by Omar Tyree
Jennifer mumbled when he kissed her. “Call me when you land in New York.”
WHEN SHAREEF EXITED the walkway from the plane in New York’s LaGuardia Airport in Queens, he strutted in his familiar, dapper uniform of a sports jacket, slacks, fine shoes, and a handsome mug. He had a new respect for his audience of women, too, and the lifestyle that their support had given him. So when the first woman noticed and made him aware that he was her favorite author, Shareef was as gracious as he had been when his writing career had first taken off.
He told the young East Indian woman, “I thank you very much for enjoying my work. I know you could have spent that time and support on someone else.”
She argued, “No I couldn’t have. I’m addicted to your books, Shareef. I love them all. You’re just so real the way you write, you know. I can really hear and feel the people.”
He thanked her again and laughed at his natural urges as he moved on toward the cab stand outside the luggage claim area. The woman looked too good for comfort.
Yeah, this is gonna be a struggle my whole life, he told himself about his strong attraction to women.
“Where are you going?” the taxi director asked him at the front of the line.
“Times Square.”
“Hey, Times Square.”
A car pulled up, the driver tossed Shareef’s luggage into the trunk, Shareef climbed in, and he was off on his way to his editor’s office in Manhattan to discuss the future of his writing career, face to face, with the marketing, sales, and publicity departments.
SHAREEF STARED OUT of the window on the eighteenth floor of the Worldwide Publishing Group building in the middle of Times Square. William Sorenski, his tall, dark-haired editor, sat behind his office desk with a recently published book, a second book in galley form, and a third book still in manuscript. That was three new books in three different publishing stages, all from the same author.
Shareef had been extremely busy working on new projects over the past eight months, and Bill was pleased with the product.
“I must say, you’ve really outdone yourself, Shareef. I guess all of the stress of last summer bumped you up to a new level,” Bill commented. “But, ahh, I wouldn’t advise you to follow the same method for next year. I mean, I was really concerned about everything I was forced to hear and read about you in the papers concerning your court dates. We all were.”
Bill had even shown up a few times in court to support him.
Shareef chuckled at the window, while thinking how fortunate he was to make a healthy living as a writer. The location of the building, including the view from his editor’s office, allowed him a chance to assess his position in life. And no matter what would become of his career in the future, Shareef realized that he was in a special place and that he should never take it for granted. So he nodded his head and turned to face his editor.
“Hey, man, I just want to thank you for going to bat for me on this new imprint and everything else we’re doing,” he told Bill. “’Cause you could have backed down and hung me out to dry on this thing,” he admitted.
Bill looked surprised. He said, “Are you kidding me? These books are great! I couldn’t wait to fight for you. And you’ve gotten yourself in enough trouble over this new stuff for me to figure you’ve earned it. I mean, that’s what all the true greats do, right? They all find ways to turn their adversities into personal genius.”
Shareef smiled at him. He said, “I thought you told me you didn’t like me using that word?”
Bill smiled back. “I guess your overzealousness is rubbing off on me.” Then he held up the new published book entitled To Live and Die in Harlem, by The Street King. It was a trade softback title, with a cover design of a flashy, urban youth holding a pistol at his side. The book was published through a new imprint called The Underground Library. And The Street King was the pseudonym they had agreed on.
Bill said, “I love how you managed to humanize your protagonists no matter how ugly their lives may seem from the outside, you know. You really find a way to get in there. It’s like you’re using your skills as a romance writer to reveal the true emotions and character of a thug. And that’s a skill a lot of these street writers are not able to utilize.”
Shareef thought about the real-life Baby G, on whom the book was based, and he figured there was no way in hell not to humanize him. No matter how wrong he may have been in his aspirations, Greggory Taylor, in his short Harlem life, was a an interesting young man.
Shareef shook off the praise and asked Bill, “What about the other street book?”
He was being curious, like any creative person would be. And professional, literary opinions were what editors were for.
Bill picked up the three-hundred-plus page manuscript entitled The Square Life, a second novel from The Street King. The plan was to publish two paperback books a year, one in the spring and a second in the fall.
He said, “Now this book reminds me of one of my favorite all-time movies, The Usual Suspects. This guy is really wheeling and dealing behind the scenes. And you know he’s doing it, but what’s amazing about it is how he’s doing it. This guy’s like three steps ahead of everything.” Bill smiled and added, “He’s an urban Keyser Soze.”
Shareef thought about it and started laughing. If only Bill knew how real it all was. As charismatic as Baby G was to inspire the first book, Jurrell Garland’s inspiration for the second title was even deeper and deadlier. And since Shareef still had to deal with him, his laugh was not as carefree as he wished it could be.
Bill added, “I don’t know about this title though. I think we can come up with some better titles for this one.”
Shareef told him, “My idea was to have something that leads readers away from the fact that this guy is crooked. Because if I use the original title, Legitimate Criminal, then the book is already telling on itself, and that kills the whole fun of the discovery.”
He said, “That’s like calling The Usual Suspects Keyser Soze. If you did that, you would kill the whole buildup of the ending. Then we would start off expecting to meet this person instead of being surprised by him. But with The Usual Suspects, we don’t know what the hell the movie is about. We only knew that there was a crime involved.”
