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  “Ha, hey … Uncle Denmark,” says Sierra's worthless crack-head nephew, Yarborough Montague. His speech is halting and strained.

  I drop my briefcase onto the floor beside my desk and sit down. Yarborough must be desperate to be calling me “Uncle.” He normally addresses me with the more generic and barely respectful “You.”

  “What do you want, Yarborough?”

  “Well, ah, I was, you know, wondering if you could slide me a few …”

  “No.”

  “C'mon, man,” he whines, his voice taut with desperation. “I'll pay you back. I swear it!”

  “No!”

  He cusses me out and slams down the phone. I turn on my computer and quickly check my e-mails. I want to get out of here in time to get home, get rested, and be ready for when Sierra arrives.

  There's an e-mail from the boss. Some representatives from the Forrester & Company advertising firm will be coming out to Henderson Village in a few days to shoot a commercial. That's great news. It's not only proof that this location's a moneymaker, but a clear sign that this part of Cleveland is bouncing back.

  I see the Web address for Mason Booker's Second Shadow Enterprises private detective agency and quickly open the e-mail. He's been checking on a prospective new hire. If the guy's clean, he'll help out Keith and his high-performing, overworked employees.

  Mason's message says that our potential new hire has been fired from his past three jobs for theft. Mason once more proves that he's worth his weight in gold. He's one of the most brutally honest people I know. Whenever I want the straight, unvarnished truth about something, Mason's usually my first stop.

  I re-read Mason's e-mail and shake my head. Keith won't be happy about this, but he'd be less happy about working with a thief.

  There's a knock on my door. “Come in!” I say.

  Keith sticks his head inside. “Denmark, you've got a FedEx delivery out here.”

  I frown, puzzled. “Why didn't you just sign for it?”

  Keith shrugs. “I tried. The guy says his boss instructed him that only you were to sign for it.”

  It sounds dumb to me, but I'll figure it out later. “Okay, Keith. Tell him I'll be right out.”

  Keith nods and starts backing out the door until I say loudly, “Keith!”

  “Yeah, boss. What's up?”

  “That guy we interviewed, he's a no go.”

  Keith purses his lips and snorts. “I guess we're back to square one.”

  I nod and he leaves. I open a last e-mail, send a reply, and then hurry out to get my FedEx delivery. I glance at my watch and smile. It's 11:20 a.m. Sierra should be getting her misted mineral bath right about now. That's the second part of a five-step skin treatment process that, according to the spa's Experience coordinator, will leave her skin feeling more soft and smooth than a newborn's.

  “They better treat her right,” I say softly, getting up and hurrying out onto the retail floor.

  “Hello, Denmark,” greets a smiling older black woman.

  It's Mrs. Hannah Randall. She's a sweetie who comes in daily to buy an air freshener for her car. She's also the events manager at the plush Lake Shore Gardens Hotel, where Sierra's organizing the architects’ conference.

  The day Sierra came home raving about the “wonderfully efficient” woman down at the Lake Shore Gardens who was making her job of planning the conference so easy, I knew exactly whom she was talking about. When I explained that Mrs. Randall stopped into the store every day, Sierra insisted that we invite her over for dinner. We did and got to know Mrs. Randall and her husband, and had a generally wonderful evening.

  “Hi, Mrs. Randall,” I say. “How are you?”

  “Wonderful!” she answers, beaming. “And happy anniversary.”

  I look at her, puzzled. I haven't said anything to her about that. “How'd you know that today was my …”

  “Sierra told me,” she interrupts. “She's such a dear.”

  “Yes, she is,” I agree, smiling softly.

  “So how many years will this make?”

  “Five.”

  “That's precious, Denmark,” she says, purchasing her air freshener. “Tell Sierra I said hello and you two have a good celebration.”

  “I will. You take care.”

  Mrs. Randall and I wave good-bye to each other and I spot the FedEx guy off to the side, impatiently tapping his foot and glancing at his watch. He hurries over, his steps brisk and purposeful. “Mr. Wheeler?” he says.

  “That's me.”

  “Sign here, please.”

