There was a long silence, but not one of malice or anger. I sensed from Sierra a profound sorrow and … regret. “I'm going to ask His forgiveness,” she said.
“You might as well,” I mocked. “You won't find it on this side of town.”
“Look!” she snapped, her holy moment over. “If you don't want this meeting, why allow the obstruction?”
“Hilda thinks it's a necessary step in the process.”
“The outcome's going to be the same.”
Hilda strolled back into the room, saw my somber face, and said, “Who's that?”
“Sierra,” I mumbled.
She came over, snatched the phone from my hand, and hung up. “Hey!” I said. “What're you …”
She stabbed a rigid forefinger at me, ordering me into silence. I sat back and listened. “If she calls to threaten or harass you again, I want to know about it,” Hilda firmly stated.
“No problem,” I replied.
“This madness is wrenching enough without all the fireworks.”
It made sense. But if that was Hilda's concern, I couldn't understand why she was still so determined for me to talk with Sierra.
“Consider this,” Hilda explained. “You've mentioned that every time you two talk, it turns into an argument. That's normal, given the circumstances. But something else might be at work. Beneath the hostility there could still exist love, enough to salvage the relationship and begin the process of healing.”
“That's crazy! I'd never …”
“Didn't your elders teach you that you should never say ‘never’? People don't expend all the emotion you and Sierra are investing into your arguments if what they're arguing about doesn't matter. What would be the point? Generally speaking, when couples argue, either they truly hate each other, or one of them has been deeply hurt by the person they've loved, still love, and still might want to love. You and Sierra need to know which is what.”
“It still sounds like you're trying to save my marriage,” I grumped.
Hilda fired back quickly. “Only you can save your marriage. I just want you to be certain that ending it is the right thing to do. If you decide it is, I'll be more than happy to do my job, take my fee, and remodel my kitchen.”
I didn't know whether to be offended, relieved, or just plain old puzzled. Hilda didn't give me time to figure it out.
“It's time for lunch, and I'm hungry,” she announced, looking at her watch. “Could you go for some pizza and beer?”
I could, and we did. Twenty minutes later I'd parked the Corvette in the Pizza Hut parking lot and we'd placed our order. From the moment the server walked off to the last drop in our quart of beer, Hilda had me cracking up as she told a series of “Why did the chicken cross the road?” jokes that were so lame and corny I had to laugh. My attempts to dazzle her with some vaguely remembered childhood “Knock, knock,” humor proved too feeble, so I willingly, and laughingly, conceded that she was the worst joke teller I'd ever heard.
We were walking across the parking lot to the Corvette when Hilda said, “That car is a portrait of power.”
And words left my mouth that never had, and never would've, been heard by Sierra, who viewed sports cars as extravagant toys for misguided male egos. “Would you like to drive?” I asked, looking at Hilda.
Her hand sprang out, palm up and open. “I thought you'd never ask,” she answered, grinning.
I tossed her the keys, and we got in. Hilda jetted back to her office, shifting gears, taking corners, and maneuvering through traffic with the road generalship of a NASCAR driver. I sat back and enjoyed the ride, smiling inwardly that Hilda's performance on the road was as impressive as it had been on the running track.
Harry had scoffed and Gordon had chuckled when I told them she'd agreed to be the fourth person on our 4×100 relay team. Hilda made them true believers by smoking them during timed trials. I barely edged out a victory against her, expending more effort and energy than I cared to admit. Harry started calling her “Rocket.” Gordon mainly ogled. She and I started working out together down at her favorite track near the beach at Lake Erie, wind sprinting, practicing handoffs, or just jogging and talking.
Hours after we'd gone our separate ways that day, it struck me that I hadn't been the least bit worried about letting Hilda, whom I still didn't know too well, drive my four-wheeled baby. Maybe it was the way she'd handled Sierra during that phone call. She had charged into harm's way to protect me then, and it seemed sensible to think she'd be just as protective of me in my car.
