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“That bookkeeper, that guy Breeson,” Buford sputters. “I asked him how many white writers they canceled, and he didn’t have the nerve to tell me.”
“I know of at least one.”
Buford wants heat, reaction. Lincoln’s detachment triggers another outburst. “I’ll sue,” Buford fumes, wagging his finger again.
From behind Lincoln, a large, red-faced and jowly cop suddenly appears. “Is this man bothering you?” the cop asks Lincoln from the side of his mouth.
Buford scowls and immediately steps back.
Lincoln says, “No, officer, we were just having a little argument about business.”
The cop stares down Buford. “Well, keep it civil. We don’t like scenes on the street around here.”
“Yes, officer,” says Lincoln.
“Yes, sir,” Buford mumbles.
The cop backs off, then turns and walks north on Damen. Lincoln watches Buford watch the officer go. Poor bastard, thinks Lincoln. No wonder he ignores race in his poems; if he thought about it, he’d be angry all the time.
“Listen,” Lincoln says, “there’s a Starbucks down the street. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
Buford hugs himself in the cold. “Well, tea,” he says.
The Starbucks teems, as usual, but Lincoln and Buford find a small, empty table in a corner. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Buford says when they’ve settled in. “I just needed to vent. I’m mad and frustrated.”
“And your poetry-yoga sessions don’t soothe the pain?” Lincoln teases.
“That’s just twice a week, and...” Buford registers Lincoln’s sly smile and stops himself. “You prick,” the poet says, but he laughs. “At least I don’t have to contend with getting fired for sleeping with the help.”
“Who told you?”
Buford dunks his tea bag. “The litera
ry community in Chicago is pretty small.”
“Marissa Morgan’s blog again?” Lincoln hasn’t bothered to read it lately.
“She didn’t write it, but she told me.”
“It was a mistake,” Lincoln admits. “On the other hand, it probably couldn’t have been helped.”
“Then it doesn’t really count as a mistake,” consoles the happiness professor. He sips his tea. His earlier burst of temper seems to have passed gently. “At least you’ve found a landing spot,” Buford offers. “I didn’t realize you knew the detective genre.”
“I don’t, but I’m learning.” In fact, in trying to sharpen his skills, Lincoln has spent time sampling the canon—Chandler, Hammett, Cain. He found them stylish, smart, and very American, but tired of them quickly—the withheld information, the manipulated intrigue. “I don’t think I have the gene for enjoying that kind of fiction,” Lincoln confesses. “When it comes to literature, I’m Calvinist—I want a novel to teach me something, about life, about the world.”
“What about pleasure?” Buford asks. “What about reading purely for entertainment?”
“Like thrillers? I get impatient. Too much coincidence. Too many people doing stupid things.”
“Dickens uses coincidence,” Buford points out. “And Shakespeare understood how people’s emotions let stupidity rule. Think of Claudius—poisoning his brother, then marrying his wife. Now, that was a stupid man.”
“But Dickens, Shakespeare—they didn’t wrap the whole story around those things,” says Lincoln. “Life is more complex than that.”
Buford shows off a teasing smile. “I think you’re giving life too much credit, old buddy.”
Lincoln sits back in the flimsy Starbucks chair. Old buddy. That’s the second time Lincoln has heard Buford use that fusty locution. Remove the menace, and the well-spoken poet sipping the cup of Tazo Earl Grey on the other side of the little table becomes an almost Edwardian figure. It couldn’t have been easy growing up that way, South Side or anywhere. Maybe that’s why he’s so eager to get published, Lincoln thinks—to wave a success under the noses of the bullies and skeptics, the cops. We’re all just kids looking for chances to show off.
After a pause, Buford says, “You know, I don’t want you to publish Still Life on your website.” When Lincoln frowns but says nothing, the poet continues, “I want a hardcover. That’s what I’ve got my heart set on.”
