Corrupted Chapter 2

by Omar Tyree

  “Well, that’s what everyone seems to be writing nowadays,” the woman commented.

  “Yeah, I know,” Darlene agreed with her. She couldn’t tell if the woman was an editor, a general reader or what.

  “Are you an editor, too?”

  “ I used to be. Now I just spend time reading to my grandchildren.”

  From across the room, Brittney Enis continued to observe the aspiring author making her small talk.

  She’ll be all right, Brittney assumed. She’s still a bit shaken and excited right now, but she seems to have her head screwed on straight.

  Just as Brittney began to look away, Jackson Smith cut behind her to meet up with Vincent.

  “Hey V, what’s up with the newby?” he called across the room.

  Vincent smiled, still executing his plans. The room was like a giant chess board to him.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he teased.

  “Yeah, I would. By the way, the guy from Esquire wants to speak to you. Then I’d like to have my official introduction.”

  “Oh, you’ll get it. Just hold tight.”

  Standing close enough to overhear their conversation, Brittney could only imagine where Vincent’s head was. Maybe Darlene wouldn’t be okay. So she turned to cut her eyes to her old mentor to present him a warning.

  “Hi, Vincent,” she addressed him sharply.

  He froze as soon as he spotted her. “Oh, hi, Britt.”

  He wasn’t exactly thrilled to see her there. Despite all he had tried to teach her, Brittney turned out to be a real drag as an editor, doing everything by the rules, and getting nowhere fast with it. She had yet to sign an author who broke any major lists in her three years at Impact. He was surprised she still had her job. However, if her acquisitions department gave her limited resources to buy anything of value, then she couldn’t lose money either. Nevertheless, running on a treadmill didn’t make much of a career.

  She said, “I hope you’re not planning on doing business with her as usual.”

  Vincent declined to speak on it in front of Jackson. Although the Italian-American author had benefited from his cunning, Vincent’s professional methods and history was all confidential.

  “I’ll catch back up to you in a minute,” he told his author.

  “All right, but you promise, right?”

  “Yeah, I got you. Come on, man, it’s me.”

  Brittney didn’t like the sound of that either. Jackson sounded far too eager for a simple introduction. So as soon as he walked off, she pressed her old mentor about it.

  “Okay, so you introduce her to him and then what? And I assume he’s referring Darlene, right?”

  “What does that have to do with you?”

  The woman had become a real pain over the years, constantly reminding him of the straight and narrow.

  “Well, her manuscript passed through my office and I happen to like the girl.”

  Vincent paused. “Like her how much?” he questioned snidely.

  Brittney snapped, “Please, I’m not like you. I play my cards straight. Okay? You still remember that?”

  Vincent exhaled and remained calm. “Yeah, you play it so straight that you can’t win any-fucking-thing. So I feel sorry for you and your authors.”

  “We’ll at least they can sleep good at night, knowing that they didn’t have to compromise themselves to sell books.”

  “Well, if sleeping at their momma’s house, while working two jobs is what they want to consider a writing career, then more power to ’em,” he barked back.

  Brittney paused herself and said, “Cute. But I like what Darlene represents, so I’m definitely gonna look out for her.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I guess you’ll soon find out?” she challenged him.

  Vincent stopped and thought about it. “What, you’re gonna try to sign her? And you’re letting me know this. That’s foolish. Everyone knows you don’t have a budget. That’s like taking candy from a baby.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Yeah, we will see. I thought I taught you better than that. You must’a caught amnesia.”

  “Maybe, I did. Or maybe your teaching just wasn’t deep enough,” she countered. “That’s why you’re still hanging around here with penis envy. You got a Napoleon complex, and I’m not talking about your height. It’s your length that’s the problem.”

  As civil as Brittney could be, she really had it in for him. She scorched his ass with boiling hot water with every chance she got in her private words to him. It was their usual game of personal spite. But she had never tried to challenge him in the publishing field before. She didn’t have the experience, the budget, or the weapons of manipulation to compete. But yet, she had a feeling this time.

  She believed that Darlene Krause was different, and that she would not sell the integrity of her writing career for the power of a dirty dollar. And so the game was on.

  But at the moment, all that Vincent could think about was kicking Brittney deep in her ass for assaulting his ego so blatantly as she scampered away from him.

