Each sip opened that door a little wider. She reached the bottom of her glass, got down to where the truth lived. Sade ran her hand over her hair, her motion so tipsy, and those words that were trying to get out were set free.
She said, “His book, the truth is stronger one, was released on September 10, 2001.”
“The day before Nine-Eleven?”
“The next morning, while he was at the airport waiting to go on tour, the world changed, shut down. No way to fly anywhere. No way to get any television or radio coverage. Died on the vine. Truth was decent. For his level of writing, it was decent. That was because I edited it, brought it up the best I could. After the numerous changes I put in, the final piece was a mere simulacrum of the original manuscript. He resented me for that. Told me he did not need my help. But the manuscript he turned in after Truth Be Told was ... was simply horrible. Publisher rejected it. Threatened to file a lawsuit to get their money back. Marcus was falling apart.”
“Long story short, the pressure was on and he used your book.”
“Yes. I went against what I believed in, signed that contract and created a monster.”
Crossword puzzle words lined up in my mind. I said, “Plagiarism.”
She shook her head and whispered, “T.S. Eliot and Vivienne Haigh-Wood.”
I wasn’t going to argue. I’d let her believe whatever she wanted to believe.
I sipped my drink, thought about how Freeman had blasted Jayson Blair. If I wasn’t hurting, I would’ve laughed. That Mother Fucker had pulled a Milli Vanilli on the book world.
I said, “I guess, when you think about it, nobody ever really knows who writes a book.”
She nodded. “All they see is the name on the cover.”
I checked my watch, then rubbed my chest, put my fingers on the spots that had been harpooned. Those wounds would heal and leave me two scars. I’d add those to the rest.
Sade sipped her drink. A new chocolate martini had replaced the old one just that fast.
I asked, “Who gets the money from these books?”
“Oh, I get the lion’s share. I’m not insane. It’s my work. Eighty percent of the profits, extraordinary monetary compensation for my labor of love.”
“Eighty percent. How does that work?”
“His attorney drew up a contract between us, then my attorney reviewed it, talked about the ramifications in detail before I allowed him to use my intellectual property. The contract reads like a gag order. I’m not supposed to tell anyone, not even my mother.”
“And you’re not supposed to wear that Manumit sweatshirt.”
“That pissed him off good, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. Three cheers for Alfalfa.”
I sipped. She did the same.
I asked, “What else was in the briefcase? Was it just the book?”
“No.”
“What?” I barked at her. “All this shit I’ve been through, hit me with some knowledge.”
Now she was afraid of me. I saw that. The Italian suit was gone, so was that person. I pulled up the sleeves on my sweatshirt, pulled them up enough for her to see the warrior tattoos on my forearms. Her eyes went to those markings, then her attitude adjusted a little more.
“The contract I signed. He kept it chained to his wrist. Kept me chained to his wrist.”
“A legal contract between you and him.”
“Our literary marriage.”
“That’s what this was really all about.”
“Getting that back was... was ...”
“Your manumit.”
“Yes. I got it back. It’s been shredded. And those shreds have been burned.”
She went deep into Quiet Land. So did I. We enjoyed that silent ride for a moment. I didn’t allow my eyes to go back to that television screen. Wanted to tackle one sin at a time. Reverend Daddy said that all sins were equal. Didn’t feel that way, not at all.
She told me, “I want you to seduce me.”
“Why?”
“Because ... I deserve to be seduced... because ... I ... I ... I mean, why not? He does it with... with... them. They want him for no reason other than his photo is on a book. All over the country he does it with them. He has perpetrated a farce and they throw themselves at him.”
“You don’t know that.”
She laughed a laugh that asked me not to insult her.
I asked, “How much did you pay to get this thing handled?”
“I didn’t pay a single cent. Ha. Marcus paid. Two hundred thousand. Over one hundred British pounds. It cost him every dime he had taken in the name of my blood, sweat, and tears.”
“How