“I'll be right down,” says Alice. “But I thought you'd first like to know that Suite 2701 isn't my room. It belongs to Denmark Vesey Wheeler, your friend.” She enjoys a quick laugh. “I've been up here with him for hours—having sex! This is a family show, so I won't get vulgar, but I've got to tell you, he's got some skills. And he's very well hung.”
Gordon's face is stone. A hush swoops over the audience. Peoples’ eyes are bulging, and their mouths are hanging open.
Alice smiles a smile so wickedly mean that my blood runs cold. “I'd like your bosses to know that all those stories about you sexing your female guests and co-workers are true,” she says. “The station will probably be fighting a series of sexual harassment lawsuits pretty soon. Ladies, there's no time like the present.”
The microphone falls from Gordon's hand. He staggers a few steps to the side, trips, and falls to his knees. The cameras that he's loved to love faithfully follow his collapse.
Alice laughs. “Denmark thought you were cheating with his wife,” she informs the world. “He hatched a little plan to get some Old Testament eye-for-an-eye, wife-for-a-wife justice by cheating with me. Inez Bancroft secretly told me that she'd been talking with Denmark, too. My guess is that our Denmark's also pulled a fast one on Harry.”
Gordon's chin drops to his chest. “Isn't it ironic,” Alice needles. “Sierra was the one person you never went after.”
Gordon's former adoring audience skewers him with disapproving glares. An ugly murmur ripples through the crowd. Several people get up and walk out. They're quickly followed by others.
Alice glances at her watch, then back at the TV. “By the way, Gordon, you should be getting a visitor right about … now.”
A man walks into view of the camera and stands over Gordon. “Are you Gordon Wilhite?”
Gordon looks up at him, his eyes wide, wet, and disbelieving. The man hands Gordon an official-looking envelope. “You're being served,” he says, then spins around and marches away.
“That's right,” Alice confirms. “You've been served with divorce papers. Just sign them, Gordon. I'm only irritated right now. You don't want to get me mad.”
She stands and grabs her purse. “You people in the press. If you want to interview the man who betrayed Gordon, he's handcuffed to the bed in Suite 2701. Hurry to the front desk and get the special key for the elevator. He'll be here waiting.”
FORTY-SIX
Alice gathers up her belongings and heads for the door. “C'mon, Alice, don't do this,” I plead.
She looks back at me. “Don't do what—be cruel like you've been with me?”
She steps off, then stops and stares back at me. “On the other hand, I don't want to leave you with the impression that I'm as despicably disgusting as you and Gordon.”
She unlocks one of the handcuffs, slips the pistol back into her purse, gets her luggage, and places the handcuff key on a table just out of my reach. “Goodbye, Denmark. Don't try contacting me. I never want to see or hear from you again.”
“Alice, wait! Don't leave me like this. Look, I was wrong. I'm sorry. Please forgive me.”
She smiles, but her eyes are crying. “I've already forgiven you. Now I'm going to forget you.”
In one fluid motion, she wheels around and leaves, slamming the door behind her. It takes every straining muscle and shred of willpower I've got to reach the table where the handcuff keys are. It's a fumbling, frustrating effort, but I finally get them and unlock the remaining handcuff. My arm feels like a thick tube of lead.
I scramble and get dressed. The press might be here any moment. On TV, Gordon's bawling. Only a few people remain in the audience, looking at him with puzzled expressions of sympathy and disgust. The camera sweeps across their faces, and I gasp. Hilda!
It instantly makes sense. Gordon kept his live broadcast a secret but asked if I'd be available today. I told him that I'd be busy until this evening's victory banquet. He couldn't ask Harry, since he was out of town. The only other member of the 4×100 relay team left to invite for his big moment was Hilda.
The phone rings. I ignore it, grab anything else belonging to me, and get out. I sprint down the hallway toward the elevators. When I'm halfway there, the bell rings, and a flock of reporters tumbles out. They look left, right, and at me.
One of them, seeing the alarm on my face, points and yells, “That's him!”
I sprint in the other direction, find the stair exit, blast through the door, and fly down the steps, taking three, four, five at a time, and leaping down whole flights. The relentless mob's voices echo through the stairwell.
