The Last Street Novel Read Free

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,