Free Scorpion by Ken Douglas

death of Jomo Kenyatta. People had walked for miles to pay homage to the great man at a rally in this huge park in the center of the city. They were all black and as they passed my dad would say ‘Jambo, Hello,’ and they’d say Jambo back, and smile at us. But when this one man approached, my dad said, ‘Hello,’ and he said, ‘Hello,’ back. He asked where we were from and my dad told him Long Beach, California, and he answered back by saying he was from Portland. He was as black as everybody else, but he was different. He was an American. My dad knew it and so did everybody else.”
    She thought about what he said. He didn’t sound like a racist or a nationalist, he was just telling the truth, and truth was truth, even if it wasn’t politically correct. Then she asked, “How about the Europeans? Do we look different from them too?”
    “ Especially them,” he said, laughing. “You should see us blundering around in their countries trying to communicate. When they don’t understand we just talk louder, till eventually we’re almost shouting.”
    “ Your girl, the one in the paper, she’s Danielle Street, the literary agent, isn’t she?” She didn’t want to put the subject back onto something that would hurt him, but she had to know.
    “ You’re a novelist?” Broxton asked. She saw the way his eyebrows arched and the way he bit into his lower lip. This wasn’t a pleasant subject for him.
    “ I wanted to be once. I sent my manuscript off to an agent in Los Angeles, and shortly after it was rejected I received a letter from Ms. Street in New York.”
    “ And?” Broxton said. She had a feeling that he knew what was coming next.
    “ The letter said that she was told by another agent that I had a book worth publishing. The other agent was unable to take on any new clients, but felt that my work was worthy enough to mention to the Street Agency and would I please send her a copy of the manuscript right away.”
    “ Which of course you did,” Broxton said.
    “ Of course,” she said, meeting his eyes.
    “ And,” Broxton said again. His hands were folded in his lap. The fingertips were white. He didn’t want to be talking about this.
    “ She recommended an editorial service,” Maria said.
    “ And for only four or five thousand dollars they could make your manuscript publishable,” he said.
    “ Something like that,” she said. “But there was no way Earl ever would have let me have the money.”
    “ Earl doesn’t sound like a man I’d like, but it’s probably a good thing you didn’t get the money.”
    “ Rip off, huh?”
    “ Usually.” Broxton nodded. “The old Dani never met a manuscript that five thousand in her pocket couldn’t fix. She owned the editing company.”
    “ Who did the actual work?”
    “ College kids mostly. She paid them peanuts. Usually the manuscripts never went anywhere, however once in a while one got published.”
    “ How’d she get my name?”
    “ She paid the secretaries in the other agencies for a list of all their rejections.”
    “ That’s horrible,” Maria said.
    “ She was ruthless,” Broxton said.
    “ But what about Jack Priest? She’s his agent, isn’t she? I see his books all over.”
    “ Oh she’s had her successes. She’s sharp. When she saw a book with potential she ran with it. She’s gotten several six figure advances.”
    “ It makes it hard for the person starting out. If someone with a reputation like Danielle Street’s rips off new authors, who doesn’t?”
    “ Lots don’t. In fact I’ll bet most don’t. Dani was just hungry.”
    “ Was?”
    “ She sold the agency. Now she just lives the life of luxury.”
     
    * * *
    The taxi turned onto the highway and Broxton noticed that the driver kept to the slow lane. Cars and trucks of all ages and sizes flew by them, all in a hurry, junkyard fugitives racing along with cars fresh off the showroom floor. Speed tempered by chaos seemed to be the order of the day, and if