Having a protector was a new, weird sensation. In the Brownfield District I'd always been the guardian enforcer, routinely taking the fight to the enemy. Now I had Hilda as my intrepid warrior princess, keeping the barbarians from the gate, and it felt good, real good.
My desk phone rings, jostling me into the present. I take a quick moment to yawn, then answer. “Speed Shift Auto Parts. Denmark Wheeler speaking.”
“Zup!” replies a canyon-deep baritone voice.
I sit up straight. “Hey, Blink. What's going on?”
“Has anybody called you yet?”
Ice crystals form along my spine. Has he engineered a hit against Sierra? I'm furious with her, but not enough to celebrate Blinker's harming her. “Has anybody called me about … what?” I ask tentatively.
“The Speed Shift store over on Haynes Avenue just got took down.”
I sit back relieved. Sierra's safe. It pisses me off that it matters. It pisses me off even more that Hilda might be right about needing to talk with my soon-to-be ex-wife.
“You're pretty calm for somebody's who got a store less than three miles from that robbery,” comments Blinker.
He's right! Haynes Avenue runs along the edge of “my” territory. If the thieves hit that Speed Shift location, their next target might be …
“When did it happen?” I ask.
“About five minutes ago.”
“Five minutes!” I blurt. “How'd you find out so … ”
“One of my boys was coming out the liquor store next to it when they hit. He ducked behind some cars and saw the whole thing.”
Blinker stops and lets the silence swell. He's going someplace with this information and wants me to follow, and I oblige him. “Is your guy going to help the cops’ investigation?” I ask.
“Hell no,” Blinker calmly answers. “You're paying me to watch only your stores, for now.”
I press the phone hard against my ear. “What're you saying, Blinker? Give it to me straight.”
“Man, don't play me. You told your old lady about our little arrangement, didn't you?”
I grimace inwardly. “Yes.”
“Sucker,” he sneers. “If the heat comes, and it better not, I'm'a have'ta put some distance between you'n me.”
“Blinker, don't do this. My stores will be left wide open.”
“What'chew better be worrying about is making your bosses understand why you had a street crew doing your security. You know how it'll go down,” he says. “Once it's known that I was doing your security, one'a them suits is gone suggest that you'n me set up them robberies so your boys would look bad while you sat fat.”
I groan. “How much worse can this get?”
“You'd better hope it don't get much worse,” Blinker warns, adding, “Denmark, before I lose this election or go back to the slam, I'll deal with your old lady. And since you're her husband, they'll come looking for you, not me!”
I grip the phone tight. “Blinker, listen to me. I … ”
He hangs up, and I fume. I've got to resolve this chaos—and fast. But I need information. I need Jiao and Mason to tell me something—anything—that'll put Sierra in check.
I pull the business card for the Electronics Doctor from my wallet and dial quickly. There's no answer at the store, so I dial Jiao Minh Xing's home workshop number. I wait through four agonizingly long rings before he answers.
“What?” Jiao hollers. “Talk quick! I'm in emergency.”
“Jiao, this is Denmark Wheeler,” I say hurriedly. “I'm calling to see if you've made any progress on … ”
“Not yet! Keep choking chicken. Jiao gotta go!”
“Jiao!” a husky female voice calls from the background. “C'mon and put some more of your Zen in my den.”
“Uh-oh,” Jiao groans. He mutters in his native Vietnamese.
“Look!” I snap. “Can't you estimate how long it'll take to before …”
“You check later!” Jiao interrupts. “Have update then … if Jiao still living.”
“Gimme some more honey, you little love machine,” Daisy commands.
Jiao yelps, and the phone clatters onto the floor. This sucks! Jiao's taking too long, and with the way things are going, his delay is going to cost me more than what I stand to lose in a crumbling marriage. I've got to put some pressure on him and Mason to get me answers. It'll have to be later. Right now I've got to get to this meeting.
THIRTY-FIVE
On my way out of the store, I see Mrs. Randall. We wave to each other. “How are you today, Mrs. Randall?” I greet, slowing down to shake her hand.
“I'm doing just fine. And you?”
“I guess I'll make it.”
She frowns slightly. “Come now, Denmark, life's too grand to just be making it.”