  “That fucking bitch!” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Excuse me, Vincent Biddle?”

  He turned and faced the Esquire magazine editor in his glasses.

  “Yeah,” he huffed, still peeved.

  The magazine man was startled but undeterred.

  “Ahh, I wanted to see if you had a few choice words to add to our article about Jackson. I understand that it was your idea for the name change.”

  Vincent took a quick breath and calmed himself down. Business was business. The young cameraman was already snapping his pictures, so Vincent cracked a ready smile for the camera.

  “Yeah, it kinda was my idea. I just wanted to give him something where the focus was less on the pronunciation of his name and more on his writing . . .”

  After the Esquire interview, Vincent took his leave outside the party to smoke another cigarette in peace. He stood calmly on the sidewalk, watching people come and go as he smoked.

  So she’s actually gonna try a bidding war, he continued to question of Brittney Enis. Doesn’t she know that I would crush her? And this girl isn’t even worth it. That lovey dovey shit doesn’t sell anymore. She would have to add werewolves and vampires to it, and vampires who fuck this time.

  Maybe even a horny zombie, he joked to himself, chuckling through the smoke. Zombie Love. Now that would be something different, men and women who didn’t get enough while they were alive, so all the do now is find and fuck people, but with no copulation. How torturous would that be? The motherfuckers are dead.

  As he stood there, amusing himself with his thoughts on the sidewalk, he spotted the sexiest Puerto Rican man he could imagine, with medium height, thick dark hair, confidence, well dressed, well groomed, and purposeful. He walked right up to the front door of the party on a mission.

  Who the hell is that? Vincent mused. He sucked in an extra long drag on his cigarette and stared. Damn, he’s gorgeous!

  “You don’t have a Felipe Alvarez on the list? Are you sure? Could you check the list again?” the Puerto Rican man asked at the door. They checked the list again to no avail.

  “This is embarrassing. I’m already late.”

  He was persistent too. That impressed Vincent more.

  “Look, maybe they forgot to put me down there, but I’m definitely supposed to be on the list. I have three introduction meetings set up for tonight.”

  Vincent had seen and heard enough. He put out his cigarette, plucked it to the cement pavement, and walked up on the man from behind with confidence of his own. He towered over him with his superior height.

  “Hey, I got him. I remember him from the BEA this morning,” Vincent told the organizers at the door.

  “Oh, okay,” they backed off.

  “Ahh, Fe-li-pay Al-va-rez, right?” Vincent pronounced, as if trying to remember it.

  The Puerto Rican man smiled and nodded to him. “Yeah, thanks.” />
  “No problem.”

  As soon as they walked in, Vincent stopped him inside the hallway and leveled with him.

  “Your name isn’t Felipe Alvarez. That’s sounds too much like baseball. What’s your real name?”

  The man smiled with bright white teeth and looked even better. “Antonio Martinez.”

  Vincent laughed. “How come all Spanish names sound like boxers and baseball players?”

  Antonio laughed and joked, “Because we are. But I’m trying to become a writer.”

  Vincent asked him, “You’re trying to become a writer, or you are a writer?”

  Antonio got his point and nodded. “I am a writer. I just haven’t had anything published yet,” he joked and laughed. “I mean, I’ve had lot, little magazine publishing, but nothing really serious.”

  “What kind of stories do you write, about the barrio?” Vincent assumed.

  Antonio shook it off and was more serious.

  “Nah, man, I can write any-fucking-thing, not just about the barrio.”

  He seemed to be offended by it.

  Vincent nodded and said, “Okay.” He pulled out his card and handed it to him.

  Antonio looked down at it and froze. He grinned and said, “Vincent Biddle. Hey, man, I’ve heard of you. You edit a lot of big time books. I just never knew what you looked like. Don’t you edit Jackson Smith and DeWayne ‘Double D’ McDonald?”

  Vincent smiled, increasingly pleased with him.

  “I can introduce you to both of them right here tonight.”

  Antonio nearly jumped out of his skin with excitement. “Really? They’re both in here?”

  “Of course they are. I asked them to be.”

  “Aw, man, well, that’s great. Let’s do it!”

