Other Men's Wives by Freddie Lee Johnson III

Author:Freddie Lee Johnson III [Johnson, Freddie Lee III]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-53946-5
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2005-10-14T04:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FIVE

On my way into lower Cleveland I call Mason Booker's Second Shadow Enterprises. It's embarrassing, asking Mason to nose into my private life, especially for something like this.

“Second Shadow Enterprises,” Mason answers in his smooth Southern accent. “We're a private contractor ready to serve your surveillance needs.”

“Hey, Mason. It's me, Denmark.”

“Well, the moon must be turning blue,” he laughs. “How'zit going, Denmark?”

I almost start to answer that everything's fine, but stop. “Things could be better.”

He's instantly serious. “Okay. Clue me in.”

“I'd rather do it in person. Can you make some time for me today?”

“I'd make time for you on any day. When can you stop by?”

I'm relieved and give him an estimate of when I'll be there after I've stopped by to see Jiao Minh Xing, the Electronics Doctor. We hang up, and thirty-five minutes later I'm in lower Cleveland, rolling slowly down Henley Avenue, passing bar after bar as I look for Jiao's shop.

Two drunks are fighting out in front of Rockin’ Rodney's. In the trash-strewn alley next to Jackson's Joint a man and a woman are groping each other like two lusting octopi. Bald-headed, shade-wearing, muscleman-tee–shirted, gun-toting gang bangers, most of them gabbing on cell phones, cluster outside of Dusky Pleasures. And the bright red, purple, and green neon flashing letters over Babes, Booze'n Billiards advertises: “Tonight Only—Come See Marilyn's Mammoth Mountains!”

The light at an intersection turns red. I stop and double-check the address for the Electronics Doctor. “Eleven-eleven Henley Avenue is what he said,” I mutter.

I also check the time. It's 5:20 p.m. The Electronics Doctor closes at 6 p.m. on Fridays, so I've got to hurry. The light turns green, and I roll through the intersection. An olive-skinned woman wearing bright red thigh-high boots, painfully tight white short-shorts, and a bright red halter that's barely halting her nipples calls to me from a corner. “Hey, sweet daddy, you want a date?”

She ought to fire the cross-eyed stylist who gave her that Old English sheepdog hair weave. I chuckle and keep rolling. It's been a while since I've been in this kind of setting, and I don't know whether to feel sad or glad about feeling so comfortable so quickly. Maybe Sierra's family was right. Maybe I'd never have fit into their world no matter how hard I tried.

I keep rolling and finally see the Electronics Doctor. I pull up in front, park, and go inside. A weak buzzer whines when I open the door, but it's barely noticeable over the blaring country-western music. At least it's Charlie Pride, one of the few, and certainly one of the most famous, black country-western singers.

I stroll to the counter and look around. This place is a junkyard for TV sets, video players and cameras, computer monitors, and anything else that beams an image or used to. Boxes of parts and accessories clutter the floor. Stacks of used and battered videotape cassettes crowd the small, narrow counter, its space further diminished and made unusable by the buckled vomit-green linoleum.

I search the chaotic counter, see a handbell, and pound it.

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