I burst through the lobby door, quickly get myself together, and as calmly and quickly as possible speed-walk toward the Lake Shore Gardens’ exit. The lobby is packed with people, and I'm suddenly glad that this hotel's a favorite spot for conventions, conferences, receptions, parties, and other big events.
I'm almost at the exit when someone loudly calls my name. “Denmark! How good it is to see you.”
I cringe. It's one-air-freshener-a-day Mrs. Randall. “Hello, Mrs. Randall. Good-bye, Mrs. Randall.”
She grabs my arm. “Now, what kind of greeting is that to give to an elder?” she admonishes. “I'm sure your parents raised you better.”
I'm about to tear my arm from her when her eyes light up. “Well, what a surprise!” she says delightedly, looking past me. “It's your wife and her boss.”
My eyes snap over to where Mrs. Randall's looking. I can barely see through all the passing people.
“Yoo-hoo! Sierra!” Mrs. Randall calls, waving and gesturing. “Look who I've found!”
Sierra looks through the crisscrossing mass of people and sees me. Her eyes bulge. I glimpse Sierra's “boss” right as he glimpses me and runs! A toxic swirl of rage, frustration, and hatred explodes in my chest.
I'm after him. He dips, ducks, and dodges his way through the crowds. I'm closing in on him. From the back he looks familiar, but it can't be. It simply cannot be!
Sierra's “boss” bursts through the exit doors and hurtles into the traffic of a busy main street, dodging and sidestepping cars. Angry drivers pound their horns. I'm gaining on him. A delivery truck's horn blares. The driver slams on brakes and swerves. I leap out of the way, hit the sidewalk hard, and roll to a scraping, scratching stop. I sit up quickly. Sierra's “boss” runs for his life off into the distance.
FORTY-SEVEN
I storm into Jiao Minh Xing's shop, hustle to the counter, and pound the bell. Jiao's the only one who can now confirm or crush my suspicions about whomever it was I was chasing at the Lake Shore Gardens. If only there hadn't been so many people. If only I'd been able to get a longer, clearer look at him. But there was so much going on, so many distractions; all of those people; me trying to outrun those reporters; Mrs. Randall's excited chatter; the shock of seeing Sierra; the stun of suddenly being so close to the possibility of pummeling her lover!
I pound the bell again, this time longer and harder. “Is anybody here?” I yell.
“Keep shirt on!” Jiao hollers. “It's tough taking leak with one hand.”
I wait, pacing back and forth, until Jiao finally comes out. He's limping, has his left arm in a cast, and is wearing a neck brace. He sees me and smiles, revealing a big gap where one of his front teeth used to be.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“Daisy excited when Jiao propose marriage. Give Jiao plenty good booty.”
I roll my eyes. “I'm happy for you. Look, I need to know …”
“Jiao just thinking about you,” he interrupts. “Disk ninety-seven percent clear. I keep working until …”
“You've got ninety-seven-percent clarity?” I say loudly. “Why didn't you call me?”
Jiao grimaces and covers his right ear with his good right hand. “No holler!” he hollers, grimacing harder. “Last night's cheap booze still got head pounding.”
I slam my fist onto the counter. Jiao flinches. “Show it to me,” I growl.
/> He mutters in his native Vietnamese, cussing me out, I'm sure. He gestures with his good right hand for me to come behind the counter and follow him into the back. It's a bigger electronic junkyard than the chaotic front. He motions me over to a clearing in the clutter, where there sits an impressive looking super-high-tech DVD player and monitor.
“You wait,” Jiao says. “Go get disk. Be back in a second.”
Jiao returns quickly, followed by Daisy, who's glaring at me.
“What's going on?” I ask, glancing at Daisy. Her eyes are narrowed and her nostrils flared.
“Daisy for protection,” Jiao confidently answers, thrusting out his chin. The movement's too much for his sore neck, and he winces. He recovers and scowls at me. “Last guy who bring in disk of cheating woman get pissed and try to kill Jiao.”
“Hmph!” snorts Daisy. “And my baby was only trying to help him.”