  Antonio opened his palm for a respectable handshake. Vincent took it and shook his hand before they walked in tandem.

  Darlene spotted who she thought was Antonio Martinez from her Facebook page, standing right beside the super editor, Vincent Biddle, and she nearly died from the shock.

  Oh my God! I told him not to ask for us. What is he DOING? she panicked.

  She had no idea what the new game plan was. But when she made eye contact with Tony, he stayed true to his boast and didn’t appear to notice her.

  Okay, so he still doesn’t know me, she mused. Or does he?

  She was now confused, especially since they had never met in person. Maybe he really didn’t notice her. The intrigue was nerve wrecking. But instead of heading in her direction, Vincent led Tony over to Jackson Smith.

  What the hell is going on? she asked herself as she watched.

  “So, how does it feel to be a part of Vincent’s stable?” someone asked her.

  Darlene was hardly paying attention. “Excuse me?”

  The beautiful tanned woman in an exotic, colorful dress extended her hand.

  “I’m Lauren Grandeis. I do PR for Jackson.”

  Darlene brightened up and took her hand.

  “Oh, hi. Well, umm . . . I’m not really a part of Vincent’s umm, stable yet.” She didn’t even like to repeat the word. It made Vincent sound like a pimp. Is that would they called the circle of authors under an editor?

  “Well, here’s my card in case he signs you,” Lauren told her. “But if you think you can afford me on your own, just give me a call and we’ll try to work out something.”

  Double D and Chelsea witnessed Lauren’s pitch and studied her.

  “She is so damn . . . whitewashed,” Chelsea barked, searching for the right word. “She in here as dark as me, and won’t even speak to black people.”

  “She speaks to Vincent,” D commented.

  “Yeah, because he gets her that money.”

  Double D smiled. “That’s all he need to do.” He was drinking his fifth glass of Coca Cola over ice, and was alcohol free. The next thing he knew, Vincent was headed in his with a Puerto Rican man and Jackson.

  “D, Jackson, you two already know each other. But I wanted to introduce you both to Antonio Martinez from Jersey City, New Jersey.”

  D shook Jackson’s hand to acknowledge him first.

  “What’s up, man? Talk to them producers about putting me in one of them movies of yours.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Chelsea added.

  DeWayne gave her a hard eye to stay out of it. Chelsea blew it off.

  “I wish I could make those decisions,” Jackson commented. “I got Italian cousins, uncles, friends and everything who would love to be in the movies.”

  “Yeah, right?” Antonio chimed in. “It’ll be like an all family affair if you let it.”

  D ignored him and kept his focus on Jackson.

  “Didn’t a couple of your cousins get in that Brooklyn flick?” D asked. “You know I’m from Brooklyn, right. Where you from, Conneticut?”

  Jackson looked hesitant to answer, but did it anyway.

  “Yeah, yeah, Connecticut. And a few of my cousins did make that movie as extras, but you know . . . it’s not like I can get everybody in.” He tired of being bothered by it.

  “Yeah, especially not one of us,” D commented.

  Vincent could see where the conversation was going. DeWayne was constantly picking race battles. So he stepped in and said, “Anyway, this is Antonio Martinez. He’s an upcoming writer too.”

  D finally acknowledged him and shook his hand.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hey, man, I love your work,” Antonio told him. “Your stuff is like the hardest. It’s so real.”

  D heard that and lightened up. “Yeah, I’m glad somebody know it around here. What you write, about the barrio?”

  Vincent smiled at the inside joke. Everyone wrote about what they knew, right?

  But Antonio shook it off again. “Nah, man, I write about everything. I even have a werewolf series.”

  Double D nodded. “Word? That’s what’s up.”

  Vincent said, “And this is the dime piece of our crew, Chelsea Christmas.”

  Antonio reached out his hand to hers as well. “Nice to meet you.”

  Chelsea grinned and looked him over, tantalized. “Nice to meet you too.”

  D watched her fast mind at work and commented on it immediately.

  “Get your mind out of there, girl.”

  “Shut the hell up,” she snapped at him.

  Seeing them all return to a huddle, Natalie made another move toward Vincent from her husband. She had been going back and forth from him all night. But Vincent spotted her in route again before she arrived. His height came in handy that way.