  I sign the receipt slip on his clipboard and give it back to him. He hands me a sturdy 8½×11 cardboard envelope. I glance at the envelope and see that it's from

  I Got Your Back, Inc.

  P.O. Box 8920

  Cleveland, Ohio 44645

  “That's odd,” I say to myself.

  He shrugs and jets away. I hurry back into my office, tear open the envelope, and pull out a DVD disk and a small note. It's today's date and reads: “Happy anniversary and enjoy the video. It'll make great conversation at the Sapphire Spire.”

  I glance at the DVD, then the note. This has to be the work of Harry, Gordon, or both.

  “For all their warts and weird ways, they're decent guys,” I say, smiling.

  I look at Sierra's picture on my desk. She looks so sexy standing in her rainbow sandals, bright flowered wraparound skirt, halter top, and floppy straw hat, with the bright Caribbean sun and cruise ship behind her.

  I place the DVD into the disk tray of the computer processor sitting beside my desk, roll back to the door, and lock it as the media player activates. I hurry and scoot back to the desk, focus hard on the computer screen—and choke!

  My lovely wife Sierra is naked and on her knees in front of a naked man, giving him an exquisitely tender blow job. His head and upper torso are blurred, and his voice is garbled, but Sierra's image is crystal clear.

  Her lover slouches deep in a thick cushioned chair, spreading his legs wide so that Sierra has room to work.

  “Yeah, baby,” he gurgles. “That's the way I like it!”

  He finger-combs her hair as his undulating pelvis matches the up-down motions of her attentive head. He reaches down for her, motions her to her feet, and turns her around until her back faces him. She glances over her shoulder and smiles, her gleaming white teeth gracing him with their brightness. And then slowly, oh so slowly, the light of my life lowers herself onto him. He wraps his arms tight around her waist as they move together, slowly at first and then faster. She places her hands over his as he massages her breasts, licking her lips and grinding hard, her butt muscles flexing with each downward thrust.

  A filmy sheen of sweat makes their skin shine. He moans, and Sierra stands quickly. She turns and gives his blur a kiss. “No, baby,” she sweetly admonishes. “You have to make me come first!”

  She places one foot on his upper thigh, smiles down at him, and guides his distorted face into her womanhood. He caresses her butt cheeks, and she closes her eyes tightly, sighing as he sends her riding a wave of pleasure.

  Her breaths get deeper as he works his magic. “Like that!” she gasps. “Yes, baby. Do it like that!”

  She grips his shoulders and moans like she's NEVER moaned for me. He holds her hips tight as she bucks gently against his blur and grabs handfuls of her beautiful long hair as rapture surges through her body. The high rise and low fall of her chest level off as her breathing returns to normal.

  Her lover stands, takes her hand, and guides her over to a bed. They stand face to face for a moment, her head covered by the cloud of his blur when he leans in to kiss her. Sierra wraps her fingers around his excitement, stroking and squeezing. He gets into bed, pulls her down into his arms, and massages her majesty as they kiss.

  Sierra opens her legs wide. “Now, baby!” she urges.

  He moves over her, hovers for a moment, then slowly explores her yearning with his excitement. And my one and only Sierra, who detests vulgar
jokes, and complains if my eyes linger on other women, and won't go to a violent movie, screws her lover like a sex-starved freak— she urges her lover to keep doing what he's doing and make sure that he does it right!

  The computer screen fades to black. Daggers of searing heat slice through me. The room's spinning. My lungs ache. The echoes of Sierra's lying words ring in my ears: “Baby, you're the only man for me.”

  My face is hot, so painfully hot. Scalding tears blur my vision. Invisible hands squeeze my skull. I roar! I grab the computer monitor and hurl it across the office. Glass, plastic, and electronics splatter everywhere. I flip over my desk. Papers fly. The phone clatters onto the floor. Sierra's picture smiles up at me from the clutter. I smash it with an elephant stomp, twisting and grinding into it until her face is a mangled mass of paper.

  I stagger back into a wall and slide down onto the floor, suppressing the sobs crowding my throat, but there're too many. They squeeze through my lips in mumbles and mutters.

  Someone knocks. “Denmark! Are you all right?”

  It's Keith Billings. I wipe my nose and eyes and try to speak. A dry blast of air comes out.

