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  Temple Gardens was a facility recently built in Flint, Michigan. They worked exclusively with addicts who hadn’t been successful in other substance abuse centers. The center was testing a pilot program with children of alcoholics that allowed the children to spend weekends and go through the programs along with their parents to better understand the extent and severity of their disease. Spice hoped that with children, whom she always loved to be around, and other patients with similar problems as her companions Carmen’s own plight wouldn’t seem so bad.

  “That’s it, Ms. Witherspoon,” Kia said, smiling and helping Spice put on her coat. “I’ll be at Chamberlain Hospital by eight A.M. to drive Ms. Enriquez to Temple Gardens. They’ll be expecting her at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “If only I’d been able to cancel tomorrow’s meeting with my new partners, I wouldn’t have had to ask you to do me this favor. I can’t thank you enough, Kia.” Spice turned off the lights in her office. She locked the door behind them, then stretched her long arms and yawned. “It’s late.” Massaging the muscles at the back of her neck, she said, “Take the following day off.” She lifted a single finger. “Don’t argue, Kia. You’ve done double duty today and I’m truly grateful.”

  “You feeling okay, Ms. Witherspoon?”

  “I’m fine.” Spice walked Kia to the elevator and pressed the button.

  “In case you need me, I’ll be available at a moment’s notice. Good night.”

  When Spice walked into her home, the phone was ringing. It was Otis. Listening to him talk on and on about new development projects in downtown Detroit suddenly seemed irrelevant. He was talking about the empowerment zone, a good opportunity for Spice, they could work together—she was barely listening.

  Pulling back the drapes in her bedroom window and looking outside, she let her mind wander as Otis rambled on.

  It was still raining. Under the cool garland woven of silver light, the silence made her think of Golden.

  Three days later, Spice still had not succeeded in contacting Carmen’s doctors at Temple Gardens. With shaky hands, she again dialed the facility.

  “Hello, I’m Spice Witherspoon, and I’m calling concerning a patient of yours—”

  “We don’t give out information about our patients over the phone.” The receptionist’s tone was professional but sharp.

  “Maybe you don’t understand,” Spice said, forcing a calmness in her voice. “You’ve got my friend—”

  “Hold on, miss. Weren’t you listening? There are over two hundred patients here. The doctor won’t be in until Monday morning.” The receptionist hung up.

  Spice was stunned as she held the dead receiver in her hand.

  Why were they keeping Carmen away from her? Was she okay? Did she ask for her friend?

  She laid her head on her desk and cried. How she needed someone to hold her. How she needed a man to tell her that everything would be okay. How she needed . . . how she needed—oh, Lord, how she needed.

  OTIS

  When a child can be brought to tears, not from fear of punishment, but from repentance for his offence, he needs no chastisement. . . . When the tears begin to flow from the grief at one’s own conduct, be sure there is an angel nestling in the bosom.

  —HORACE MANN

  S hit!” Otis exclaimed to himself.

  The belt buckle on his black leather trench coat was stuck in the car door.

  Pulling the handle, he opened his car door, releasing it. Before shutting the door, he noticed that he’d forgotten the proposals beneath his gloves on the front passenger seat. He placed the small bundle into his briefcase, then tied his coat closer, feeling a shiver creep up his pants leg. Even though he was on the lower level of the city’s downtown parking lot, he could hear the March wind howling outside. So much for spring being on its way.

  As he stood before the City-County Building waiting for the traffic light to change, Otis glanced upward at the vacant, eyelike windows of the building. Two more years in that brick bitch, he thought, and he could get the fuck out of there.

  Against the misty background of the sky, he turned up the outer collar of his coat, then quickly crossed the two intersections and waited for the security guard to unlock the door. It was just past seven on a typical Tuesday morning. Taking the elevator to his office on the fourth floor, he reached inside his pocket for his key, only to find that the office was already lit up.

