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??ve come together for good food, strong drink, and Black unity. I’m not feeling any sisterly love here.”
Paul was trying hard not to chuckle—the sight of his cheeks all puffed up with the effort made us laugh.
Joe Long peered at me over the top of his glasses. “Congratulations on signing Jamal Hunt.” Joe was a slim, bespectacled, nervous-looking editor who specialized in books on slavery, segregation, and the civil rights movement because the editorial board at the company he worked for wouldn’t let him buy anything else. He was smart, reclusive, and good-looking in a tweedy, college professor kind of way.
“We didn’t bid in that auction,” Joe continued, “but I knew that the major houses were going to battle hard to win his next two books.”
Acquiring Jamal Hunt’s next two books was a definite feather in my cap. He was the crown prince of hip-hop-flavored fiction.
“Thanks, Joe,” I replied. “That damned auction dragged on for two days.”
“Who was the agent?” asked Rachel.
“Penelope Aaron.”
We all shared a collective groan. Penelope was the nastiest, most abrasive literary agent in the business. All the editors, black and white, hated her guts but she was particularly galling to members of the Black Pack. She was a white woman who had an all-black stable of writers only because authors of her own race absolutely refused to deal with her. They thought she was stupid, incompetent, and low class.
I didn’t think Penelope was stupid. Duplicitous and conniving, yes. But not stupid.
What pissed me off was the sassy, singsong, pseudo-southern voice and bits of Black vernacular she threw into her conversations in an effort to bond with me. It was insulting; I wasn’t having it and once told her so in no uncertain terms. Since her writers found her misguided attempts at Blackness amusing and the other Black editors never told her how they really felt, she could not understand my position.
Dallas said, “Girl, you have got your hands full! Jamal Hunt thinks he is God’s gift to the literary community and, as quiet as it’s kept, I had to rewrite most of that shit when I was his editor.”
I wanted to know more about those rewrites, but how would it look if I talked against my own client? Defending Jamal was the only professional thing to do. I took a long swig of my Bacardi ’n’ Coke. “Actually, I’ve spoken to him once and he seems kind of sweet, and besides, his last book sold eighty thousand copies in hardcover.”
Dallas ran a chubby, bejeweled hand through her hair. “Jamal is a pain in the ass.”
The waiter reappeared for our food orders. B. Smith’s specializes in what Paul calls “nouveau soul food.” I ordered the macaroni and cheese with Thai chicken wings.
“I’m going to wash my hands,” Rachel said. Dallas and Elaine had to get up because Rachel was squished between them.
Dallas waited until Rachel was out of earshot. “Why the hell doesn’t she just go over there, ask one of those guys out, and be done with it? This is ridiculous.”
“She really needs to stop that shit,” Elaine grumbled. “When she gets back, I’m going to tell her to sit somewhere else. Jackie, why don’t you trade places with Rachel?”
“And have me getting up and down like a jack-in-the-box?” asked Paul. “No way.”
I ignored their childish little squabble.
The restaurant was large and airy with about two dozen tables carefully arranged so that diners could speak without being overheard. The place was owned by a former fashion model named Barbara Smith who was the first Black woman to appear on the cover of Mademoiselle magazine. That cover and many others had been blown up and now graced the walls of her restaurant. I had also seen her in TV commercials for Revlon, Clairol, and Noxzema and as a guest on The Today Show and Good Morning, America. She was one of the few Black women who wrote entertainment and lifestyle books for a major publishing house. As I gazed at the magazine covers featuring this talented and gorgeous creature, a little sigh escaped me.
“You will never look like that,” Paul said, teasing me.
“And you’ll never look like Denzel Washington either,” I retorted.
We both laughed.
“Actually, I think Jackie is a very handsome woman,” Dallas said.
It was an insult disguised as a compliment. I flashed a smile in her direction. “Thank you, Dallas. I admire the way you find such fashionable clothes on the plus-size rack.”
“Cease fire!” commanded Paul.
Elaine casually asked Paul if Victor had called to say he wasn’t coming.
“Nah, I didn’t hear from him. I guess he is out on the road.”
“I think our Victor has made himself a love connection,” Dallas said, laughing.