I glance at my watch and ease toward the door. “Okay, Mrs. Randall, whatever you say. You take care.”
“You also, and tell Sierra I said hello. She and her boss have been really working hard. Their conference is certain to be a hit.”
I stop so fast, my feet could leave skid marks. “Are you still seeing them a lot?”
“Often enough,” Mrs. Randall confirms. She gathers up her bag with its single car air freshener and heads for the door. “Anyway, tell her I said hello, and you have a nice day.”
Millions of thoughts stampede through my mind as I watch her leave. I'm going to have to get Mrs. Randall to give me a detailed description of Sierra's “boss.” Or maybe I should have Mason Booker do it. After all, he's the expert. I'll decide later. I've got to get to this meeting.
I get in the Corvette, and as I get into traffic the cell phone rings. “Hello?”
“Hi, Denmark, it's me, Hilda.”
I smile big. “What a pleasant surprise,” I say. “I'm just on my way downtown to meet you.”
“Well, then, I'm glad I caught you before you got too far.”
I tense up. “Is everything all right?” I ask.
“Sure. I was just wondering if you'd stop by to get me. I know it's a little out of the way, but…”
“It's no problem, and it'll be my pleasure.”
“Thanks. Hold on a sec, will you?”
Hilda speaks loudly to Lucille. “Go ahead and take the Explorer. I've got a ride.”
She exchanges a few more words with Lucille and then turns her attention back to me. “So I'll see you in a little while?”
“I'm on the way.”
A little while later, I park in Hilda's driveway and knock on her door. “I'll be right there,” she calls from inside.
I glance at her shingle and wonder again at the P3/6 inscription. “Okay,” Hilda says, opening the door. “I'm ready.”
I gesture to the shingle. “What's that deal with your shingle?”
She locks the door and smiles. “It's a gift from Lucille from when she first came to work for me. It's from chapter three, verse six in the book of Proverbs: ‘In all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall make your paths straight.’ ”
“That's cute.”
Hilda's smile tightens. “She wanted me to always remember that the law should be used for justice and mercy, not revenge or greed.”
I almost say something about revenge and greed coming as natural to lawyers as ducks swimming in water until I remember that Hilda's a lawyer. I also remember that my pursuit of Mr. X is to get even.
I gesture to the Corvette. “Shall we?”
We get in the car and get going. On the way downtown Hilda describes once more the procedures of what'll happen.
“The meeting will be run by a moderator appointed by the court,” she explains. “This person's a magistrate, not a judge, but they've got the power of the court behind them, so listen close and follow instructions.”
Once there I park and start to get out when Hilda grabs my arm. I turn and meet her gaze. “Are you ready?” she asks.
I nod. “With you here to back me up, of course I'm ready.”
“Okay then. Let's do this.”
THIRTY-SIX
Hilda and I stroll briskly down the ornately decorated hallway of the law firm of Savage, Pahlunder, & Crooke. Sierra's family connections have come in handy on this occasion. Most divorce cases take months, but the famed Montague clout has pushed ours way ahead of schedule, and that's fine with me. Charles Keller wanted us to meet in his office, but Hilda insisted upon a neutral site and pulled some strings of her own, and we have a space all to ourselves. She strides confidently through a doorway with a sign over it reading Quisling Conference Room.
A handsomely attractive, well-tanned, stylishly dressed but stern-looking woman with blazing-white hair sits at the center of a long shining mahogany table. High-backed chairs with thick deep burgundy cushions surround the table. Three high-tech–looking telephones are evenly spaced across the table, with one at each end and one in the center. Portraits of the firm's elder statesmen and stateswomen hang on the walls, their eyes seeming to follow us as we enter. The thick carpet is the same deep burgundy color as the chairs. And the room smells of freshly cut flowers.
“There are people I know in the Brownfield District who'd like to live in here,” I whisper to Hilda.
She giggles, gets serious, and greets the woman. “Good morning, magistrate.”
“Good morning, Ms. Vaughan. You're looking well.”
