The Last Street Novel (2 page)

A
T SIX O
’
CLOCK
in the morning, throughout the streets of Manhattan, New York, yellow taxis zoom through light traffic, carrying early-bird employees and managers along the empty sidewalks of a thousand high-rise buildings that cluttered the “Big Apple.” And on nearly every midtown street corner, newsstands and food and refreshment joints set up shop for another busy day feeding the local patrons and tourists who buzzed in and around the city.

At the corner of 7th Avenue and 47th Street stood the towering Sheraton Hotel, close by Times Square. A simple walk south on 7th Avenue would deliver you right smack into 42nd and Broadway, with all the bright lights, billboards, and attractions, including where the stars hung out—actors, writers, directors, producers, comedians, musicians, athletes, dancers, fashion designers, and your popular business moguls.

The Sheraton Hotel was a centrally located New York hot spot, a place for those who wanted to be close to the action. And Shareef Crawford was one of them, a bestselling author of romantic fiction who was still young and athletic enough to run with the wild horses. As the first light of dawn cracked through the curtains of his luxurious suite, his circadian rhythm began to kick in and awaken him. No alarm clock was needed. The hustle was the hustle, and his body had gotten used to his early rises a long time ago. So he opened his eyes and stretched his dark brown arms over several extra fluffy white pillows in his room up on the twenty-second floor of the west wing.

“Aaaahhhh,” he grumbled. “Another day another dollar…another fine girl another holler,” he rhymed to himself in singsong.

He rolled over on his back in the comfortable king-sized bed and looked up at the ceiling. He was wrapped snugly inside the expensive white quilts of The Author’s Suite, and sinking into the bed like a fly in sticky buttermilk. A large, cherrywood bookshelf stood against the wall to the right of the bed beside a tall reading chair and matching footstool. Various first editions, hardback novels by national bestselling authors, filled the shelves, including John Grisham, Stephen King, E. Lynn Harris, Michael Crichton, Terry McMillan, Anne Rice, Nora Roberts, Amy Tan, Dan Brown, and Danielle Steel. Before he checked out of the hotel, Shareef wanted to add one of his own books to the collection. He figured he had earned it.

It was the first day of his seventh book tour, which always kicked off in his hometown of New York, the city that never sleeps. And he was being pampered as requested.

He peeped over at the clock on the nightstand. It read 6:17
AM
. His limousine and driver would arrive at the hotel for pickup at 6:45. His first interview that morning was at 7:30. The producers of the morning news at New York Cable Network (NYCN) wanted him at their Manhattan-based television studio by 7:15. And although the interview would last no longer than five minutes, it was well worth it.

African-American writers could rarely count on television time in New York City, but Shareef could. He was special that way. And the ladies loved him. So he used what he had to use, his sex appeal and uninhibited imagination, to make himself into a millionaire.

“Damn, it’s fuckin’ time to go already,” he mumbled as he continued to watch the clock. He was still feeling a slight hangover from too many drinks at the bar, entertaining old friends at TGI Friday’s the night before. He gave himself another five minutes, another three, and another two before he finally forced himself out of bed at 6:27 and jumped into the shower.

A
T
6:49
THE LIMOUSINE DRIVER,
a light brown black man in his early thirties, wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and bright tie, looked down at his watch and began to wonder if he should call up to his client’s room. He stood outside a shiny black Lincoln Town Car, parked at curbside on 7th Avenue. In his right hand he held the itinerary for the day, with Shareef Crawford’s name, cell phone number, and the date printed at the top of the first page of three. In his left hand he held a hardback copy of Shareef Crawford’s latest novel,
The Full Moon.
On the cover jacket, an attractive couple embraced passionately on a moonlit beach.

The limo driver smiled and thumbed through a couple of the pages. His wife was an avid reader and fan of Shareef Crawford’s novels, so he was a little excited to meet the author. The man’s books had served to spice up his sex life at home.

“This gon’ make Carletta’s day,” he told himself, grinning while he waited.

After another minute of wavering, he decided to call Mr. Crawford to make sure he was up on time that morning. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Shareef’s number.

S
HAREEF SPRAYED
Sean John’s Unforgivable cologne into his hands and rubbed the scent on his neck, chest, shoulders, and lower torso before he slid his wife-beater tank top over his shoulders.

He stared into the large mirror over the cherrywood dresser and boasted, “It looks like another good day. Damn it looks good!” He took a strong whiff of himself and added, “Smells good, too.”

He slid on a white button-down cotton shirt with no tie before his cell phone rang. He pulled his phone from the holder that was attached to the dark blue dress pants he wore and read the 917 area code before he answered the call.

“Hello.”

“Yeah, my name is Daryl Mooreland, and I’m your limo driver for the day. I just wanted to make sure that you were ready. We’re not running late yet, but…”

Shareef cut him off and said, “Perfect timing, Daryl. I’m coming down right now.”

“Oh, okay. Good. We got about twenty minutes to make it over to the station.”

“Aw’ight. I’ll be right down.”

Shareef closed the cell phone, slid it back into its holder, and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He reached forward and grabbed his dark blue alligator shoes and slipped them on. He tied “the gators” up, grabbed his camel-colored sports jacket, and stood back up to slide his arms and shoulders in. He looked into the dresser mirror one last time while grabbing his brown, saddle leather briefcase.

“Let’s go get it,” he told himself in the mirror. He checked his pants pocket to make sure he had his hotel key card. Once he confirmed that he did, he was out the door.

S
HAREEF ARRIVED
at the lobby floor of the Sheraton Hotel and walked out of the elevator with swagger to burn.

