Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  “She's threatened to involve you.”

  “No she hasn't.”

  “But…”

  “Handle it!”

  “Listen Blink, I'm only saying that things might get…”

  “You'n me is tight. But if I catch heat, won't none'a that matter.”

  My palms are slick with sweat. “I'll do my best.”

  Blinker chuckles. “Yeah, I know.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  After I hang up with Blinker, I glance at my watch, then hurry off to meet Inez for lunch. A half hour later we're seated in a nice, quiet booth in the Olive Garden restaurant in Montrose, a suburb of Akron about forty minutes south of Cleveland.

  Inez decided that it'd be best to meet here so there'd be less chance of one of Harry's many business partners, employees, suppliers, or customers spotting us. Her worry is a good sign. She might have a big mouth when it comes to broadcasting everyone else's business, but she knows how to stay quiet when it concerns her.

  She shoves aside the last of her lasagna and hangs onto my every word as I finish telling her the bare essentials of what's been happening the past few days.

  “I can't believe they sent that DVD to you on your anniversary,” she says.

  I nod gravely. She shakes her head. “That's awful. It's hard to imagine someone being so cruel and malicious.”

  “Believe me when I tell you that such people exist.”

  She purses her lips and looks down at the table for a moment, then back at me. “So I guess you're going to divorce Sierra.”

  “There's no guessing in it, Inez. It's definitely going to happen.”

  Her eyes fill with sadness. “After you saw that DVD, there's not much else you could do.”

  “I could stay in the marriage, but being stupid once is enough.”

  “I know what you mean,” she replies. “I know Harry's cheating, but I can't prove it.” She looks hard into my eyes. “Denmark, is he”—she swallows a lump— “is Harry cheating on me?”

  I reach across the table, take her hand, and give it a gentle squeeze. “I can't say for sure. But I'll tell you this much: he's given a lot of thought to what it would take.”

  Confusion lines furrow along her forehead. “I'm not following you.”

  I share the details of Harry's theory about how men and women cheat. “He said men are noisy, clumsy elephants, leaving an obvious trail of discovery. Women are deer—smooth, silent, and stealthy.”

  Inez's eyes flash with anger. “There's only one reason for him to be talking about this: he's got someone else!” She clenches her jaw as tears fill her eyes. “How could he?” she sobs. “How could he do this to me?”

  I rush over, slide into the booth beside her, and hug her. “I'm sorry, Inez. I didn't mean to upset you. You don't deserve this.”

  She slams her fist onto the table and sobs for a few moments, then downs the rest of her wine, and mine too. “I've had my chances,” she recounts in a trembling voice. “I could've had other men. But I stayed faithful. Even when he broke my heart about not wanting children, I stayed faithful!”

  I look deep into her eyes. “It's his loss, Inez. Harry will never find someone as good as you.”

  Her eyes tear up again. “What makes him think he can do this to me and get away with it?”

  I shrug and shake my head in frustration. “I asked myself the same thing about Sierra.” I pull her close. “Maybe we can help each other through this.”

  She smiles bravely. “Yes, Denmark, I'd like that. We'll be each other's support.”

  I place my forefinger under her chin and lift her face up to me. “How can Harry not appreciate you?” I ask. “If he saw what I'm seeing right now, he'd never look at another woman.”

  She tenderly strokes my cheek with her palm. “And how could Sierra have desired someone over you?”

  I playfully tweak the tip of her nose. “Forget them. Our priority is to help each other any way we can.”

  Inez smiles softly. I smile back. “This is some rough business, Inez, so I don't want you to hesitate if you want to talk or need something.”

  “I won't. And you do the same.”

  “Never mind me. I'm adjusting to my new harsh reality, so … ”

  She firmly places two fingers over my mouth. “Denmark, whatever you need or whenever you want to talk, just call me.”

  I arch an eyebrow and smile, thinking to myself, “Don't worry, baby. As soon as I find out about Harry, you'll know exactly what I need.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  I'm heading back to the office after lunch with Inez. That turned out well. It's just a matter of time before I know the truth, and that'll determine whether or not I punish Harry through Inez.

