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I agreed. “Yes, it is.”
Silence.
All of a sudden, I knew that Leigh hadn’t called me in to fire me. She simply wanted information.
“Why would a hotshot attorney like Keith Williams get involved in something so trivial as a lost appointment book?”
I didn’t answer.
“Craig Murray wants to talk to you.”
“He has my home number.”
“What?” It came out as a gasp.
I stepped forward. “Where is Craig?”
She backed up until her desk was between us. “He is on the way over. The three of us will meet in the conference room and get to the bottom of this.”
I shook my head. “Not without Keith.”
“Well, then I suggest you get him over here, because your job is on the line.”
Leigh’s words, tone, and body language were brave, tough, unyielding—but, as usual, I could smell her fear and it made me angry. Why was she so scared? What did she see when she looked at me? A big, black, vicious grizzly bear with braided fur instead of a stocky, brown-skinned, ink-stained editorial drone?
“Fine, I’ll do just that.”
Down Editors’ Row I marched, passing the open doors of my brethren who were already caught up in the ceaseless mini-dramas that were part and parcel of American book publishing.
“. . . she wants a six figure advance for that piece of crap . . .”
“. . . you promised me a first look at his next work . . .”
“. . . it’s a Black book. I’ll have to run it by Jacqueline Blue before I can give you an answer . . .”
“. .
. I figured out who the killer was in the first chapter. . .”
“. . . Oprah doesn’t pick funny books. It needs a dysfunctional family in it, for chrissakes . . .”
“. . . the book is in production now—you can’t change the ending . . .”
“. . . Governor Cuomo will sue our asses off if we print this . . .”
There was only one male voice in the chorus. Our industry, which 100 years ago had been a club for white, privileged, Ivy League males, was now a ladies’ room crammed primarily with their latter-day counterparts—upper middle class, white, female, trust-fund babies. Of course, each one of the giant publishing houses (with one glaring, stubborn exception) had an African-American editor on staff, but the Thin Pink Lines kept us in such deep check that we never produced anything really innovative or revolutionary for Black book buyers. In spite of all this, I’d been in love with books all my life, and assisting in their creation was the only type of work I wanted to do.
Your job is on the line. A loud, rumbling noise filled my head and I breathed deeply—in and out, in and out—to quiet it as I approached Asha’s desk. She was on the phone, giggling during what was obviously a personal call, and held her hand up in a wait motion when she saw me. Held her hand up! No doubt my previously hardworking assistant had seen my end run across Annabelle’s lobby on the news last night and reached the conclusion that my days at Welburn Books were numbered.
“Get off the phone,” I commanded.
“Girl, I’ll call you back,” she whispered into the receiver.
“What was that?” I did the wait sign.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was contrite. Her expression did not match.
I ignored the half-assed apology. “Get me Keith Williams and then Paul Dodson. When I’m done with them, bring in your project status report so I can make a list of what needs to be accomplished this week.” I turned to leave but the loud, rumbling noise in my head had returned. “Asha, look at me.”
