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“They’re so un-modern.”
“I know.”
Amy laughs again. “On the other hand, I never really liked modern poetry.”
“Nobody does.”
“I call it ‘about about’ poetry.”
“Huh?”
“You know—poetry about being about something. It sort of warms up to a subject without ever getting there.” Amy taps the manuscript. “But you know what? I kind of like these poems.”
“Really?”
“They remind me of my grandmother.”
“She read poetry to you?”
“No. They remind me of her. Reeking of sweet perfume. Soft. Sort of unimportant. No demands.”
Lincoln thinks of alternate titles. The Granny Poems. Senior Theses. Here’s Nana.
“What’s this guy got on you?” Amy asks.
“Ah...” The accidental precision of the remark stops Lincoln for a moment.
“You’re not really going to recommend that we publish him?”
“No. Of course not.”
After she leaves, Lincoln sits at his desk in a kind of trance. Blackmail. He’s being blackmailed. Buford denied it, but that’s exactly what’s going on. He may not be asking directly for money, but Pistakee would incur expenses bringing out his book. Besides, what he’s really demanding is that Lincoln pay with his reputation, the career he’s built as a discerning editor. His personal brand! That’s worth something, no? Blackmail. As he chews over the word, Lincoln thinks of Detective Evinrude. The officer never called back, and it’s been more than six weeks. What would he make of Tony Buford’s behavior? After all, blackmail is a crime.
On an impulse, Lincoln picks up the phone and dials the Twenty-Third Police District. Detective Evinrude is out. But after Lincoln gives his name and explains that he’s already talked to the detective about a criminal matter, the cop on the other end of the line schedules an appointment for three the following afternoon.
Lincoln arrives early. The station house is busier than on Lincoln’s previous visit, and even with two cops behind the counter taking inquiries, Lincoln has to wait ten minutes just to get to the front of the line and announce his presence. For another twenty minutes he occupies himself looking at wanted notices posted in the lobby. Finally, a young cop with a blond crew cut summons him and leads him down the hall to Detective Evinrude’s office. On seeing the officer seated at his desk, Lincoln has a sudden failure of nerve. Evinrude’s aging yet conditioned physique, his stolid bulk fills the small office and commands with presence. This is not Lincoln’s home court.
Before Lincoln can bolt, the detective glances up from a document he’s reading and gestures for Lincoln to sit. Then Evinrude returns to the document. Lincoln waits for almost a minute, beating back the urge to squirm. There’s nothing in this tiny room to distract him—no family pictures, no framed diplomas, no sentimental calendar art, just sheets of printed matter pinned to the pasteboard walls. It’s as if the officer exists as a concept, not a person. Finally, the detective takes off his glasses and looks up wearily. “Now, what’s this about?” he asks.
Lincoln is not sure where to begin. “You may remember, I was here a month or so ago, in the matter of the riot on the L train.”
Detective Evinrude frowns briefly, trying to bring the case back. “Oh, right, you’re the publisher, right?”
“Well, editor, yes.”
“I don’t think I’ve got too far on that case. It seems like it’s more a civil matter.”
“Well, yes,” Lincoln nods, “that’s sort of what I came to talk about.” As clearly and simply as he can, Lincoln explains that the man who has accused him of battery now seems to be promising to drop the claim if Lincoln will publish his manuscript.
Detective Evinrude frowns again as he takes this in. “You mean, you think he’s blackmailing you?”
Yes, the magic word. Lincoln had discreetly avoided using it himself. Just give the officer the facts and let him draw his own conclusions. “That’s what seems to be going on,” Lincoln says indignantly.
“And he’ll forget the whole thing if you publish his book of poetry?”
“Exactly.”
The detective studies Lincoln carefully, as if his face might hold a clue—a fingerprint, maybe; residue of a gunshot? After a while, Evinrude says, “Well, why the hell don’t you? It’s only a book of poems.”
