Never Too Real Read Free Page B

into the concrete meeting room in the Executive Building of the White House. The president’s head of minority investment, a dulce de leche thirty-something who matched Magda in height, gave her a macho backslap in greeting. “Sorry, girl. Ghanaian president was here and the meeting took too long.”
    Magda leaned back at his “girl” but patted his arm with affection. She needed him on her side for some pending deals. “African-American president pushes blacks and Latinos off the sched for an African president . . . Ha! Funny. How’ve you been, man?” As she asked, Magda scanned the room, everyone on break between the day’s sessions, looking for opportunities. Always lookin’.
    “Y’know, good. All good. And how about this thing, right?” He swept his hand across the chamber in which, rumor had it, Thomas Jefferson preferred to hold his summer meetings thanks to the room’s concrete coolness. “We cannot go wrong with the people in this room.”
    The White House’s chief technology officer, communications director, and chef had just left the stage. Gathered for the full day, among rows of red velvet chairs, were fifty well-groomed bodies, nearly all of color. One-third of the room was female—black, Latina, and a smattering of Asian. The men were the same mix, including a stately turbaned Sikh. And then there was Magda.
    Magda’s appearance was a natural calling card in the room. She was a sunny-haired, butch, self-made multimillionaire lesbian with an enviable effect: She glowed with money, success, and charisma. Groomed by her Miami-based Venezuelan family to be a beauty queen, Magda was instead the irresistibly handsome king of her domain. Her face model-like, with makeup and a dress she would have slain the straight male half of the room. But that would be wearing a costume. Magda had much more swagger sans feminine packaging because she presented herself as herself. Besides, she was a devoted lady-killer.
    “Magda! Hey, guuurl. Have you met Dev yet?” Kristina Jo, her face framed with a lion’s mane of curly, ebony Caribbean hair, her pantsuit fighting her curves, was the chattiest master-connector presidential appointee in D.C. Hustle skills honed in the Bronx, Kristina spent the next several minutes swinging her friend and ally, Magda, around, showing her off to the room.
    Nearly everyone present knew Magda’s name, if not the face of the richest, independent, minority venture capitalist in the United States, possibly the world. She purposefully had no press, all the knowledge mostly built word of mouth. Having been in the closet until college, Magda was in the habit of conducting business close to the vest—all business. Everyone was thrilled to be introduced to Magda, from the African head of Facebook global, the Latina officer at Twitter . . . she’d make their follow-up lists at a ninety percent rate. The other ten percent would miss a gravy train. Magda had made much of her money early on, wrangling wise, front-end moves in social media and green energy. Her mind raced at a quantum rate and she preferred to operate without waste—every minute had a reason, every hour something to be done.
    “Kristina, hon, I’ve got to check this e-mail.” Magda squinted at her cell. “What’s with the lack of service down here? It’s like a bunker in eighteen fifty. Shit.”
    Kristina’s face dropped, but relit quickly. “Okay, listen, just ooooone small favor. The White House press corps is interviewing folks here on the event. Can you por favor do one in Spanish, too? There’s one other person in this room who speaks—”
    “Fine, fine. But it’s gotta be real quick, all right?” Man, Magda thought, this girl is so good she’s got even me doing press. Be careful.
    The stage bustled with handheld audio sticks, phones set on “mic,” and one guy with a video camera.
    “Here’s our guy!” Kristina waved Magda through and set her up directly in front of the young, Euro-styled