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which she could turn off and on like a shower.
    “I heard you’re one of the top African American casting agents in the country. I love to see smart sisters taking control in this business,” Yancey said. The woman didn’t respond while she studied Yancey’s picture, turning it over to review her résumé. Yancey was thinking how much she hated when black folks in charge acted so condescending and arrogant. She also assumed the casting agent was envious of every light-skinned woman she had come across. Especially the beautiful ones. Over a year ago, Yancey had turned down an audition for a film for two reasons. One, her agent said it was an ensemble piece, and two, the casting agent was an African American female. The film,
The Best Man,
written and directed by Malcom Lee, had become one of the year’s biggest hits. Yancey remembered how she seethed while sitting through the film and would have walked out had Basil not been enjoying it so much. In fact, he had seen the film three times. Twice alone. Yet all Yancey felt while she watched the film was the sting of jealousy every time the strikingly beautiful Nia Long, with high cheekbones and the perfect short hairstyle, graced the screen.
I should be
playing that role,
Yancey told herself over and over.
    “Where did you hear that from?” the casting agent asked when she finally stopped looking at the head shot. Her voice was flat and emotionless.
    “Around. You know how word gets around.” Yancey smiled automatically.
    “Truth be told, I’m one of the tops in the business. Period.”
    “I’m sure you are.”
    “I still don’t think I’m going to let you read because I have about ten young ladies who we’ve already tested on screen.”
    “That’s a lovely sweater you have on. Is it cashmere?” Yancey asked. She leaned closer, as if to admire the mustard-yellow turtleneck sweater.
    “No, it’s a blend. Now, Miss Braxton, back to the role.”
    “You can call me Yancey.”
    “Yancey. I’m sure you’re a talented young lady, but like I said, you’re not the type. Sally Hemings was of mixed race.”
    “My father was white,” Yancey lied.
    “He was?” she asked with raised eyebrows.
    “Yes.”
    “I can put you in contact with the agent handling the extra casting.”
    “I’m not interested in extra work,” Yancey said firmly. She wanted to take off one of her suede backless pumps and throw it at the lady, who had a self-satisfied look every time she gave Yancey a reason why she wasn’t right for the role. But Yancey reminded herself that she could get more with honey than with vinegar, so she offered a compromise after the agent mentioned her tight schedule.
    “Who’s the executive producer?” Yancey asked.
    “Why?”
    “I was thinking maybe I could do a test with him while you see the other girls.”
    “It’s being produced by CBS, and seeing the executive producer on your own is not an option. I’ll keep your head shot and résumé on file. You never know when I might be casting something you’re right for,” she said as she stood with an icy glare and extended her hand to Yancey. Realizing the meeting was over, Yancey tried to stop herself but couldn’t and said, “You people like playing God, don’t you?” and stormed out of the room.

5
    I HAD JUST gotten home from dinner at Lola’s on West Twenty-second with a hard-drinking client when the phone rang. I was hoping it was Yancey calling to give me the word to come over for a late-night bath. It wasn’t.
    “Dude! Where have you been?” a somewhat soft, trying-to-be-hard male voice said.
    “Who is this?” I asked.
    “This is Bradford. Remember, we met a couple of years ago at the gym on Sixty-sixth?”
    I vaguely recalled this caramel-colored dancer with a real tight body who gave killer head. Bradford could deep-throat the jimmie like a fire-eating circus performer. We had hooked up a couple of times before I met Yancey and right after I gave up on Raymond.
    “Oh yeah,