Free Lookin' For Luv by Carl Weber Page B

known you for over thirty years, and I’ve never seen you back down to any man like that. What the hell is going on? Is he from the NAACP or something?”
    “That son of a bitch and his high-priced lawyer are the reason I lost my captain’s bars.” Landell’s hatred showed in his eyes.
    “Him?” She was shocked.
    “He happens to make large donations to the Vermont Democratic Party. One day about ten years ago, me and a few of the boys decided to teach him a lesson for abandoning some New York girls out near Interstate Ninety-five. Well, two days later that son of a bitch shows up with a lawyer and sues for police brutality. The state, the governor, I mean, he sued everyone.”
    “I think I heard about that,” replied the waitress, recalling vaguely having heard something through word-of-mouth.
    “Yeah, well, you’re one of the few who heard. Those damn Democrats put such a tight lid on things, it never even made the news. They gave that son of a bitch three hundred grand to drop the lawsuit, then fired everyone involved but me.”
    “Why didn’t they fire you?”
    “Because that smartass lawyer of his said that it would serve as a better example if they busted me down from captain to trooper. It took me five years just to make sergeant again.”
    “That’s a real shame.” The waitress shook her head slowly. “But, you know, what goes around comes around. Someday that man’s going to get what he deserves.”
    The trooper stood up to leave. “You know, I hope you’re right about that.”
     
    At the same moment Maurice’s wife was sitting by the phone in their bedroom, fuming. This is the fifth time I’ve called that motherfucker! Where the fuck could he be at 3:45 in the morning? I should just forget his ass and go to sleep. She had already tried to sleep but was too upset.
    This was not the first time Sylvia had found herself in this position, waiting for her husband at all hours of the night. Over the years her husband had spent many nights out late, and while he was away she would pace the floors, certain that he was with another woman. Most times he would come home with the excuse that he had been with his childhood friend, David. Sylvia rarely questioned his reason, mostly to avoid a fight. After pacing around the bedroom for another ten minutes, she dialed his cellular phone again.
    “I’m sorry, but the number you have dialed is out of calling range at this time”
    Sylvia slammed the phone against the nightstand in a rage. Grabbing her robe from the back of the bathroom door, she walked downstairs into the study, thinking she might find some clue in Maurice’s date book. On the page for that day, Maurice had penciled in “meet with David, 9:30 P.M.”
    “That motherfucking liar!” she screamed as her fist pounded the desk. She knew he was not with David this time, since David had called two days before and mentioned to Sylvia that he and his wife were going to the Bahamas the following morning. She lifted the date book, and a slip of paper fell to the floor. It was an index card with 1-900-BLACK-LUV scribbled on it.
    Sylvia was puzzled for a minute, until she figured out what the number probably meant. The reality of the situation hit her like a ton of bricks. Years of denial had built a protective wall around her ego, but it was shattering in seconds.
    Don’t tell me that lowlife has resorted to using a date line!
    Her shock quickly became anger. Not quite sure what she should expect to hear, Sylvia dialed the date line. She had to know if her husband had actually used the line to leave a personal ad. Sylvia listened to one man after another, amazed at the number of ads.
    I can’t believe all these men call this date line. What the hell has happened to the black male that they have to stoop to this?
    For forty minutes Sylvia kept searching the ads for Maurice’s voice. Each time she heard, “Hi, my name ...” she’d skip to the next message, listening for Maurice’s voice. She knew