My alarm clock blared.

It did this for a full five minutes before I emerged from whatever black abyss I descend into when asleep. Another five minutes before I could move my legs enough to sit up in bed. Truly, I was the waking dead.

As I sat there on the edge of the bed, wishing like hell I was back in that abyss, my cell phone chimed with a text message. I flopped my hand onto night stand, felt around until I found my phone, brought it over to my half-open eyes.

A text from Danny, my dear old ex-husband, only not so dear anymore. It was simple and to the point and aggravated me to no end: Coming over. Need help.

"Shit."

And just as I deleted his message - as I do all his messages - there was a loud knocking sound on the front door.

"Shit," I said again. Definitely not how I wanted to start my day.

Ever.

I hauled my ass out of bed, stumbled through my room, then plodded barefoot to the front door. Along the way, I grabbed my sunglasses from the kitchen table, put them on, and opened the front door.

It was, of course, Danny. In all his pitiful glory, silhouetted against the glare from the afternoon sunlight. Too much sunlight, especially after just awakening. I backed up, shielding my eyes, feeling like something out of a Bela Lugosi movie.

"Sam, can we talk?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He came in, shutting the door quickly. Danny knew the routine. He'd lived long enough with my condition to know what to do. I felt my way over to the dining room chair and sank down.

"Geez, Sam. You don't look too well."

"Ya think."

Now that he was inside, I took in his unshaven face, wrinkled suit, disheveled hair, and couldn't find the energy to say something about the pot calling the kettle black. Instead, I said, "What do you want, Danny?"

"I need to hire you, Sam."

I nearly laughed. Hell, I wanted to laugh. Except laughing was for people who hadn't just emerged from the blackest depths. "You're kidding."

"I'm serious, Sam. I need to hire you."

"You, who hasn't paid me a dime of child support in seven months?"

He shifted in his seat. As he did so, I saw that his upper lip was swollen. "I know, Sam, and I'm sorry. This hasn't been easy on me, either."

I didn't want to get into it with Danny. At least not now. Hell, I had a whole lifetime to get into it with him.

"Fine," I said. "What kind of help?"

"Protection."

"What kind of protection?"

"From men."

"What kind of men?"

He looked away, adjusted his tie, giving his Adam's apple more wiggle room. "They're a gang, of sorts."

"Of sorts? What does that mean?"

Now I saw the sweat on his brow and along his upper lip. I also saw the fear in his eye. He waved his hands weakly. "Thugs. A local street gang, I dunno. They sort of run the area I do business in."

"They beat you up?"

He shrugged, too prideful to admit to being smacked around, but not enough to come to his ex-wife for help.

I said, "And by doing business, you mean that shithole where you charge lonely men to look at lonelier women's boobs?"

"Yes, Sam. My strip club."

I shook my head sadly.

"What, Sam?"

"You used to be ashamed of your club."

He was pacing now, running his hand through his thinning hair. "Well, I'm too afraid to be ashamed."

"Sit down," I said. "You're making me nervous."

He sat, although his knee still bounced up and down. I said, "They're extorting money from you."

He nodded. "A grand a week. For protection, of course."

"Of course," I said. "So what do you want me to do?"

He frowned a little. He hadn't really thought this through. "I'm not sure."

"Do you want them to stop picking on you?"

"Sam..."

"What?"

"Fine. Yes."

"The price for keeping these boys from picking on you is..." I did some quick math, which, in my groggy state, took a little longer than it should have. I said, "The price is four thousand, two hundred and sixty-two dollars."

"Jesus, Sam. You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am. Seven months of child support, plus my usual fee. Have the cash here on my table in one hour and you just hired yourself a bodyguard."

He looked down at his hands. His knee continued to bounce. Loose change in his pocket clanged. Finally, he nodded and stood.

"I'll be back," he said.

"We'll see."

He did come back. Funny what a little fear will do to a man. He handed me a white envelope full of money, which I counted in front of him. Once done, I grinned and held out my hand. He looked at it reluctantly, then finally shook it, wincing as he did so.

After all, I might have squeezed a little too hard.