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She waved back and her expression was so innocent that it was clear she had not been aware of the appointment book before my visit. I opened it and gasped. Jamal Hunt was due in my office in five minutes. When the elevator door opened, I broke into a run, straight past the startled doorman and out onto the street, where I waved frantically for a cab.
The driver chose to go down Columbus Avenue, and I didn’t notice it until we were smack-dab in a bumper-to-bumper, rush-hour traffic jam. After haranguing the driver to no avail and racing through my building’s security checkpoint, I vaulted into the reception area of Welburn Books, looking breathless and agitated.
I recognized Jamal Hunt immediately, even though his author photo hardly came close to doing him justice. He was a young man in his mid-twenties with a bronze complexion, square jaw, high cheekbones, and, when he realized who I was, his full lips parted into a sexy grin. Jamal stood up and held out a hand for me to shake. He wore a dark brown suit, crisp white shirt, and a beige tie. I was a little puzzled because his outfit seemed at odds with the edgy, hip-hop fiction which had earned him such notoriety.
“Mr. Hunt, I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was stuck in a traffic jam.”
“Apology accepted, Miss Blue,” he replied smoothly. His voice rumbled like a bass drum. He picked up his coat and briefcase to follow me through the beige-carpeted corridors, which were already buzzing with office-type activity. He looked at the gilt-framed portraits of long dead Welburns that lined the ivory walls. “Who are these folk?”
“My boss’s ancestors. Welburn Books is a family-owned firm.”
He whistled. “They must have major dollars.”
I smiled and waved him into my office.
We were just settling down when my assistant, Asha, appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, Jackie. I’m going to the cafeteria. Do you want anything?” She was a tiny young woman whom I had hired straight out of Hampton University two years ago. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face and wore her shoulder-length hair in dreadlocks. I made the introductions; she sucked in her stomach and thrust out her chest when Jamal turned that megawatt smile on her.
“Would you like some coffee or tea, Mr. Hunt?” I asked.
“No, but thank you—and please call me Jamal.”
Asha left, closing the door behind her.
Even though Dallas had cautioned me that dealing with Jamal would not be easy, I had not dwelled on it. Most novelists were lonely people who lived inside their heads, and, like many editors, I knew that the best way to deal with them was just to listen when they were suffering from writer’s block or needed to kvetch because their books had not set the world on fire. I was kind and patient with all my authors—those whose books were sinking into oblivion were treated exactly the same as those whose books were flying out of the stores.
A new relationship with an author always held the prospect of lifelong friendship. Jamal waited for me to wade into the waters of getting-to-know-you small talk. I encouraged him to talk about how he ha
ndled the writing process and then launched into some funny stories that other writers had told me about things they had done in an effort to cure writer’s block.
He sat with his legs wide open, the way young men in their twenties seemed to do these days, and used his hands a lot to make his points.
Jamal chuckled a few times and then abruptly changed the topic to what was really on his mind. “What has Dallas Mowrey told you about me?”
“Not a whole lot,” I answered carefully.
“Somebody told me that she goes around saying she does the writing for me.”
This conversation could quickly degenerate into petty he said, she said bullshit and my in-box was stacked with work that needed my attention. “Jamal,” I said firmly, “let’s use this time to discuss taking your career to the next level.”
“Fine. Exactly how much advertising, publicity, and promotion money is Welburn going to invest in my next book?”
Gulp. “I really don’t know the exact amount, Jamal. However, I will say that we will mount an aggressive campaign to get the word out about it.”
He waved away my bureaucratic piddle-paddle with a languid gesture of the wrist that made me smile. “Stop. Please. Why don’t I tell you the plot of the book and you let me know what you think?” Jamal spent the next half hour walking me through a thriller involving race, robbery, deceit, and espionage set in the world of 1980s hip-hop that was absolutely Byzantine in its complexity.
“So,” he concluded, “do you think A Time to Chill will be a best seller?”
All of Jamal’s books were best-sellers because he was a shameless media hound who made sure that every publication, no matter how small, knew about the work he was doing.
Before I could answer, Asha opened the door without knocking. “I’m sorry, Jackie, but the editorial meeting is about to start.”
Jamal glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks for seeing me, Jackie. I look forward to working with you.”
I bid him adieu and shook his hand. “Asha will show you to the elevators.”
The door was now wide open and I could see my colleagues filing past, clutching manuscripts, notes, and books. I grabbed my stack of projects and joined them.
Leigh Dafoe, our editorial director, was already seated at the head of the conference room table, waiting for us to take our seats. Like the other members of the Black Pack, I was the only African-American at the table.