Hilda thanks her and introduces me. We're instructed to take our seats at one end of the table, which we quickly do. Hilda gets her notes in order, and we chat for a few moments until Sierra and Charles Keller glide through the door.
My heart skips a beat. Sierra looks ravishing. Part of me misses her and hopes that I'll let bygones be bygone and we can pick up from where we left off. But where we left off was me living in a dreamland and her in the shadows, screwing Mr. X. So no! There'll be no forgiving, no forgetting, and absolutely no going back!
Charles Keller's definitely a lion, of the alley cat variety. He's the classic little man overcompensating for his height by projecting attitude and ego. He greets the magistrate and introduces Sierra just as Hilda did with me, and they take their seats at the end of the table opposite us.
The magistrate clears her throat and explains the rules. We're to keep things civil, or the meeting will be adjourned and the offending party will be cited with contempt. She asks if we understand, we do, and she directs us to begin.
Silence—long, sad, and swirling with the lightning, winds, and thunder of emotion—goes marauding through the room. The magistrate glances from left to right. Charles Keller sticks out his chin. Hilda sits calmly in her chair, arms crossed over her chest and waiting. I glower at Sierra. She reflects it back.
I sit up tall and speak. “I never cheated on you, Sierra.”
Her eyes narrow. “Yes, Denmark, you did.”
“Did Vondie tell you this? If so, you need to know that she's only trying to get back at me for … ”
“I didn't need Vondie,” Sierra interrupts. “I put it together myself the night I called the hotel in Orlando and you weren't there.”
“What phone call?” I ask, getting loud. The magistrate clears her throat. I continue, speaking more softly. “There was no message.”
“Why would I leave a message when I knew what you were doing?”
I shake my head, completely baffled. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“How dare you, Denmark, how dare you sit there pretending to be ignorant?” she asks, her eyes flashing.
“If you're referring to your affair, then yes. I was totally ignorant. I was ignorant of you lying every time you said you loved me. I ignorantly believed you could be trusted. I ignorantly thought that if I loved you hard and good enough, you'd be true to me like I was to you.”
I clench my jaw hard, gritting my teeth to keep my emotions in check. “I did, Sierra,” I say through a tight throat. “I loved you with everything I had.” Large tears fall from her eyes. “And now,” I continue, “I despise you in the same way.”
“Don't test me, Mr. Wheeler,” warns the magistrate.
“You brought it on yourself,” Sierra asserts. “You slept with Vondie.”
I ball my fists, but maintain control. “What—are— you—talking about?”
Charles Keller hands Sierra some tissues and pats her back with tender “There, there, now” taps. She dabs her eyes and nose dry, then focuses on me. “Okay, Denmark. Let me explain so you can stop this juvenile game of ‘don't remember.’ ”
I scoot close to the table so I can hear every word. Sierra says, “Before you left for Orlando you'd told me that on your first day down there you, Vondie, and Porter Grant would be in meetings all day, then come straight back to the hotel.”
“And that's exactly what happened.”
“Let her finish,” the magistrate admonishes.
She's as interested in hearing the story as I am. Sierra nods at her. “I waited until late in the day to call you so I wouldn't disturb you conducting business. Porter had your cell phone. He said he'd borrowed it to call his wife …”
“She was pregnant,” I clarify.
The magistrate scowls. Sierra continues. “Yes, she was. Porter was worried and wanted to check on her. He went to find an area with better phone reception. When he came back, you and Vondie were gone.” Her voice trembles, and fresh tears waterfall down her cheeks. “He waited and waited, finally got tired, and went to bed.”
She's sobbing now. “Denmark. I called your room several times and no one answered. So don't tell me you didn't cheat. Even Vondie admits …”
I groan, and fall back against my chair. It all makes sense now. Sierra had been uncharacteristically cold when I'd talked with her later that evening. She was snippy, anxious to get off the phone, and generally unpleasant. Upon my return from Orlando I asked her what had been the problem. She deferred, hedged, and evaded. Then everything returned to normal and I concluded that her odd behavior had been the by-product of a bad day.
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