I paused, held in my urge to bark and curse. “Who is this?
“Why are you agnostic?”
I paused. “Arizona?”
“You look good in your suit. Like female Viagra.”
I looked around. People were coming from all directions. No Arizona. Airport noise—chatter, blowing horns, rumbling planes, car engines—came through the phone on her end.
“Well, Mr. Freeman.”
“It’s Freeeeeee-man.”
“Let’s focus on your career. Boycotts in Detroit, pretty much the same all over the country because, now that you’re on the fast track, you no longer go to the black bookstores.”
I turned around, searched the escalator, curbside, then looked through the crowd again.
Arizona said, “Don’t break your neck. You won’t see me until I need to be seen.”
“You’re here at LAX? What, you leaving town?”
Arizona answered with, “Frank Sinatra keeps looking at you.”
“Frank?”
“That’s good. That’s a tell.”
“Who keeps looking at me?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
She hung up.
“Get your facts straight. I do African-American stores across the country, the ones who have it together. And yes, I’ve had senseless boycotts in St. Louis ... death threats in Detroit ...”
“How do you respond to that?”
People started to crowd me in. Luggage ran over my shoes. People stared at me like I was in their space. Wasn’t in that kind of mood right now, not for strangers to keep stepping on my toes. Was about ready to start throwing elbows and beating motherfuckers down.
I tried to move away from the media circus. Couldn’t. Crowd was too unmoving. The more people stopped, the louder Freeman talked. The louder he talked, the more people stopped.
“When I go to black bookstores, black people don’t show up. They are in the white-owned establishments sipping on caffe Ameri- canos and caramel macchiatos with an extra shot of espresso. They sold out. How do I have the power to make African-Americans shop in African-American stores? Tell me how to redirect my people and we’ll both know.”
I made it to the edge of the crowd. Looked around. Wall-to-wall, no sign of Arizona.
Freeman jumped dramatic, looked deep into the camera. “I’m the new black aesthetic. My next book, Truth Be Told, the one I keep locked on my wrist at all times, when it drops this summer, black prose, as we know it, will change forever. I’m about to revolutionize literature.”
“Speaking of Truth Be Told, the rumor is you received a million-dollar advance on a book no one has ever seen. That’s rare, especially for an African-American.”
“Especially when African-American income is up and book buying is down.”
“Exactly. Do you think that puts pressure—”
“No one sees my work until I’m ready for it to be seen.”
“We’re almost done. I have to admit that the first book I read from you, Pool Tables and Politics, bordered on tedious philosophizing and navel-gazing.”
Freeman grunted like he’d been mule-kicked in his gut.
She went on, “I refused to read anything from you, until Dawning of Ignorance. I loved it. Your writing has matured. Dawning of Ignorance is so much better than your previous, not dismissive, and based on the reviews on Web sites like Amazon.com you’ve redeemed your—”
Freeman made a pharaoh-esque gesture and just like that he was done, walked away from the camera, went to his fans, whipped out a silver pen and started signing autographs.
The camera was still on Freeman, the reporter left hanging like strange fruit.
Somebody tapped my shoulder. I jumped. Damn nerves were shot. I turned around and expected to see Arizona, but I looked right into the face of the woman I’d seen on the escalator. She’d taken her shades off. Her eyes caught me off guard. Not the kind of eyes I expected to see on a woman with a complexion close to mine. They were deep blue, beautiful and disturbing all at once.
She had a book in her hand. Freeman’s tight-lipped expression ate up the back cover.
I asked, “You trying to get your book signed?”
She shook her head. “I’m with Thomas Marcus.”
“You’re his manager ... publicist?”
Her voice was professional, but still small, timid. “His fiancée.”
A rock weighed down her left hand, but I never assumed. More than once I’d picked up a client, then had to wait for his mistress. Same for the women. Wasn’t my job to question. All I knew was whether they squatted in South Central or the South of France, they were all players.
She pushed her lips up into a jet-lagged smile. “Come with me.”
She diverted her eyes, never made eye contact, her expression uneasy. She turned around, made her way toward baggage claim. My knee ached from where