Bill heard him out and frowned anyway. “Yeah, let’s think on that one a little longer. I mean, The Square Life…you know, it just doesn’t seem Harlem enough,” he commented. Then he asked, “So, Shareef, ahh, how much of this material is based on, you know, real people?”
Shareef grinned at him and shook his head.
“We don’t want to know, man. And that goes for both of us.”
“So, in other words, you wanna make sure that the media never finds out who The Street King is to protect your sources?”
Shareef wasn’t that afraid of it. He knew the plans.
He said, “Well, eventually, if they figure it out, they figure it out. I think the books’ll do more good in the long run then bad. Even The Square Life, or whatever we decide to call it, has a redeeming quality to it. And that’s what I want to continue to do with these books. So after a while, I won’t mind if people know. But I do think we need to start off with a little mystery as to who’s writing them.”
Bill nodded. “I agree.”
Shareef asked him, “Now what about the latest Shareef Crawford book?”
Bill had to lean forward and take a deep breath for that one. He picked up the galley book entitled A Second Chance, with a mock-up cover of a man sliding a gold ring on a woman’s finger. It was the new hardback title for the summer, the bread-and-butter book for Shareef’s overwhelmingly female audience.
“Ahh, it’s a good book, a great book actually. But how close are you trying to get to your real life with this one?” Bill questioned. “I mean, I would hate to see you open up a can of worms with your most supportive audience that you can never close again. And at the end of the day, you have to ask yourself, ‘Okay, how much of my real life do my fans wanna know?�
�� I mean, sometimes they’d rather have the fiction than the nonfiction, you know what I mean?”
Shareef nodded to him and argued, “Yeah, but the whole premise of this book is to redeem the shattered marriages out there that can still be saved. We all deserve to give ourselves a second chance.”
Bill said, “Well, since you’re bringing that up, how are you and your wife doing in real life now?”
Shareef said, “We’re doing great now. I called her up this morning and talked to her for the majority of my cab ride in from the airport.”
Bill couldn’t argue with that. He leaned back in his tall leather desk chair and shrugged.
“Okay, well, you’re the artist. You’ll be the one getting all the questions about it when this book comes out. The only thing I can tell you is to get ready for it.”
Shareef eyed his editor and said, “Come on, man, you know who you’re dealing with. I’m always ready.”
Bill nodded and joked, “Well, it’s your funeral. Better your wife pull out the gun than mine.” Then he looked at his wristwatch. It was nearly eleven o’clock, time for their meeting with the other departments.
“Okay, so, I guess you’re ready for the staff meeting, too, then.”
Shareef raised his lotioned palms and said, “Of course.”
Bill stood up from his chair to lead the way to the conference room. Shareef followed him out of the office.
Working the Plans
AT THE CONCLUSION of his meeting with all the publishing staff who would help launch the plans for The Underground Library imprint, as well as for the current and future Shareef Crawford romance titles, Shareef took a taxi straight back to Harlem for another business meeting. His destination was the condominium homes at Park Avenue Number Three. His appointment was with Jurrell Garland, his new partner.
Shareef took a couple of deep breaths when his cab reached Harlem. Returning home caused him spells of high anxiety now. He then called Jurrell on a secured cell phone line as soon as the cab arrived at the building.
Jurrell answered the line and spoke quickly. “Shareef, they know who you are at the front. Come on up.”
Shareef paid his cab fare and walked into the condo building carrying a new saddle brown leather briefcase. The security guard inside the building recognized him and gave him the okay to enter.
“The East Wing is straight to the back of the hall on my left,” he told him.
Shareef nodded and headed down the long corridor hallway to his right to find the East Wing elevators to Park Avenue Number Three. He arrived and hit the up button, while finding his stomach full of butterflies as he waited. When the arriving elevator opened, he stepped on, pushed the button for the fourth floor, and rode it up.
He got off at the fourth floor and walked to the same split-level condo that Jurrell had gotten excited about when they had given the place a walk-through over the summer. And before Shareef could ring the bell or knock lightly on the door, Jurrell opened it wide and let him in.
Jurrell smiled at him inside the doorway like an overgrown kid. He closed and locked the door behind Shareef and told him, “We doing this shit, man! We doin’ it!”
He wore dark green slacks, a lighter green button-down shirt, and brown alligator shoes with a brown leather belt to match. He looked like a rich businessman. And his place was immaculate. It looked as if a professional designer had mapped it all out for him with leather sofas, exotic throw pillows, tall lamps, tasteful bookcases, and quality wood tables. Even the kitchen area looked done up.
Jurrell walked over to the kitchen and strolled out with two glasses of chilled dark wine in small wineglasses.
“We don’t need a lot of this, man, just a little taste in your mouth to feel rich with.”
He sat down on the dark brown leather sofa in the living room and crossed his legs, taking a sip of the wine. Shareef shook his head and grinned. He couldn’t believe it. Jurrell’s place looked as if he had spent every dime of his book advance on it.
Shareef sat down on the black leather sofa across from the fine wood coffee table that sat in the middle. Various magazines littered the coffee table from King, Smooth, W, Essence, Black Enterprise, and Vanity Fair, with several copies of the new book, To Live and Die in Harlem.