  “Morning, Otis,” Sandra Hunt said cheerily. Otis’s boss was at the front desk, manning the telephones while going through the building inspectors’ routing reports.

  “I thought we were supposed to have those extra lines in this week?” Otis asked.

  Sandra Hunt shrugged. Otis frowned and then continued past the main station to where the building inspectors’ offices were located.

  After turning on the lights in his office, he went over his schedule for the day’s inspections. Today, as he did every day, he wrote the reports from yesterday’s inspections. In three hours he’d go out into the field.

  Smiling to himself, he added a few comments to the violations he’d discovered:

  02-20-97—Out on complaint of illegal construction in progress at 11225 Charlevoix. Found: Workers on job (Renaissance Properties. 23545 Piedmont, Detroit, 48235). Footings and concrete forms are in the wrong place. Spoke to foreman, ——Cain, who could not produce a permit for work in progress, but thinks his boss forgot to post it on the job. Warned Mr. Cain I would check with our office and if permit was not issued, I would have to issue a violation notice. Recommendation: Check of tub records and cardex indicates no permits on file for work in progress. Issue office notice.

  Rec. Notice: (Violation)

  1—Stop all work in progress until the following items have been complied with and you are authorized to proceed with work by this department:

  A—Present plans and make application to secure the required building permit. Ord. 290-H, Sec. 12-11-16.1, 12-11-27.0

  B—Upon securing the required permit, contact this department and arrange for the required inspection.

  Then Otis went through his in-box and found a memo indicating that Golden had made an end run around him, directly petitioning the city to yet again start up the Renaissance project—it seemed as though they went through this stop-start-petition-start-stop every week. Why couldn’t he show Golden the easier way to do business? Golden was making a bad move if he planned to continue doing business in Detroit. The bastard has nerve. Worse, he knows the process and works it to his advantage.

  This would cost him. I’ll fix your ass yet, Westbrook, Otis thought, signing his name on the back of the report.

  “Nice suit, Uncle O,” Colby said, sticking his head into Otis’s office. “Jack’s Place?”

  It was now ten minutes to eight, and most of the city workers had filled the offices. Colby, a twenty-five-old engineer with three years’ seniority, thought of Otis as his mentor. From his first day on the job, he’d called Otis “Uncle O.”

  “No. L’Uomo Vogue in Southfield.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Colby said, nodding.

  Otis yelled to his assistant, “Get Golden Westbrook on the phone—now!” A minute later, Golden was on the line.

  “Westbrook here.”

  “Westbrook, it’s Otis Witherspoon. I just received notice that you once again evaded the new stop work orders on your Renaissance project. I thought we could come to an understanding—”

  “Of course we can. I will not play the game. I, too, have friends in high places.”

  “But what about our discussion at the restaurant last month?”

  “You mean your contribution to my reelection campaign? I am most appreciative of your support. However, as you must know, I keep my varied interests quite separate. Since my order is now signed, I want to tell you to keep my property off your inspection list—just in case you were thinking of dropping by to inspect something else.”

  Golden’s tone was pushing Otis over some edge. “Not ju
st now, Westbrook, but watch your back.”

  “Mr. Witherspoon, as I’ve said to you in the past, I don’t take to idle threats. Good day.”

  Otis slammed down the phone. Just then Sandra Hunt was in his office. “Hey, Otis, did you know that Mr. Westbrook also has plans for a senior citizens’ facility? They are currently being reviewed by the planning committee.” She paused and gave Otis a mischievous glance. “His partner’s name sounds familiar. Spice Witherspoon.”

  Instant fury made the air around him spin, turn red.

  “Isn’t that Witherspoon related to you, Otis?” Sandra asked.

  “She’s my sister-in-law.”

  A phone rang. “Duty calls,” Sandra said. “Talk to you later.”

  Otis’s pager went off. It was a long-distance number. He dialed it.

  It was Sterling.

  “I can’t hear you, Sterling.” She was crying hysterically. “Repeat what you’re saying—slower.”