  “And it'll be literally through her,” I chuckle.

  I park, stride briskly back to my office, and close the door just as my phone rings. “Speed Shift Auto Parts: Denmark Wheeler speaking.”

  “I hope you're sitting down,” says a female voice.

  It's Desiree Easton, owner of Our Hair Salon and Beauty Boutique. “Hey, Desiree, what's up, homegirl?”

  “Nothing with me, but there's plenty of action at your house.”

  I grip the phone tight. “Say what?”

  “I drove past just now on my way into the salon and saw Sierra and a couple of men with trucks. They didn't look like they were making a delivery.”

  I'm flying out the door before Desiree's uttered her last word. The traffic is flowing, the lights are mostly green, and I'm thankful that the cops are pointing their radar guns elsewhere. I turn onto my street and see at my house a small U-Haul parked at the curb, and a large one parked in the driveway. I step on the gas, and the Corvette leaps forward. Seconds later I skid to a stop behind the curbed U-Haul.

  I jump out of the car, race around to the open back of the mammoth truck parked in the driveway, and look inside. It's filled with my furniture! I tear off my tie and march into the house. I bump into a burly guy in the doorway. He's carrying my favorite portrait of Malcolm X.

  “Put it back!” I order, my voice low and seething.

  “Who are you?”

  “I'm the owner of this house and that portrait!” I snatch the picture from him.

  He tries to grab it back. I catch his hand and twist his wrist backward until he's kneeling and pleading in front of me. He starts to call out, and I whack him across his mouth. Blood spurts from his lower lip.

  “Shut up!” I hiss.

  “C'mon, man,” he begs.

  My eyes snap over to the kitchen when I hear Sierra speaking loudly. “Amos, I want to take the stove and refrigerator also. They're too expensive to just leave here.”

  I lean down and whisper into my prisoner's ear. “Who's got the keys to the trucks?”

  He slips his shaky free hand into his pocket and pulls out a set. “These are spares. Amos has the originals,” he confesses.

  Hearing Amos's name, I tighten my grip. “Where's Amos?”

  He points upstairs, grimacing as I add pressure. I take the keys from him and twist his wrist viciously, and he blubbers.

  “Leave!” I order.

  I shove him onto his side. He jumps to his feet and wobbles away. I stalk quietly into my house and across my bare living room toward the kitchen, slowing when I hear an unfamiliar male voice upstairs.

  “This is one complex bed,” he says. “My wife and I once had a canopy bed—nothing as top of the line as this—but it wasn't the assembly nightmare this thing must've been. I'll bet Sierra's husband had his hands full putting this together.”

  Amos laughs. “That loser couldn't arrange alphabet blocks. There's no way he put this bed together.”

  They laugh. From the kitchen Sierra says, “Amos, while you and Dillon are up there, make sure you get…”

  She steps into the kitchen doorway, sees me, and shrieks. “What are you doing in my house?” I demand, stepping toward the kitchen.

  I glance upstairs when Amos says: “Oh—my—God!”

>   He's standing at the top of the steps staring at me, his eyes bulging as his rotund gelatinous stomach shakes and quivers from his hyperventilating breaths.

  “You'd better hope God's in a prayer-answering mood,” I threaten.

  Another man, Dillon, hurries over beside him. He's a heavily mustached, tall weed of a man. The lower part of his shining bald dome is encircled by a thick wreath of salt-and-pepper hair. I'm still glaring at them when a tomato splats onto my head. I look at Sierra, and two more tomatoes splat into my face. I start for her and am knocked back several steps as she starts hurling potatoes.

  “Stay away from me!” she shouts.

  A potato smashes into my forehead and another into my groin. Streaks of pain shoot through my lower abdomen. A honeydew melon slams into my chest, followed by a cantaloupe to my solar plexus, both of them partially knocking the wind out of me. I fall to one knee. Sierra scrambles out the back door. She races around the house, clambers up into the larger U-Haul, slams the door, and starts the truck. Then she roars down the street, almost running down a jogging neighbor. He screams and dives into thorn bushes as Sierra flies around the corner, knocks down a STOP sign, and rockets away.