Obviously, Jurrell had succeeded in turning the place into a show-off pad.
He asked, “So, what they say today in the publisher meeting?”
Shareef took a sip of the wine and nodded. The taste shocked him.
“Damn! That’s good wine.”
“Nothing but the best, baby,” Jurrell told him. “I’m try’na live this life now, you know. So what they tell you, man, anything good?” Despite the looks of lavishness that surrounded him, Jurrell was all about the business.
Shareef nodded and dug into his leather briefcase, pulling out a breakdown of the marketing and PR plans for the launch of The Underground imprint.
Jurrell took the paperwork and looked it over, while wearing a platinum pinkie ring that was all iced out with small multicolored diamonds.
He read the detailed heading slowly and deliberately aloud, “The Street King of urban literature has arrived, with the launch of his debut novel, To Live and Die in Harlem, from The Underground Library, a division of World Publishing Group.”
He stopped and nodded. He said, “I like that.” He read the rest of the breakdown in silence. He nodded again and said, “So, they only want to advertise in women’s magazines.”
“That’s where we’re gonna get the biggest bang for our buck outside of what you plan to do in the men’s magazines,” Shareef answered. He said, “But you have to understand that a major publishing house is not going to get the same rates that you can get on the low. A lot of the big companies can get great deals when they buy a lot of ad frequency, but when they’re first coming in, a lot of these magazines see a big company and they start thinking about paying all of their bills with one big paycheck. You feel me? So we have to be careful with who we choose to spend this money with and how.”
Jurrell chuckled. He said, “They’ll try to give us the inflated Michael Jackson rates, hunh? Well, I got my magazine contacts, man, I’m ready with it. That’s when it pays off to know the right people from Harlem who land in the right places.”
He handed the paperwork back to Shareef and said, “So they’re gonna print ten thousand bookmarks, run radio ads, and everything?”
Shareef took the paperwork back and nodded. “Since I can’t really tour for these books, we can use all of the budget for direct marketing instead of them spending the money for me to stay at fancy hotels while eating room service.”
Jurrell put two and two together and said, “That’s how these record companies get these musicians, hunh? They send them on all-expense-paid world tours and have those assholes a million dollars in debt by the time they get back home.”
Then he stood up and began to pace the room. He said, “Well, like I told you, man, we got a nice little program we’re gon’ start up in Harlem. Then we’ll take it down to East Orange in Jersey, Philly, B-More, and D.C. That’s all the get-money cities where you can sell books straight off the street. I already peeped things out.”
He said, “Now I got this cell phone shit poppin’ off at the next level with pretty voiced females doing most of the business for me. I got Meesha runnin’ most of that shit. She’s a good girl. She helped me get this condo with her good credit. I mean, it wasn’t great, but it was good enough to talk some shit to get in. You know, with Meesha and the information you gave me.”
He raised his arms up with his wineglass still in hand. He said, “But now I gotta pay for all this shit, man. I got about twenty-five days left on all this store credit, so this first book comes out in perfect timing. And they ’bout to pay us for the second book, too, now, right? I mean, you finished it already.”
Shareef nodded to him. “Yeah, that’s another fifty Gs each in the next couple of weeks.”
“And how long does it take
for the royalties again?”
“Every six months, twice a year, as soon as we break past even on the advance money.”
“And we earn about a dollar a book on top of the shit we sell ourselves, right?”
“Yup.”
Jurrell grinned and said, “Damn, that’s sweet. So we buy these books straight from the publisher at five-six dollars each, make ten-twelve dollars back on the streets, plus a dollar every book for royalties?”
Shareef smiled back and said, “Yeah, that’s the formula. All the publisher wants to do is keep the books moving. So if you can get the street teams poppin’ like you say you can, then it’s all gravy.”
Jurrell said, “Nigga it’s already goin’ down. We got them first three boxes up on One Twenty-fifth with the squad of young bloods ’bout to make ’em move right now. We gon’ run the three-card monte trick on the crowd. Then we can go after them movie deals you want.”
He said, “And yo’, thanks for the contact on them lawyers, too, man, to help get the boy the Truth up out that jam for us. So instead of him doing hard time, he got eighteen months probation. So I told him to stay right with this book hustle, and I put him in charge of the shit. That boy trustworthy, man. That’s why G called him the Truth. T never even spit your name out in all this shit right here, man. Now that’s loyalty. So I had to reward him for that.”
With all of Jurrell’s fast, hustler talk, and big plan living, Shareef wondered how long it would take for him to revert to something illegal if the book game didn’t work as effectively as he hoped it would.
Shareef opened his mouth and said, “Look, man, like we said before, I’ll run this thing down with you as long as you plan to keep it straight. But if you start spending up money like this…I mean, new books on the market just don’t sell that fast, man.”
Jurrell started shaking his head already. “Look, you don’t understand me, Shareef. I got no fuckin’ choice, man, I gots to make this shit work, that’s why I went out and bought all this to make sure I’m motivated. Now if these books are ready for our next order, then you watch us move these motherfuckers. That’s my word.”