The Last Street Novel Read Free Page A

“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.
    Shareef walked out of the green room behind her, and as soon as they entered the recording room, with all the cable wires, three large cameras, and several colorful background sets, a makeup