The security guard at the elevators nodded and greeted him.

“Good morning, brother.”

Shareef looked like a man of importance. He walked like a VIP, dressed like one, and smelled like one. And he didn’t take his good fortune for granted, either. The privileges of wealth were definitely a good thing.

“Hey, you have a good day, man,” he told the security guard.

“You, too.”

“Oh, you know that. I feel good this morning. It’s time to do what I do.”

An attractive young white woman looked him over curiously as she walked out behind him.
Who is he?

Shareef caught her stare and responded accordingly. “Yeah, you look good this morning, too,” he flattered her.

She grinned sheepishly. “Oh, thank you.”

“Have a good day,” he told her.

“Oh, yeah, you, too.”

Sometimes recognition was all a person needed to start off their day with a bang.

Shareef strolled out the front doors of the Sheraton in his immaculate attire, with briefcase in hand, and spotted his limo driver at the curb. It looked like a day for bright sunshine in July. And that’s what it was, a bright and sunny day in New York City, forecast for a high of eighty-nine degrees.

“Hey, brother, you ready to make this trip to the station?”

The limo driver nodded to him and smiled.

“I’ve been ready, but I can’t leave without you.”

Shareef walked down to the curb where the black Lincoln Town Car was parked and said, “Well, let’s do it then. We got people who wanna see me on TV this morning.”

The limo driver perked up and opened the back door of the car. There was a certain pride in chauffeuring another young black man. Even if he didn’t get tipped well, it felt good to see another brown man move up the ladder of American class, and for something positive and intellectual at that. The book business was historically an aristocratic white folks business, and as high class as golf, tennis, and traditional country clubs before Tiger Woods and the Williams sisters broke in.

So as soon as Shareef was comfortably seated in the black leather seats inside the limo, Daryl Mooreland told him, “Now I want to get this out of the way bright and early so I won’t have to bother you anymore today, brother…”

He stopped and held out the new book in his hand.

“Could you
please
autograph this book for my wife. Her name is Carletta, she loves your work, buys everything you put out, and after that, I won’t bother you no more today. I’m just your driver.”

Shareef took the book and laughed. “Naw, man, you’re more than just a driver. You got a wife, you probably got kids, you got a job, you doing what a man is supposed to do, and I respect the fact that you respect me and what I’m doing. So it’s all good.”

Daryl said, “Well, I haven’t read any of your books myself. I don’t really read these kind of books, but as long as my wife is happy with it, that’s all that really matters.”

Shareef paused and decided to let the comment slide. Just keep the peace and move on in silence.

“Yeah, you gotta keep the ladies happy these days,” he responded. “Somebody’s gotta do it. That’s who I write for.” He then took out a Cartier pen from inside his sports jacket and asked, “How you spell Carletta?”

“C-a-r-l-e-t-t-a,” the driver spelled out for him.

Shareef nodded and autographed his latest novel with his favorite pen, a gift from his editor. He was awarded the platinum pen after reaching his first one hundred thousand mark in hardback sales in 2000, for
I Want More,
the sequel to
Chocolate Lovers,
published in 1996.
I Want More
was also the book that landed Shareef his first seven-figure contract. The exact numbers were undisclosed. He didn’t like people knowing too much about his income. His grandparents had told him never to reveal that information to the public. “People start thinking they know you better than what they do when they know how much you’re worth,” his grandfather had told him.

Shareef looked back to his driver and said, “I figured that’s how you spell it, but I had to make sure. You never know with our people’s creativity. I had a girl get mad at me one time in Detroit for spelling her name J-a-n-e. You know how she spelled it? J-a-
i
-n, like pain, and she expected me to know that.”

They shared a laugh before he handed the signed book back.

“Naw, we don’t allow no crazy spellings in my house,” Daryl told him. “I got two little girls named Jennifer and Jessica, and their names are spelled correctly.”

“Are they twins?”

“Nope. Two years apart.”

Shareef’s wife of eleven years was named Jennifer, but he decided a long time ago to keep his private family life out of his public affairs as well. So he didn’t bring it up.

Daryl said, “Well, let’s get going, Mr. Crawford. And thanks a lot for signing this book for me. My wife is gon’ flip for this.” He climbed behind the wheel and added, “You gon’ get me some good love tonight, brother. Thanks!”

They laughed again before pulling out into traffic on 7th Avenue.

A
YOUNG ASSISTANT
met up with Shareef while he sat comfortably inside the green room at the NYCN television studio.

“You want any coffee or anything?” she asked him.

“Naw, I don’t drink coffee. I got a natural high,” he told her.

The assistant chuckled. “I guess that’s a good thing to have. You’re always up and going. I have a few friends like that.”

“Are they successful people?” he asked her.

She stopped and thought about it. “Well…yeah, I would pretty much say they were successful.”

He nodded. “That’s the basic rule of life. The busiest worms eat the most apples. And they don’t drink caffeine.”

She nodded back to him and grinned. She understood that she wasn’t on that busiest worm level. So she left his philosophy alone.

“Well, what about water?” she asked him.

He grabbed the white paper cup that sat on the table beside him and took a sip. “I already got it,” he told her.

“Oh. Well, you’re very low maintenance, I’ll tell you that,” she commented with a chuckle.

Shareef smiled at her with nothing left to say. He figured he would save the rest of his charm and wit for the morning news hosts and their cameramen.

“I’ll be back in a minute to get you,” the assistant informed him.

“Okay.”

The time was 7:27, and Shareef was scheduled to go on air in less than five minutes. When the assistant returned to the room, they were ready for him.

“Okay, we’re ready for you,” she told him.