Jiao nods in agreement. “Jiao no take chances this time.”
“That fool should be finished with his physical therapy in another year or so,” Daisy obliquely warns. Jiao sneers a “Take that!” smile at me.
“Look, you two,” I say, struggling to maintain calm. “All I want is to see the disk, and I'll be on my way.”
Jiao and Daisy exchange a loving glance. “Go ahead, snookum-wookum,” Daisy gently encourages. “I've got your back.”
I stiffen as Daisy's words send a bolt of bad memory zapping through me. Jiao beams a gap-toothed smile at Daisy. “You Jiao's sexy African love goddess.”
She tweaks the tip of his nose. “And you're my potent Asian sweet daddy.”
She grabs a handful of his straight, shining black hair; jerks his head back; and nearly swallows his head. Jiao cries out in pain, but it's muffled by Daisy's slobbering kiss.
“Hey!” I shout.
Their kiss ends with a POP! as they both look up at me, startled. “Who're you hollering at?” Daisy demands.
“I'll make you a deal,” I say quickly. “I've reserved Room 2701 over at the Lake Shore Gardens Hotel for myself, but I can't use it.”
“That's on top floor,” Jiao comments.
Daisy glares at him. “How do you know where it is?”
Jiao quickly explains about the service contract he recently signed with the hotel. She snatches him by the collar. “You'd best not be lying. You know I'm'a go over there and ask.”
Jiao groans in pain. “Swear to hip-hop and fried chicken, baby! Jiao no lie.”
Daisy narrows one eye in suspicion and looks back at me. Jiao's hanging from her grip like a limp fish. “What about this room?” she asks.
“It's the Royal Cleveland Suite. It's plush, romantic, paid for, and yours if you show me the disk—now!”
A sunburst of smile covers her face. “Really, our own little love nest for the night?”
“Square business,” I answer. “But first…” I point emphatically at the DVD player and monitor.
She slings Jiao toward the unit and smacks him up'side his head. Jiao yelps in agony. “Show ’em the video!” Daisy gruffly orders. “Then get ready for your African love goddess to sex you into a pretzel.”
Jiao shudders and looks like he wants to flee, but he quickly obeys. He turns on the monitor and hits the PLAY button. I rush forward and shove him aside.
Daisy says, “Don't be pushing my … ”
“Shut up!” I bellow.
She does, sensing correctly that I'm about to go off in a way that she won't survive. I stare unblinking and slack-jawed at the screen. My legs turn to rubber and my insides crumble as Sierra's image says, “No baby. You have to make me come first,” to her excited lover … Mason Booker!
FORTY-EIGHT
I stagger back into a cabinet full of electronic junk, and it topples over, landing with a loud crash followed by clangs and bangs as its contents fall out.
“No!” I wheeze. “Not him. It can't be him!”
But there they are, Sierra and Mason, on the DVD monitor and going at it with abandon. Sierra's totally free, surrendering herself to her howling urges. Mason vigorously answers back, humping and grinding harder and faster at her command.
How could he be Mr. X? Only Harry and Gordon knew about the Sapphire Spire. And the pictures, phone records, and hotel receipts were all solid evidence. But there's Sierra and Mason on the DVD monitor, giving each other their best.
Jiao and Daisy watch me like bemused researchers observing a lab rat reacting to a super hallucinogen. “You ain't gonna renege on that room, are you?” Daisy wants to know.
I creak to my feet and tell them in mutters how they can get permission to use the room. I shamble from Jiao's back room and out to my car. I'm floating. The world's spinning. I've got to stay focused. I've got to concentrate. I've got to find Mason Booker.
I slam on the brakes and the Corvette screeches to a stop. I jump out of the car, fly to the front door of Mason's house, and pound. “Mason! Open up, you maggot!”
I pound harder, channeling all my fury into each whack. “Come out! I know you've been with Sierra!”
I run around the house, looking for signs of his being home. He doesn't have a garage, so it'd be easy enough to see his car, but there's no car here. His newspaper is still on the front step. Every window is dark.
