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Buford lets this pronouncement settle. After a moment, he leans forward in alarm. “You OK?” he asks, reaching for Lincoln’s arm.
“Just a little gas.” Lincoln pats his stomach. But in fact, Buford’s remark has loosed an idea that’s struck Lincoln to stupefaction—a thought so obvious that it confirms the role in life of both coincidence (to be working at an online publisher at this moment) and stupidity (for not thinking of it before). Of course. Publish Amy’s novel on iAgatha.com. Lincoln must have been so shell-shocked that he didn’t think of it before. The book’s not really in iAgatha’s genre, but so what? It’s the Internet—anything goes. For an instant, Lincoln lets his imagination romp: Published by iAgatha, Amy’s book becomes a social media sensation, virally spread around the world. Online sales boom. The big New York publishers get wind of the phenomenon and vie to bring out a print edition. Lincoln, the impresario of this coup, can write his own ticket. Redemption.
He pulls himself back to Starbucks. “Listen,” he tells Buford, “If I were you, I wouldn’t give up on Pistakee. Those folks are very risk averse. Maybe you should have your brother the lawyer make a call.”
Buford nods. “I’ve considered that.”
“Just one phone call.” Lincoln stands. “And now I’ve got to run.”
Buford still looks mildly alarmed. “You sure you’re OK?” he asks.
“I’m fine. I’m glad you looked me up.”
Buford stands and reaches in his pocket. For the third time in their brief relationship, he hands Lincoln a business card. “I really think your spirit could use some soothing,” Buford says. “Here. This really works. Trust me.” Decorated with a sketch of a tiny bouquet, the card reads in part:
POETRY & YOGA
The mind-body solution
for taming stress
Prof. Antonio Buford
“Why don’t you give me a try?” Buford says.
“I may,” Lincoln promises, stuffing the card in his pocket and hurrying out to set his redemption in motion.
But first he’s got to find Amy. An e-mail bounces back. Her old cell phone is disconnected. A visit to her building reveals she’s already moved out. Lincoln searches the Internet listings for O’Malleys in the south suburbs, hoping to locate her parents, but several dozen households show up with that name. Eventually, he bolsters himself and calls Kim at the switchboard at Pistakee. She sounds surprised but mildly pleased to hear from him. Between putting him on hold to take other calls, she shoots her questions about what he’s been up to. Finally he blurts his query—does she know where to reach Amy?
“Wow, you’re not dating anymore?” Kim gasps.
“No.” (Unspoken: we never were, you moron.) “That’s not really the way it was. I was just sort of her...mentor.”
“I heard she was working in a restaurant, but I don’t know where,” Kim confides.
Lincoln can’t believe he’s stumped in an age when everything from your credit card to your DNA is out there for the taking. He’s about to start calling down the list of south suburban O’Malleys when he hits on a long shot. He calls the English Department at the U of C and explains to a friendly secretary that he’s an alum and a book editor and he’s very eager to locate a certain recent graduate whose work he admires. “Do you happen to know Amy O’Malley?” he asks.
“Amy!” the woman cries. “One of our favorites. She was in just last week.”
“Oh, good,” Lincoln says in a paternal voice, trying not to sound like a sex maniac or a serial killer, since the secretary is probably not allowed to give out personal information.
“She was asking for a recommendation. She’s applying to graduate school.”
“Marvelous. In English, I assume.”
“No,” the secretary says, “I’m afraid we’ve lost her. Social work. She wants to get a masters in social work.”
So it happened, Lincoln thinks. I drove her out of the writing business. “Did she by chance leave an e-mail address or a telephone number?” he asks innocently (but really, how often does a sex maniac target English majors?).
“I don’t have anything. Maybe Professor Weinberg knows, but he’s out this week.”
“Darn,” says Lincoln.
“She said she has her days free because she’s working nights at a restaurant.”
“Did she happen to say where?”
“Ohhhh.” The poor woman really wants to help. “She said it was a sushi place on the North Side. Oh, I’ll never remember the name. Something Japanese. She said she was the only Caucasian waitress there. Let’s see...I think she said it was on George Street.”