  I spin around from the window as Dillon races downstairs. He sees me and looks desperately left, right, then back upstairs. I've recovered from Sierra's fruit and vegetable barrage and hustle over to Dillon. He falls to his knees, wrings his hands, and points upstairs.

  “It was Amos's idea! I only did it for the money! I've been unemployed and …”

  I grab his collar and yank him close. “Shut up! Where's fat boy?”

  Dillon stabs the air, pointing upstairs. “He's looking for a phone to call the cops.”

  We had four phones in the house: one in the bedroom, one in the kitchen, one in the living room, and one downstairs. The one in the living room was smashed on Wednesday night when Sierra and I fought. I moved the one from the bedroom downstairs to replace it. It made sense, since I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the bed. If Amos is looking for that phone, he's out of luck.

  “Please,” Dillon begs. “Don't hurt me. I've got kids. I … ”

  I shove him away. “Get out!”

  Dillon streaks out of the house. I run up the stairs as Amos dashes into the master bedroom.

  “No phone,” he whimpers. “There's no phone!”

  “It's downstairs, Anus!”

  Amos spins around and starts backing slowly away. He holds his hands out in front of him, palms up and fingers wide apart as though he were literally pushing me back.

  “I'll sue!” he threatens. “I'll sue!”

  “Do you promise?”

  Amos's lower jaw trembles like an invisible hand is jerking it around. “You're crazy!”

  “No! I’m pissed!”

  Amos throws up his fists to do battle. “All right!” he declares. “I'm not going down without a fight.”

  I tear off my shirt and undershirt and crack my knuckles. Amos looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on my tight, muscular stomach, the chiseled wall of my chest, and my bulging biceps. He gulps, runs across the room, and dives out of the nearest window. I hurry downstairs and outside and see Amos limping frantically toward the smaller U-Haul. He opens the door, lifts his flab inside, and zooms off in the wake of Sierra's fear.

  Forty minutes later I'm pacing in my living room like a snorting bull as I wait for locksmith Linwood Powell to arrive. Linwood's got the contract to service “my” ten stores and said he'd be right over once he finishes his current job.

  “I should be there within the hour,” he said.

  I've checked through the house to see what's missing. It's like a cavern in here. The only things remaining are the canopy bed upstairs, an old beanbag chair from my bachelor days, the appliances that Sierra intended to take, the Malcolm X portrait I snatched from the guy outside, and a tiny countertop TV in the kitchen. They even took the DVD player and surround-sound system that Sierra gave me at my surprise birthday party last year. It's a good thing I put that disk back in my briefcase. Having it fall into Sierra's hands would've deprived me of solid evidence against her.

  This was too close for comfort. I was going to visit the Electronics Doctor after I got off from work, but I need to see him now! As soon as Linwood arrives, I'll show him what I want done, stop by and thank Desiree, then get into lower Cleveland and find the Electronics Doctor. After seeing him I'll pay my good friend and private eye Mason Booker a visit. Between myself, the Electronics Doctor, and Mason, I should be able to learn all I need to know about Sierra and Mr. X.

  A horn blows out front. I open the door and see Linwood Powell getting out of his work van. He's a slender, average height, caramel-skinned, corn-row-wearing, earring-in-his-nose, free-spirited hip-hopper. He's also a magician on the computer, hacking into high-security government systems just for fun, and staying a bare half step ahead of the cyber police, so far. Linwood's biggest plus is a dynamic work ethic that's made him one of the most valued locksmiths in Cleveland.

  “I got here as fast as I could,” Linwood says, extending his hand as he approaches.

  I shake his hand quickly and gesture for him to follow me inside. “I appreciate the fast response, Linwood. Let me show you what I want done.”

  “Wow!” he exclaims, stepping into the empty living room. “Were you guys hit by a gang of burglars?”

  “No!” I snip. “Sierra no longer lives here, and I don't want to discuss why.”