A next-door neighbor pulls back the corner of a curtain and looks out. I back slowly away from Mason's house to my car but keep searching for any signs of life. I've got to go. The last thing I need is getting rousted by cops investigating a strange man who's yelling and banging outside a neighbor's home. I back away to the Corvette, look again, and take off.
Minutes later I whip into a parking space in front of Second Shadow Enterprises. I get out and pound, yell, and threaten at the front door. This is pointless. It's Saturday. Even if Mason was working a case, he'd be in the field. Now that I know about him and Sierra, he also knows that his home and office will be the first two places I'll look. So they're the last two places he'll be.
I'm incredibly weary and lean against his office door to keep from collapsing.
“Once upon a time, there was a fool named Denmark,” Alice's voice whispers.
“This isn't over,” I growl. “I'll find you, Mason. No matter what it takes, I'm going to hunt you down!”
I shamble back to the Corvette, start the car, and turn on the radio. I need music, lots and lots of loud music to distract me from the guilt spreading through me like a cancer. The DJ newscaster says: “And now for some local news. Cleveland's been busy, folks. This afternoon, another Speed Shift Auto Parts store was robbed, continuing a string of violence against that beleaguered retailer. Once again, the thugs got away with the loot. And police have arrested Cleveland native Inez Bancroft for attempted manslaughter. She was taken into custody after police found her husband unconscious from a massive trauma to the head … ”
FORTY-NINE
I sit next to Harry in his hospital room and rest my head on the bed's raised metal side railings. The dimly lit room is bathed in the soft glow of red and green from the digital numbers of monitoring equipment. Harry's bed is partially inclined. He's sleeping flat on his back, one arm hanging out of the railing, the other lying on his stomach. His head is heavily bandaged and his cheeks are slightly sunken, but his face is relaxed and strangely peaceful. An IV sticks out of the top of his right hand, held in place by transparent tape. A weird clothespin device covers the top of his middle finger, its wires snaking up past his head to a monitor.
“Please, Harry,” I whisper. “Wake up.”
The radio news reporter I heard on the way to the hospital told a sketchy story of Inez and Harry arguing: “Inez Bancroft alleges that the victim flew into a rage and attacked her soon after he'd returned home from Cincinnati, where he'd been visiting relatives. The trauma allegedly occurred as she struggled to defend herself … .”
I lay my hand across Harry's huge motionless bear paw and give it a gentle squeeze. “I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry.”
“The doctor
says he's in a coma,” says a woman from the doorway.
I turn toward her. Our eyes meet. “Hilda, what're you doing here?”
“I've only known Harry from practicing for the race, but he's my friend … just like he thought you were.”
Her words are a speeding cannonball to my solar plexus. “All right, Hilda, we all know I'm a heel, but…”
“Attending Gordon's show was quite an experience for me. At first I thought the phone call from his wife was a joke. But when I heard the news about Harry and Inez, my lawyer's instincts told me to investigate.”
She casts sorrowful eyes onto Harry. “His wife would be here, but she's in jail.”
“Hilda, please. Just let me ex … ”
“Did you know that Harry's listed you, after his wife and son, as the next person to contact in cases of emergency?”
“Hilda … ”
She looks back at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “The admissions specialist said that Harry's going to need a lawyer. Mid-Cities Insurance won't cover his injuries.”
That's the outfit Amos Montague works for. That company's still under investigation for swindling thousands of policyholders out of their life savings and reneging on medical claims. It's so fitting that Sierra's sorry brother works for them.
Hilda's voice trembles. “Since Harry's in a coma, I guess I'll have to help him find a lawyer.”
I slouch deep into the chair. “Hilda, I know what you must be thinking, but…”
“No, Denmark, you can't possibly know what I'm thinking. As a matter of fact, it's best that you don't know.”
She walks calmly into the room, stands on the other side of Harry's bed, and peers down at him. “They fear that he might have brain damage—if he wakes up at all.” She slips a small cross into Harry's meaty paw and folds his fingers around it.
I nod approvingly. “He's going to need all the luck he can get.”
Hilda's eyes snap angrily onto me. “The cross of Christ isn't a lucky charm, Denmark! It's the doorway to a second chance.”
Other Men's Wives Page 26