  “I'm fine!” I finally manage to yell. “Get back to work!”

  Keith grumbles and leaves. I struggle to my feet, shuffle over to my toppled desk, and pull open the bottom right drawer. I grab a bottle of Scotch and a still intact glass, pour myself a healthy drink, and down it. The Scotch burns its way through my chest and into my stomach. I pour myself another. The images play back in my mind, taunting me. I hurl the bottle into a large picture of me and Sierra, hugging on a carnival Ferris wheel.

  I jam my hands hard up against my ears to muffle Sierra's echo: “No, baby. You have to make me come first!”

  I hurry into my office bathroom, run some cold water, and grip the sides of the sink. The splashing water beckons my tears. I cover my mouth to muffle my sobs, close the bathroom door, and sit down on the toilet seat, sobbing and convulsing until the flood subsides. Slowly, gradually, it does.

  I creak to my feet and look into the mirror. The reflection is mine, but someone else is staring back. His jaw is hard-set, nostrils flared, and cheeks sunken. His red, swollen eyes smolder with the focus of a predator. My fingertips burn. I ball my hands into fists and grit my teeth as my heart welcomes its new lover: RAGE!

  TEN

  The reflection staring back at me from the bathroom mirror says: “Why are you still standing here, stupid? Go—make—her—pay!”

  I stride from the bathroom over to the computer processing unit and press the DVD player's eject button. I carefully lift out the disk and glance at my watch. Barely fifteen minutes have passed since I first saw Sierra blowing Mr. X. Fifteen minutes. Three minutes for each year of my marriage. But it wasn't a marriage. It was a circus where I was the ignorant dancing bear, grateful for the small, dry sugar lumps Sierra threw my way.

  I've given her my all and my best while she's given Mr. X much heat and head. I've been devoted and faithful while she's sneaked and skulked. I've opened my heart and given her my love while she's opened her legs and given Mr. X her treasure. And she's been so smooth about it, so calm and cool, so two-faced and treacherous. But Sierra's not the only one who knows how to pull a scam.

  I survived childhood in the Brownfield District by using my wits. Just getting back and forth to school took smarts, skill, and courage. Between the crooked cops and thugs, junkies and con men, perverts and prostitutes, snitches and corner kingpins, and all the muggings, shakedowns, shootings, it's a wonder anyone made it out. But I did!.

  I was only fifteen when that junkie broke into our apartment and shot my father. I knew I had to leave. Mom's nervous breakdown left me and my baby sister Harriet high and dry. I refused to let those jackals from county social services separate us, so I started a hustle, made some quick cash, and paid the right people to be blind when I moved us across town into Lancaster Heights. My closest running partner, a hulking body-breaker named Blinker Hughes, felt sorry for me and decided to do me a favor.

  Blinker had done time in the joint and had an enforcer on the inside. The enforcer agreed to cut the junkie's throat for a carton of cigarettes, some skin magazines, and a promise that Blinker would persuade the enforcer's ex-girlfriend that she wasn't in love with her new fiancé after all.

  I was angry that Blinker hadn't first talked with me, and worried that the cops might connect me with the crack-head's murder. But the crack-head was just another black man in jail, so no one was going to bust a sweat solving his case. They didn't, and I fled the Brown-field District.

  Blinker's three older cousins, Stinker, Thinker, and Tinker, made doubly sure my trail was clean. They'd thugged their way through life until one day they realized they could do the same by becoming cops. So they joined the force, got their shields, and started thugging in uniform.

  Before mom died in the nuthouse I got my G.E.D. and started working at Speed Shift Auto Parts. I put Harriet through Ohio State, gave her away at her wedding, and steadily climbed Speed Shift's management ladder. The only street skills I kept from the hood were the ones that helped me on my job. It's time to resurrect the rest!

  I rummage through the mess on the floor and find the FedEx delivery envelope and the note that came with the DVD. “I Got Your Back, Inc.,” knew exactly where to hit me hardest. And then there's the note: “Happy anniversary and enjoy the video. It'll make great conversation at the Sapphire Spire.”