  Linwood shrugs. “That's cool, man. Just tell me what'cha need.”

  I take Linwood through the house, showing him every lock and latch that I want changed.

  “No problem,” he says. “How soon do you need it done?”

  “Close of business today would be great!”

  Linwood frowns and scratches his chin. “Okay, man, but it'll be expensive.”

  “I'll pay it. Just get it done.”

  Linwood pulls out his cellular, calls his office manager, and tells her to adjust the schedules of his other two locksmiths to accommodate the change in his appointments. He hangs up and looks again around the living room. “Man, the first thing you should've done was changed the locks and alarm security code.”

  “Obviously,” I grump, looking around the bare space.

  Linwood shakes his head. “This is why I became a locksmith,” he says. “After getting cleaned out by two girlfriends I said later for sleeping on the floor. These days my action's set up tougher than Fort Knox.”

  “Do the same here, Linwood.”

  Linwood looks around again. “From what I remember of that Christmas party ya'll had last year, this place had some really nice stuff.”

  I clench my jaw. Why can't Linwood just shut up and get to work?

  “When did she do this?” he asks.

  “I caught her just a little while ago.”

  He nods admiringly. “The next time I move, I'm calling Sierra. She knows her stuff.”

  “Linwood, how soon before you get started?” I snap.

  He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, man. I'll get right on it.”

  “Okay! I've got some business to handle so I've gotta go.”

  He nods. “No sweat. I'll switch everything over and lock it up.”

  We arrange for me to pick up the new keys, and I go get in my Corvette and zip off to Our Hair. After that, it's straight to the Electronics Doctor, then Mason Booker.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I pull up in front of Our Hair Salon and Beauty Boutique and start to get out of the Corvette when my cell phone rings. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Denmark.”

  It's Alice, Gordon's wife. I close the car door, sit back, and get comfortable. “Well, hello, Alice. How are you? And where are you?”

  “I'm in Oslo, Norway, on vacation.”

  Oslo, Norway? That's way off the beaten path from Sydney, Australia, even by air! And she's on vacation, too? Alice clearly isn't spending her time wringing her hands about what Gordon might be doing. Come to
think of it, she doesn't sound concerned about him at all.

  “I'm a lot better than the last time we spoke,” she says.

  I can tell. Her speech is more energized, her tone lighter, and her voice stronger. “I'm glad, Alice. I felt so helpless that day at the restaurant when …”

  “I got your message.”

  She's getting straight to the point. Good! Her impatience will be my windfall, so I'm more than happy to take the assist. “Alice, we need to talk.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I want to put things right between us.”

  “There's nothing wrong between you and me, Denmark. And if you're talking about Gordon, don't worry. I've already made up my mind concerning what to do about him.”

  This isn't going as planned. I need to think quickly and get her back on my program. “Look, Alice, I won't try to snow you with how awful I feel that for years Gordon's been …”

  “I know what he's been doing!” she snaps. “And don't remind me of how many years it's been.”

  Whatever Alice is breathing, drinking, eating, or smoking in Oslo, it's put her on the offensive. “Does this have anything to do with Sierra's cheating on you?” she flatly asks.

  My jaw drops. “Huh? When, I mean, how did you…?”

  “Gordon told me. After all, he is my husband.” She laughs a laugh that sends creepy sensations corkscrewing through me.

  Gordon's in big trouble. Alice sounds like she's finally decided that enough is enough. “Is that why you called me?” she asks, her tone hard and angry. “Are you finally seeing things from my perspective? It's an ugly vantage point, isn't it? It's tough looking through all that humiliation and hurt, wouldn't you say?”

  I slump in my seat. I could remind Alice that I'm not the one who routinely cheats on her. Nor did I force her to stay in her marriage. But I understand her anger. “Alice, you must think I'm no better than Gordon. I was supposed to be your friend, but just stood by watching you agonize through your heartbreak. I still don't know what I could've done differently, but I realize now that doing nothing surely didn't help.”

  “Oh my God,” Alice says in sad surprise. “Denmark, I'm so sorry. I have no right to be angry with you.”