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Lincoln is still enjoying the pornography. “The Ultimate Position,” he says, nodding. “That’s good.”
“Maybe that’s the title.”
“So what was it?” Lincoln asks innocently.
“What?”
“The Ultimate Position. What did it turn out to be?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Amy is annoyed that he’d ask. “I never checked in with her at the end of the year.”
“Probably something from the Kama Sutra,” Lincoln muses.
Amy hesitates, then asks, “John, do you really think I can do this?” She has a way of swinging between steely and vulnerable that Lincoln finds endearing; either quality alone might get on his nerves.
“Of course you can,” he assures. He sends her off with lines borrowed from warmed-over motivational speeches given at halftime by his old basketball coach, and Amy seems bolstered.
At around eleven that morning, Kim calls from up front. “John, there’s a man here to see you,” she whispers into the phone.
“Who is he?” Lincoln asks.
“He says his name is Mr. Buford.”
“What’s he want?”
“He says it’s personal.”
Lincoln assumes immediately there’s trouble. “Why did
you let him up?” he growls. Their building has an annoying buzzer system—you can’t even get in the locked front door without announcing your intentions.
“He sounded important,” says the flustered young woman, as if that alone justified her breach of responsibility. When Lincoln doesn’t respond immediately, she adds, “He’s not going to go away, John.”
“All right, tell him I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Lincoln prepares himself. Maybe it’s just an aspiring author. Every now and then, people see the sign for Pistakee Press on the building and wander in off the street. Or perhaps it’s a particularly aggressive cold caller trying to sell him penny stocks. Someone’s got to warn that receptionist to take her gatekeeper role more seriously.
Lincoln wastes a few minutes, hoping the visitor will get discouraged and leave, then plods out to the reception area and finds Kim chatting amiably with a nice-looking young African American wearing a white shirt, red tie, and a tropical blue blazer that hangs loosely on his slight frame. Lincoln has seen him somewhere before.
“John Lincoln, this is Antonio Buford,” says Kim triumphantly, as if the two men had been clamoring to meet for months.
“Call me Tony,” says the visitor, thrusting his hand.
For an anxious moment, Lincoln resists the gesture. The man appears to be about Lincoln’s age, maybe a few years younger. His face, the color of light chocolate, is round and unlined, and he wears his hair trimmed close to the scalp. He’s carrying an extraordinarily thin canvas briefcase, hardly big enough to hold the folded-up New York Times. Standing there dumbly, Lincoln suddenly recalls where he’s seen Tony Buford before: this is the man who tried to talk to him on the sidewalk in front of the building not long ago.
After a quick handshake, Lincoln asks, “How can I help you?”
“Ah, could we speak privately?” Buford glances at Kim, then locks a friendly yet intense gaze on Lincoln, who senses immediately that there’s something practiced about the manner: maybe he’s just a therapist, coming around to hawk the idea for a book on a new self-help regimen.
Ordinarily, Lincoln would maneuver to keep any questionable visitors away from the sanctum sanctorum of his office, but with Kim sopping up every nuance, Lincoln decides to risk privacy. “Follow me,” he says.
The two silently wend their way through the corridors of Pistakee, Buford pausing on the way to consider the wall of framed Pistakee book covers. In his office, Lincoln leaves the door open. Buford lingers at the porthole window. “I’ve never been in this building before,” he says.
Lincoln starts to recount the story of the nostalgic sea-captain/builder, but Buford interrupts. “I know the history. I’ve just never been inside.”
Lincoln forces a smile, settles into his chair. “What can I do for you?” he asks.
The visitor sits on the other side of the desk. He glances over the manuscripts and other effluvium cluttering the surface. “Working on something interesting?” Buford asks, as if he were an old friend dropping by for a casual conversation.