  “Bennie isn’t home. I can’t call Spice or Mink.”

  “Hold up, now. What’s wrong? What’s going on? Tell me what you need.”

  “I fucked up. Fucked up bad. I’m in jail in Waco, Texas. Spice—”

  “She doesn’t have to ever find out. C’mon now, tell me how I can help.”

  “I’ve been arrested for driving under the influence. But something else seems to be wrong.”

  “Were drugs involved?” Otis shook his head and searched his mind for an attorney who would be available on short notice. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “Uncle O,” she said with tears in her voice, “I don’t have anyone else to call. Please help me.” She broke down again.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  STERLING

  For as children tremble and fear everything in the blind darkness, so we in the light sometimes fear what is no more to be feared than the things children in the dark hold in terror and imagine will come true.

  —TITUS LUCRETIUS CARUS

  W hat’s your business in Mexico, miss?” asked the customs officer at the Texas-Mexico border.

  “Shopping, sir.” Sterling replaced her driver’s license in her wallet.

  It was late on a sunny Thursday afternoon. She’d flown into Houston that morning, rented a car, and made her way down to the border by late afternoon. She was ready for her first run—which was not to say she liked it. But it kept Bennie tied to her. Bennie had specifically stated that the best time for her to cross the border was at the end of the workday, when Mexican nationals who worked in the States were commuting home.

  The idea of crossing the border to pick up drugs made her nervous. Having been in bumper-to-bumper traffic for the past hour, she could feel her nerves becoming more frazzled. She raised her wrist and nodded meaningfully at her gold Gucci watch.

  “How long do you plan on staying in Mexico?”

  “Four or five hours, sir.”

  “Are you bringing anything into the country, miss?” His peering eyes quickly scanned the interior of her rented white Pontiac Sunbird. A small bag and change of clothes were all he saw on the backseat.

  “No, sir.” She felt sweat forming above her top lip and licked it off. Even as her outer body heated, inside she felt a deadly chill creeping into her heart. The thought of the customs inspector finding the money made her mind race. How would she explain half a million dollars in cash?

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  Relieved, Sterling smiled and drove off.

  Now that it was late afternoon, the bone dry Mexican heat had begun to wane. Each mile she drove, with the shadows of wildflowers along the range stretching on either side in rust to indigo, to green, and to gold, began to loosen her nerves. Sterling began to feel a ray of hope that renewed her courage to press onward.

  As she drove along Highway 101 toward the city of Matamoros, she constantly checked her rearview mirror. Most cars had U.S. license plates, so she didn’t stand out.

  In just under twenty minutes she spotted the lighted bright green-and-white sign: Castellano’s Garage.

  “Hello,” Sterling said to the stranger who approached her car.

  Wiping his oily hands on a cloth he’d pulled from his back pocket, the man walked casually to the back of the car and checked the license plates, then retraced his steps before asking, “Need some work done today?”

  Straining to see his right ear, Sterling looked for the earring. Bennie had warned her not to panic, that panic could only lead to mistakes. Being in another country all alone, she couldn’t afford that luxury. With Bennie in mind, Sterling was confident that either Henriquez, Ricardo, or Gus was probably close by. This man wore oversize green coveralls with “Kiki” scripted in white, and the bulk of his muscular chest and arms strained against the tight cloth.

  “Excuse me,” Sterling said, sneezing. Desert dust was everywhere. “I’ve got a slow leak in my back tire.” She exited the car and brushed invisible dust from her silver silk jogging suit. “How long would it take to fix it?”

  Before he could answer, a middle-aged man also wearing coveralls, but with the jade-and-silver elephant earring in his right ear, spoke first. “Oh, probably ten minutes or so. I’ll take care of it, miss.”

  Sterling handed him the keys and watched the handsome creature drive the small car into the open stall.

  While waiting for the car, she walked a few yards away to the next building and purchased three silver rings, an ankle bracelet, and two copper mugs with “Mexico” painted lavishly at an angle in bright red.

