CHAPTER 1

He fi nished the fi nal touches on the track he'd just sung. His own rendition

of "One Less Bell," originally performed by The Fifth Dimension, back in the

early seventies. The tracks from his tears dried moments after he stepped out of

the sound booth. He did this remake for no one in particular but himself, and

his lonesome heart. He thought it would make great background music for his

pity party, but the tears and sorrowful heart have left him thoughtless. Before his

mind was voided, he thought about a lot of things—like in the last few weeks,

after Yvonne, his wife, made her departure from their residence.

She took little with her that night. She was too choked-up and upset to

stay under the same roof with him any longer than she had to. Quiet as it was

kept, she had thought about leaving him so many times, for a long time, but the

time was never right. She hadn't planned on leaving the way she did, not on his

terms, but he put all the cards on the table. She should have remembered he was

a skillful player, and he always played to win, but since that night, he regretted

showing his hand at all. He never dreamed his marriage would come to a division.

He never wanted to live his life without her. She was his world; even when he'd

whored around and gave himself so easily to others, he always thought she would

be there.

He never understood how a couple could live together for ten, twenty, thirty,

or more years and separate for some stupid, bullshit indifferences like adultery.

He'd always thought love could overcome anything and everything, but his home

became a house for damn near two years. She grew cold and distant, and started

working late and later, till it seemed as if she just wasn't there.

The track was completed; he sat and stared at the console. The project gave

him something to do; his usual routine had changed. When she left him, she

took away her small talk, her constructive criticism, and her nightly needs, which

he reluctantly became accustomed to.

William peeped into his oldest daughter's room, as he had done for twentytwo

years. She was out again, and the room was a mess, as usual. Clothes lay in

all corners, on the desk, on the dresser. Maybe if she spent a little more time at

home, she would have some control, or concern. He wondered where the hell

did he go wrong. He closed the door and walked a few steps to the next room.

His two youngest daughters were asleep. They had separate beds of their own,

but they chose to sleep together. His two darling little angels. Over to his son's

room—where he found the television on, the computer on, the Play Station

on—he looked over at his son where he laid in bed asleep with his clothes on.

He headed for the stairs, switching off the hall lights as he started his descent,

then the phone rang. He hurried down the stairs to the phone on the end table

"Hello?" William inquired.

"Yo, Will. Still up, I see." It was Friday, twelve thirty-six in the night, and

Jake, his best friend, was looking for a place to hang out. "Want some company?

Shit, I got nothing to do. I'm tired of this damn house and the damn woman

getting on my nerves. I need to escape, shit."

"Yeah sure. Nothing happening over here. How long?" asked William,

knowing it would take Jake at least forty minutes to reach him.

"Fifteen, twenty minutes," Jake replied.

"Twenty minutes?"

"Yeah. Actually, I'm halfway there," Jake confessed.

"Then why call? Hey, just drop by, walk in, and make yourself at home. Have

a sandwich or something," William said sarcastically.

"Thanks, I was planning to do just that." Jake welcomed the invitation even

though all of the above was his norm.

"Yeah cool. See you in a bit." William placed the cordless phone back into its

cradle. He headed toward the back of the house to his study. He stopped when he'd

stepped in and stared at the canvas painting of his wife and him, standing sideway,

embracing each other, kissing. She was on her toes reaching up to him, his arms

wrapped around her. Their nude bodies looked as if they were painted with the

fi nest, silky smooth dark chocolate with butterscotch for their muscular tone.

He'd updated his day planner earlier before he'd checked on the children.

Next week was going to be just as busy as this one was. He was tired; it had been

a long day, and a quiet evening. He turned the computer and the lights off, and

headed for the basement-slash-business.

He entered his basement, walked pass the lounge area and over to one of

the three desks, and seated himself. The lounge area was actually two and a half

rooms before he took down the partitions. He used the entire basement for his

business. It consisted of a professional studio, with two sound rooms—both were

medium orchestra size with three individual booths for vocalists; a high-end,

high-tech, state-of-the-art mixing console; and the heart of it all, his computer

network and fi le system. The lounging area consisted of a full bar, a minikitchen,

two full-length white leather sofas, and two matching love seats centered around

a large thick squared jewel gold leaf coffee table with the top made of onyx. On

the coffee table sat all the usual black publications—Black Enterprise, Essence,

work area, with the three desks, and computer terminals.

At one of the computer terminal he searched for an album, just one of

preset at a low and moderate level. The music played through the eight pairs of

slim line speakers placed in various locations throughout the oversized room.

He walked behind the bar and began to prepare his drink—Chivas Regal

and Coke on the rocks—in his favorite crystal rocker glass. After a long sip, he

walked back to the computer and selected the track, "The Sweetest Taboo."

It's been over three weeks since his wife left him. She told the children she

would be staying with Aunt Vanessa. She needed time to get away and to think

things over, sort out the details and weigh her options. Her plane landed fi ve days

ago. The Bahamas was her destination. She left no phone number other than her

cell phone, no hotel name, nothing. Well, not with him anyway. She refused to

speak with him; she'd only conversed with the kids. Shit, she really didn't give a

damn whether he wanted to speak with her or not. The bastard had the nerves to

have done what he did, and she really wasn't feeling him. Was putting his cards

on the table actually some stupid shit he did and got caught? Hell no, he was too

good to get caught at the shit he did; his game was mad tight. Yet, she left her

home, her domain, her position of absolute authority.

