Another left, and I’m at the wine bar Bowen suggested, the Resplendent Grape. He’s sitting at a shaded table on the walk out front, his suit coat off, collar and thin red tie loosened just a notch. A wrinkle-free cream shirt. He stands and pulls out a wrought-iron chair for me. I lock my car. “The house merlot here is fabulous,” he tells me. “I took the liberty of ordering you one.” He hands me a tall, wide glass.
“Thank you,” I say, and sit. Sunlight sparkles through the trees, dappling the tabletop, Bowen’s biscuit-colored arms and rolled-up sleeves.
“I’m really glad you called,” he tells me. “I’ve been sitting by the fax machine. So. Do you have a résumé for me?”
“Before you pitch me again … I saw the sign.”
“What sign?”
“In the cemetery across from my uncle’s house. Future Home of Such-and-Such … what is it? Apartments? Condos?”
He smiles. “I explained before — ”
“I don’t know all of Houston’s ins and outs, but I know, Mr. Bowen, just from looking at the site, that you’ll probably have to secure a density modification before you can make a move, and you’ll need to hold a public hearing, which means official notification of the neighborhood, which I know for a fact the neighborhood hasn’t received yet.”
He eyes me appreciatively.
“It’s an old trick, right? Slap the sign up, make it look like a done deal, take the wind out of the neighbors’ sails before they even know what’s happening, before they realize there’s still time to stop it… especially if you’re dealing with a poor, uninformed populace. But I know the trick, all right? And I’m watching.”
Still smiling, he says, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but through our friends at City Hall, we got an expedited process.”
I glare at him.
“It’s all legal and aboveboard, I assure you. Now. Résumé?”
I clutch my purse to my belly.
He sighs, leans across the table. “Nothing’s etched in stone, Telisha. May I call you Telisha? The sign represents the wishes of some of my partners, but we’re still exploring options. One of the scenarios I’m floating, and there’s some interest in it as a PR move, is to renovate not just the graveyard but some of the surrounding houses. Okay?”
I don’t believe him, but want to keep my own options kicking. I reach into my purse and produce my résumé. He takes it from me as gingerly as a man fingering a satin bra. While he looks it over, I glance around: yuppies and buppies from Vinson & Elkins. Brooks Brothers breaking brie with Goldman Sachs. These folks run whatever show they’re part of, or they couldn’t afford to sit here of a late afternoon.
I overhear an elegant black man telling a wavy blonde — a fairy-tale Rapunzel — “White culture is dying in America, baby. Elvis has left the building.”
“Is your planning office in Dallas pro-business?” Bowen says. “No-growthets? Which way do they lean?”
“A healthy mix of both. Slow and measured growth is our mantra, though reality has outrun our plans.”
“Dallas is a mess.”
I agree.
He sets aside my pages, sips his wine, studies me. “Are you used to working with white liberals? Because that’s an animal you’ll encounter often in our circle. ‘Economic conservative, social liberal’—that’s how they like to present themselves, at least to me.”
“Sure.”
“In my experience, white liberals are geniuses at telling us what we need but morons at actually listening to what we want.”
“Like black leadership.”
He laughs. “Exactly. I have a couple of old buddies — warriors from the civil rights days, you know, afros, ‘Free Angela’ buttons, the whole bit — their fire got hot again when Farrakhan organized the Million Man March. They begged me to go with them. I tried to tell them, I said, ‘Ben’s Chili Bowl, the Florida Avenue Grill — how many other black-owned businesses in D.C. can you name? There’s not nearly enough places to feed and bed all these guys, so you’re going to head up there, without women, to crow about yourself as men — and all the while you’ll line the white men’s pockets? Where’s the sense in that?’”
“So Farrakhan — ”
“He’s just a failed old Calypso singer who still craves the spotlight.”
“And Governor Bush?”
“Hey, he lets the dogs run free in the business world, and that’s all right by me. I’ll support him if he decides he wants the White House.” He orders us both more wine.
“What’s your story, Mr. Bowen? How’d you come up, and where? I mean, since you know so much about me …”
“Rufus. Please. Right here. Texas Southern, U of H.”
“Let me guess. You benefited from Affirmative Action, but now you oppose it on principle.”
“I admit the contradiction. In certain individual cases, like mine, probably yours, the program did some good. But yes, on balance I think it’s harmed us, stolen our motivation, made us dependent on social handouts — ”
“Easy to say now from your high perch.”
“Listen, every day I sit in meetings where my opinion is the last one solicited — and I run the damn company! As far as I’m concerned, there’s no perch high enough — ”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not trying to pick a fight, I’m — ”
“My father owned a car repair shop over in Freedmen’s Town, and all my life I couldn’t wait to get out of there. When guys my age moved into the middle class we were turning traitor.’ Now some of my friends sit around their gated yards and complain about the ‘other Negroes’—people like your uncle and your cousin, like Reggie. That’s not me, see. I still have loyalties to the old neighborhood. But I don’t apologize for wanting to lead a more comfortable life. Or for wanting to improve the old stomping grounds.”
“For being economically conservative’?” He laughs. Of course he’s right, I think. This is what being with a man is supposed to be like, nice surroundings, pleasant wine, intelligent conversation. “It was a good thing you did for Reggie, arranging for that computer.”
“I was happy to help him out. He’s doing great work.”
“But I’ve got to ask you — ” I sit forward. “Can I be really candid with you?”
“Please.”
“Natalie. Me. I mean — ”
“What?”
“If I didn’t know better — ”
“Ah,” he says. “You mean, am I just a predator in disguise?”
“Well, no. No, I’m — ”
“Seizing whatever I fancy and nailing up my signs?”
“I’m sorry I implied that.”
“Natalie’s having a tough adjustment, with the child-care and all, but I’ve given her a wonderful opportunity.”
“I realize that.”
“One-two-three: Reggie introduced me to her; she was in need; I saw we could help each other. Purely pragmatic. And she’s going to be fine. I really believe that. Let me turn the tables on you, Telisha. Are you playacting some silly ‘Roots’ deal, or are you serious about becoming part of the life here again?”
I lock on his big brown eyes.
“All right,” he says, settling more loosely in his chair. “Have we faced our demons enough here today?”
“If —,” I say, raising a finger. “If you really want me to come work for you, I have to say, PR’s not my thing. The tax shelters, real estate — future plans?”