  “How far is the nearest liquor store?” Sterling asked the man when he handed her back her car keys.

  The man laughed. His accent was heavy and sexy. “How did you manage to miss the liquor signs? They’re all along the highway.”

  “I guess my mind was focused on finding this place first.” She shrugged. “So I’ll pass one on my way back?”

  “Certainly. By the way, I’m Henriquez,” he said, extending his hand. “Tell Bennie I said hello.”

  “Sure. Everything’s all set with the tire?”

  He winked. “You’re good to go, miss.”

  “Thanks,” Sterling said, trying not to stare at the jet black curls that had fallen across his beautiful bronze forehead.

  Minutes later she spotted a liquor store, stopped, and purchased a half gallon of whiskey.

  A few miles from the border, she checked the time. It wasn’t even six P.M. She pulled off the road. She had to laugh—it had taken no time at all to transact her business. She reached in back for her toiletries bag and removed a tampon from the carrying case, then emptied a small dose of the powder she’d hidden there onto the map the car agency had provided. Lifting it to her face, she snorted the heroin.

  She passed through the Mexico border back into Texas without any problems. She was heading north on Interstate 77 high as a rocket. Lighting a Salem, Sterling scanned the stations for the weather report and traffic. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was approximately six-thirty. The highway was clear. The weather report came on first.

  “Okay, let’s hear some music,” she said, reaching over to change the station. She stopped when she heard a news report:

  Parents use their son and daughter as mules to transfer drugs in from Korea. The married couple made the children swallow the balloons filled with dope before they left Korea.

  Throughout the long trip, the mother kept telling the flight attendant that the child didn’t want anything to eat or drink. With such a long flight, the stewardess thought it was strange and alerted the police. Unfortunately, when they arrived at Metropolitan Airport in Detroit, the boy had died from an overdose of heroin. The balloon had burst in his stomach.

  Sterling turned off the radio. The part of her that wasn’t totally gone on heroin felt sick to her stomach. She was sorry for the little boy and ashamed of being a part of the craven world that had caused his death. She peeled the protective plastic off the whiskey and sipped straight from the bottle.r />
  Soon drunk as well as high, she drove through the small towns of Texas; then she stopped to purchase fish and chips at a carryout in Austin.

  Back on the highway, she gobbled down her food as she drove, washing it down with straight whiskey. The odometer showed she’d driven four hundred and fifty-eight miles since leaving Matamoros and was now entering Waco, Texas.

  Once again she reached for the bottle of whiskey and took a long gulp. Just as she screwed the top back on, she noticed the cop car creeping up behind her, and she slowed down—too late. The lights started flashing red and blue, and she pulled over. Pushing the bottle onto the floor, she tried to kick it under the seat.

  “Can I see your license, miss?” the officer asked, shining a flashlight in her face.

  While Sterling searched inside her purse for her wallet, she asked in a calm voice, “What’s the problem, Officer?”

  “Are you in a hurry? I clocked you at ninety.”

  Could he smell liquor on her breath? “I was on my way home to Michigan, Officer,” she said while noticing the other officer had circled the car, checking the license plates, and was now flashing a light on the passenger side of the vehicle.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” the policeman said, taking her license.

  She knew he was going to run a check on her license. Thank God she didn’t have any speeding tickets. Sterling kept her eyes on the clock and sweated profusely through every second of every minute. He was back in four minutes.

  “Mind if we check the vehicle?”

  “No, sir,” she said, exiting the car.

  He’s going to find the drugs, she thought. Please don’t let him find the dope. Please, please don’t let him find the dope. A part of her was scared shitless, the other part was too high to care.

  He found the whiskey, three-quarters full. When he seemed to pass over the spare tire with the heroin in it, Sterling closed her eyes and offered up a silent Thank you, Lord, though the absurdity of that nearly made her burst out laughing.