  Only Harry Bancroft and Gordon Wilhite knew about my plans to take Sierra to the Sapphire Spire. One or both of them has set me up, and I'm going to find out who! As for Sierra, there's no doubt that it was her in that video. I'll surely deal with her, but first things first.

  I grab the phone off the floor and call my old friend and former lawyer, Nelson Fox. When I started at Speed Shift, Nelson had just opened his private practice and needed clients. I needed a hungry, capable lawyer to make disappear some misdemeanors that had followed me into my new life. Nelson made them go away, so I gave him my business. He was my main source of legal advice, steering me to people who handled wills, insurance, and other matters not his specialty.

  I tried to pay Nelson back with some business by recommending him to Blinker when his cousin Tinker was brought up on charges after an Internal Affairs investigation. Mason Booker, a cop at the time, had testified against Tinker, earning him the hatred of Blinker, Stinker, and Thinker. Nelson was swamped and had to decline the case, and now Tinker's doing time.

  After I married Sierra I explained to Nelson that we'd decided to get a new lawyer. We were starting fresh and wanted someone whom we both trusted and whose allegiance wouldn't be to her, or me, but us! Nelson took it in stride and gave some recommendations. We went with the person suggested by Sierra's family lawyer. As of fifteen minutes ago, that was a big mistake.

  Nelson's assistant answers on the first ring: “Fox and Associates, how can I help you?”

  “I'd like to speak with Nelson Fox. This is Denmark Wheeler.”

  “Hello, Mr. Wheeler,” she says. “Hold a moment, please.”

  And a moment later an energetic baritone voice says, “Hey thug! What's happening?”

  Nelson's cheery greeting grates on my nerves, and I remind myself that Sierra's cheating isn't his fault. “Nelson, I need your help,” I say grimly.

  His cheeriness fades. “Okay. Talk to me.”

  “It's about me and Sierra. We're getting divorced.”

  Nelson's speechless, but not for long. “Sorry to hear that. But you know I'm not a divorce lawyer.”

  “I know. Can you recommend someone?”

  “Hold on a sec. I think I've got just the person for you. Her name is Hilda Vaughan,” says Nelson. He gives me the rest of her contact information, then says, “You can't do better than Hilda. She's smart. She's tough. She's thorough. She's a fighter.”

  “That's all wonderful and good to know, but will she win?”

  Nelson snorts. “If I could predict that I'd
give up law and spend more time at the track.”

  “Okay, that's fair. Thanks for the referral. I'll talk to you later.”

  “Hold up!” Nelson quickly replies. “Are you really serious about this?”

  “I'm deadly serious.”

  Nelson sighs. “This sucks. You two were such a great couple.”

  “I thought so too. You and I were wrong.”

  Silence, and then: “Okay, Denmark. Call if you need me.”

  “You can count on it.”

  We hang up, and I dial Hilda Vaughan's number. I wait through four lazy rings, pacing back and forth beside my toppled desk. On the fifth ring, someone picks up the phone.

  “Hello,” answers a soft female voice. “This is attorney Hilda Vaughan's office.”

  I clear my throat and inject politeness into my voice. “Hello,” I say. “I'd like to speak with Hilda Vaughan, please.”

  “This is she.”

  What? She answers her own phone? Even cheapskate Nelson has a receptionist. I hope this Hilda's not some shade-tree lawyer working out of her mother's garage at the Joe Blow School of Law.

  I forge ahead and explain my business. “My name is Denmark Wheeler. Nelson Fox recommended that I give you a call.”

  “Oh, yes! How can I help you?”

  “Look, let me put it on the table. I caught my wife cheating, and I want a divorce. What's required for this to happen ASAP?”

  “Well, we should first have a face-to-face meeting. How soon are you available?”

  “Ms. Vaughan, I'm available now if you are.”

  She laughs. It's light and gentle, and soothing. It's a kind, compassionate laugh, certainly not one I'd expect from a lawyer—especially a divorce lawyer!

  “I know this is short notice,” I say, “but it would be perfect if we could meet today.”

  “Hold on,” she replies.

  I listen as she speaks to the person who must be her assistant, the one who didn't answer the phone and will probably be reprimanded once we hang up.