William was a woman's dream—tall, dark, and trained. He possessed the

ability to do all domestic house chores, all the handyman chores, all the major

electrical and mechanical chores; and besides being able to sew, make patterns,

crochet, and garden, he loved pleasing a woman. So what were his faults? Well,

he was highly intelligent, he was very secretive, he dreamed too damn big, and

he was too damn pleasing to women.

He sat at the desk and sipped from the glass. A sense of loneliness washed

over him, making him feel empty. He looked into the glass, ice, and brown

liquid—not enough to get him drunk, or fi ll the emptiness. He hadn't been

sleeping well the last three weeks since she left. He missed her, deeply. Hell, he

had it so bad he had yet to change her pillowcases. The scent reminded him of

her—she felt closer—and provided him with hope of her return. His cell phone

rang, he lifted it from out its holster.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Poppy," said a young woman.

"Hi, baby girl."

He only called one person by that name, and that was because she would

not have it any other way. It was his oldest daughter, Jasmine, and only she

her sexuality. She stood fi ve foot nine, almost as tall as her father. She liked to

keep her hair and nails long, and she had the lightest skin tone in the family. She

would be best described as a smart, sassy, big-boned, big-assed young woman,

who has nothing but love for her father.

"Where are you tonight?" he asked.

"I'm out with Jess and Helen. I'll be spending the night with Helen, unless

you need me to come home." She prayed he'd say no.

"No. No reason for you to come home. I'm okay."

"Sure, Poppy?"

"Yeah, baby girl. I'm all right. Coming home tomorrow?"

"I don't know. Maybe late. Something I want to watch on TV at nine. So I'll

be home before then. Okay, Poppy?" She prayed he had nothing for her to do.

"Yeah, cool," William responded.

"Has Ma called you yet?"

"No," He replied.

"How're the kids?"

"They're okay. Everyone's asleep. Jake will be by in a little bit. So we'll just sit here

and get drunk together, play some music, and talk shit for the rest of the night."

She chuckled. "Okay, Daddy. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, baby."

"Good night, Daddy." She knew he had everything under control.

They disconnected the call. He sled down in the love seat and took a couple

of sips. He spied into his glass, and it was three quarters empty. "Hum. Down.

Now that's a no-no."

He stood and headed back to the bar. As he reached for the Chivas, the

counter and headed upstairs. He opened the door. No surprise, it was Jake. They

embraced and headed back downstairs.

Jake took off his Yankees baseball cap, tossed it over to the far-end sofa, and

said, "Hey, drink time."

"Oh yeah. Pour your own. And bring the bottles over to the table." William

smiled to himself. Finally he had some company.

Jake knew where everything was. And why not? It truly was his second

home. He had been apart of William's life for over fourteen years. They worked

the same job for more than seven years. They started about the same time.

Jake watched William climb his way up from a company delivery driver to the

company's operation manager. All was going well for William until he stepped

in to save Jake from getting fi red and from possible imprisonment. Back then,

this last great sacrifi ce.

William took the blame and confessed to stealing over nineteen thousand

dollars of produce. Needless to say, he was fi red and was lucky not to have served

time. He was sentenced to serve three years probation. To Jake, William was a

success story, because he turned his life around. William went back to college,

graduated with a masters degree in electrical engineering from NYU, started his

own company, made lots of money, bought a modern mansion, and rubbed elbows

with the stars, so he thought. Actually, William hosted or leased out the studio to

a few of the music industry's celebrities. But he primarily corrected, sampled, or

created sound recording; produced masters for some of the top recording labels,

companies, and soundmen from around the world. Occasionally he would provide

his services to government and local law enforcement agencies.

Oh, and the Pentagon. William had a patent on an invention called "the

Filtrex," a fi ve-year project, which paid off big time. The Filtrex was a box, which

could fi lter out the sound of a roaring disco to hear an ink pin drop and bounce

off the fl oor. The Filtrex had the ability to fi lter out and focus in on whatever

sound one chooses to hear from a recording, tape, disc, or live. William was

hoping to make lots of money by selling thousands, millions, but instead he'd

only sold twenty.

The Pentagon dropped the ball, and William's patent was granted before they

realize what the plans actually yield. They stopped the manufacturing for the

Filtrex, and for two years there were threats, court battles, and bullshit harassment

techniques used against William. They went as far as labeling William and Yvonne

as major drug dealers. They said William murdered three reviled dealers up in the

Bronx for their drugs. They couldn't provide any evidence to lay to their claim,

so when that didn't work, they threaten to have William and his family erased.

William informed them that several people had copies of the Filtrex plans and

would publish them on the Internet if anything were to happen to his family or

to him. They came to an agreement. William could only market the Filtrex in a

scaled-down version, and he had to retail that version for an unreasonable one

hundred and seventy-fi ve thousand dollars. And last, a contract and a fi ve-milliondollar-

a-year grant to perfect the Filtrex where it would be able to pick up sound

from great distances in real time, like from a spy plane, or from a satellite out in

orbit. William was more than your average man, he was into more than smarts, a

career, and money. Unknown to family and friends, he was in bed, sleeping with

Uncle Sam. William R. Green was connected and protected.

Copyright©2007