burn, it wouldn’t do to be caught carrying gasoline,” he said. “What I mean is-”
“I understand what you’re saying. I have done nothing to provoke violence. I have said nothing to encourage people to take to the streets.”
“Still, unless Osama nukes us,” said Bonguard, “it looks like we’ll be displacing terrorism on the front pages for a while. The Black Congressional Caucus is already engaged. When they hear about the letter tonight, they’ll ransack all the old dusty volumes in the Library of Congress looking for the original.”
Nice try, thought Scarborough. “Well, they won’t find it there. Look at it this way: All we’re doing is exposing history to the light of day. We didn’t put the words in the Constitution or decide how it should be amended. And I certainly didn’t write the words in that letter. No, we’re just messengers delivering the message.”
Scarborough smiled at him. It was the kind of roguish grin that usually kept even his enemies from disliking him entirely.
“Of course, your publisher’s gonna be a little nervous,” said Bonguard. “No doubt they’d have convulsions if they knew what you were going to do tonight.”
“Let’s not bother them with it.”
“It is their book tour.” Bonguard caught his client’s eye. The author’s expression answered his question, the reason all this was so secret.
There was a knock at the door.
“Speak of the devil. That would be Aubrey,” said Scarborough. James Aubrey was Scarborough’s editor. “Not a word about tonight.”
“Your call.” Bonguard knew that if the publisher found out, Scarborough would fire him in a heartbeat, since he was the only possible source. He headed for the door.
Scarborough could hear their idle chatter.
“Dick.”
“Jim. How’d you sleep last night?”
“Good. And you?”
“Fine. Went out, had a drink. Hit the sack early.”
“How’s our man?”
“He’s in the bedroom. Come on in.”
A couple of seconds later, the two of them appeared in the door to the bedroom. Jim Aubrey was in his late twenties, looking harried and a little frazzled. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, a sport coat, and a tie that looked as if it had been inherited from an earlier generation.
“Morning,” said Aubrey. “You up for tonight?”
“Ready as ever,” said Scarborough.
“I guess you guys saw the protesters down in the lobby.”
“How many?” Bonguard wanted numbers.
“I don’t know. I didn’t count ’em. Probably twenty-five or thirty.”
“It’ll grow toward the afternoon,” said Scarborough. By now he was used to the throng of demonstrators and supporters. Like Cicero on his way to the Senate, Scarborough seemed to have his own throng of backers in every city, self-appointed lictors who pushed their way through crowds and yelled insults at their opposite number, those who thought Scarborough was an agitator seeking to stir up racial trouble. Bonguard had started to wonder whether hired security might be necessary. He had weighed in on the issue with the publishers the day before, but for some reason they had put him off.
“I think most of them downstairs are in support of the book.” Aubrey looked nervous, as if he might be chewing his nails to the quick. “You saw this morning’s Times?”
“Yeah.”
“Twenty-four cars torched in Central L.A. last night, before they got it under control,” said Aubrey.
“Gives the city an upscale appeal. Starting to feel like Paris.” Scarborough laughed, trying to take the edge off.
It didn’t work. “New York is very nervous,” said Aubrey. “They’re worried about tonight. A large national audience. That something you might say could set it off.”
“Not to worry,” said Scarborough.
“You’ll keep it light?” said Aubrey.
“Absolutely.”
“I want you to understand that no one is more committed to this book than I am.”
Scarborough turned to look at him. “Jim, I know that.”
“I put my job on the line several times when others wanted to kill the project.”
“And I appreciate it. I thank you for it,” said Scarborough.
“There’s talk of a federal grand jury probe because of the riots,” said the editor.
Scarborough was busy getting his clothes together, rummaging through his suitcase, which never seemed to get unpacked, a new hotel every night.
“I know. I saw the article in the paper. I wouldn’t call them riots, exactly. But I’m not surprised. People in the White House have to do something to look as if they’re on top of it,” said the author. “But I suspect that congressional hearings will probably come first.” Scarborough didn’t seem to be concerned in the least about any of this.
“What congressional hearings?” said Aubrey.
“Oh, there are certain to be congressional hearings. And those are sure to be public and televised.”
Aubrey knew that Scarborough was connected politically in D.C., in the same way an L.A. hood might be connected with Chicago or New York. He could detect political rumbling before anyone else heard the drums. The thought of the author sitting at a green-felt-covered table in the Capitol in front of blinding television lights with a national audience was not something that the publisher had considered.
“I hate to tell you this, but there’s already some noise in New York about pulling the plug on the tour,” said Aubrey.
This stopped Scarborough in his tracks. He turned and looked at the editor.
“It’s…it’s not my decision,” said Aubrey. “Just until things cool down. They called me this morning and wanted to know what I thought about it.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told them I’d have to talk to you and get back to them.”
“That’s fine. So now you can go to the phone, call them up, and tell them that both you and I disagree. That the book’s on a roll. That it may be the biggest bestseller they’ve had in years. That they need to grow some balls. That if they pull the plug now, they’ll never be able to bring it back. And if that doesn’t convince them,” said Scarborough, “you can tell them for me that if they do, I will sue them seven ways from Sunday.”
Aubrey was left speechless in the doorway.
Scarborough thought for a second. “No, on second thought, tell them that I’ll go public. I will accuse them of being in lockstep with the White House and involved in a racial cover-up. That’s much faster, and it doesn’t involve all those nasty little pieces of paper that seem to fly around courtrooms.”
The thought of the publisher’s Manhattan office illuminated by burned-out cars and flaming trash cans flashed through Aubrey’s brain like a strike of lightning.
Scarborough turned back to his suitcase looking for a pair of socks. “They have a number-one New York Times bestseller, rocketed there out of the box, and they want to end the publicity tour.” He found the socks and tossed them on the bed.
“Not end. They didn’t say end,” said Aubrey.
“They don’t have to. I can read between the lines. Go away. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. The check’s in the mail.” Scarborough was working up a head of steam. “Listen,” he said, “I want you to give them a message. Tell ’em it’s from me. Tell them that they didn’t put this book on the list. The media put it there. Twenty million angry African Americans put it there. So if they think they’re gonna plant their tail between their legs, drop the book, and run, they’re wrong. Why? Because black people finally woke up and realized that the words that kept them in chains for two hundred years are still in black and white, right there in the Constitution for the world to read. Well, it isn’t gonna happen. Your people are not going to cap the book. Not this book.”
“Nobody is talking about capping the book,” said Aubrey.
