Niggers. The word made her wince. There were other people who could’ve said it without unnerving her. But not him. The son of an Italian media baron and an African-American opera singer, Virgil Pucci could pass for white—which he’d done until he was thirty-five. Then he reclaimed his blackness when he learned about a federal program designed to open radio and television ownership to minorities. In two years, with the backing of his father, he was in control of twelve FM and eight VHF stations across the country. Five years later he sold them to a Fortune 500 company for thirty times their original price and used the profits to buy a huge West Coast cable system. Fortyish, bored, and independently wealthy, he launched Umbra as the first in a series of magazines aimed at African-Americans, who for him were not a readership but a market—one that was larger and richer than entire countries in Western Europe.

No. It was not cool for him to use the word nigger, she thought. With him she couldn’t be sure it was coming from a place of love. But what could she do about it? Nothing. And what did she want to do? Nothing. He was paying her ninety grand a year to hate him.

“Close the door, Sylvia,” he began, the furrows deepening across his forehead. “We need to talk privately.”

Sylvia bit her tongue and did as she was told.

“You supervised the DeVeaux article,” he continued. “I left you alone. You used a writer that wasn’t one of ours and I left you alone. Now in this article, there’s exploration of those embezzlement charges that are being brought up against brother DeVeaux. I know he discussed them on the record, but he changed his mind afterward. I mentioned this to you some time ago. But nothing has been done. Congressman DeVeaux has fought very hard for his people all his life, Sylvia. They love that fool down there. He’s brought them more pork than there are pigs in Iowa. I know he stole the goddamn money. The government knows. I’m sure the people on Mars know too. But the black folks down in New Orleans don’t know. And they don’t wanna know.”

“Virgil, can I interrupt you for a second? When did black people sign a contract saying they wanted to be treated like children? I’m a journalist, Virgil, not a copywriter for the City of New Orleans Visitors Bureau. There are a lot of wonderful things about New Orleans. And we cover a lot of them in the feature. So why can’t we show a little of the other side as well?”

“Lemme tell you a little secret,” he said, whispering. “Black folks don’t need balance right now. They need positive images. White folks can tear down their leaders, Sylvia, but black folks can’t afford to. They have too few. I’ve told you several times but you don’t listen—you need to reorient your thinking. You need to get into the mind-set of the folks in the street. Black America is not New York. Them niggers out in Detroit and down in Atlanta are not mature enough to handle the truth. Black folks are directionless right now. And what they want are myths, ideals, heroes. Whether or not this is what they need is another issue.”