”
    “Another one of your friends ... what, another funeral?”
    “Not this time.”
    “What’s up?”
    “Domestic issues. Relationship more down than up. Want the details?”
    I shook my head.
    He said, “Didn’t think so.”
    “Rufus, I’m bleeding to death.”
    I followed Rufus from the foyer into the living room. Off-white marble floors led us to burgundy leather furniture and cream-colored carpet. The carpet was top of the line and so was the padding. Made me want to take my shoes off and run around the place barefoot.
    Sensual paintings with expensive framing and exotic sculptures decorated the place.
    I motioned at a couple of pieces on the wall, said, “The art is bangin‘.”
    “Those three are all David Lawrence. All of them are originals.”
    My body was tight with anger. “Never heard of ‘im.”
    “He died, actually killed himself over a woman. That’s her in the pictures.”
    I wiped sweat from my nose, glanced at the art. “The woman he killed himself over?”
    “Yeah. He painted her naked. Some freaky shit to paint your wife naked over and over.”
    I looked over her dark skin, sexy eyes. “She’s bangin‘.”
    “More like banging her head against a wall. Heard she went crazy. Straight Bellevue.”
    I shrugged, wiped away more sweat, wished he would stop chitchatting and hurry up.
    “The prices on his works have quadrupled, shot through the roof. Great investment.”
    “Rufus, I’m bleeding to death over here.”
    He tossed his novel on the leather coffee table. Rufus turned on several lights with a remote. He came back and looked at my wound. “This is ugly. What happened this time?”
    “Bar fight.”
    “Awful, awful, awful. Who whooped your ass?”
    “Ain’t nobody whooped nothing.” I winced with the pain. “I need stitches?”
    “Let me clean it up and I can tell you better. Don’t bleed on anything. ”
    Rufus hurried away from me. His hips had more sway than a Vegas showgirl.
    I snapped, “Rufus.”
    He straightened his back, firmed his shoulders, and did his best to walk like a man should. A contrived impersonation of masculinity took him up the spiral staircase.
    He called back. “This is a surprise. Haven’t heard from you in a minute.”
    “Been ... been busy since Momma’s funeral.”
    I looked out the bay windows, saw the lights all over the city.
    Two minutes passed with my head throbbing while I took in the marble floors, abstract art, and soft music that came out of the speakers in the ceiling. The kitchen was high-tech, stainless steel Viking refrigerator and reddish marble counters. Not a speck of dirt or a thing out of place.
    Outside the window I had an unobstructed view of downtown L.A., mid-Wilshire, traffic on the 10 freeway, Century City, parts of Beverly Hills. It was like being in a castle staring down at the poor folks in the Bottoms. Up here there was no huddling of the common man.
    I clasped my hands. Wished this million-dollar world were my life. I missed my chance.
    I called out, “What’s this book you reading?”
    “Dawning of Ignorance. That writer is getting a million