Flamingo Place. Marcia King-Gamble

slid into the chair directly facing him.

      “We got problems. We need to fix them,” Luis barked.

      “What kinds of problems?” Jen asked carefully.

      “Flamingo Beach is all stirred up. The gay alliance is bitching up a storm, claiming you’re homophobic.”

      “Why?”

      Let me spell it out,” Luis said, enunciating his words. “There is a very vocal leader who wants your hide. They’re ticked off and feel that you’re prejudiced against gays.”

      Jen was out the chair like a shot. “That’s ridiculous. ‘Queer’ is a current-day expression.”

      “Our readership is diverse,” Luis said patiently. “This is a conservative town, but our gay alliance is powerful. We need to stay on their good side.”

      “I see.”

      Luis Gomez just reinforced everything she’d suspected. He was a wuss.

      “I want you to use the Sunday column to publish a retraction.”

      “You want me to placate the group?”

      Do what you need to do. But when you write this Sunday’s column make sure to stress you’re in favor of alternative lifestyles. You may even want to state that your bachelor’s mother needs to encourage open and honest communication with her son. Make sure to mention America is about freedom of choice.”

      “Will you be writing my column for me?” Jen inquired coolly. Why all of a sudden was Luis pandering to a group he’d never openly supported? She’d privately thought him to be homophobic.

      “Not writing, just suggesting. I’ve lived in this town long enough to know the gay alliance can make things damn uncomfortable.”

      Luis crooked a finger, beckoning Jen closer.

      Jen reluctantly took a couple of steps toward him then stopped. She thought she would gag from the smell of stale tobacco.

      “The mayor’s son, Chet, is gay,” Luis confided. “Now you don’t want to tick off such an influential person. Solomon Rabinowitz may not be happy about his son’s sexual preference, but blood rules in the long run. He’ll support him and back the alliance one hundred percent.”

      Jen took a deep breath. Should she tell Luis? No it would be her ace card. She’d learned one thing during her years as an advice columnist though: once you started waffling, you cut your own throat. From then on anything you said would be challenged. Her instincts told her to stick to her guns. But common sense reminded her she was the newbie in town and still unproven.

      “I’ll compromise,” Jen promised. “How about I publish letters with contradictory opinions from mine.”

      “Think about what I said,” Luis said, picking up the phone and punching in numbers. “The paper’s been flooded with calls. That disk jockey from WARP is all over you. He’s even challenging you to come on his station.”

      “And maybe I will.”

      Luis’s glasses slipped a notch. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

      “Think ratings, Luis. Think of the papers we’d sell.”

      “Hmmmmm. I’ll reserve commentary until I see this week’s numbers.”

      “By the way, Luis,” Jen said, preparing to leave. “My brother Ellis is queer.”

      Luis’s lower lip flapped open. He quickly composed himself. “I want readers to love Dear Jenna,” he said gruffly. “They should be hanging on to her every word. I’m grooming you to be the next Abby.”

      His phone rang. “Luis Gomez. Sure, I’ll hold for the mayor.”

      Jen had thought Luis Gomez was a wuss. Now she knew he was just playing the political game.

      Chapter 4

      Tre held the receiver away from his ear. For the last three minutes the station’s manager and owner had been yakking on and on, acting as if Tre was the best thing since pumpernickel.

      Boris was an ex-army brat of bi-racial descent. He was the product of an African-American mother and a German father. The Germanic genes overrode the African. Boris was usually not this effusive. Something most definitely was up.

      “Ratings are soaring. You’ve got Flamingo Beach hooked on WARP,” Boris gushed.

      Perhaps it was time to hit him up for a raise. No, he’d wait to do it face-to-face. Eyeball-to-eyeball.

      “How about I come in a half an hour early before the show. We’ll talk then.”

      “Wait! Wait!” Boris shouted. “We need more than a half an hour to formulate a plan. We need to keep this momentum going. Do what you need to do to get that columnist on the show. I’ll make it worth your while.”

      “I’ll see what I can do.”

      Tre hung up thinking that any hope of getting some shut-eye before his show was impossible now. What did Boris mean by he would make it worth his while? Did it mean that he would finally get the coveted prime-time slot and would have his own syndicated show? Or did it mean that there would be some money coming his way?

      Either way, the conversation had left Tre wound up and wired. He paced the spacious living room, circled around the sectional couch and crossed over to the French doors that led out to a balcony with an unfettered view of the ocean. This was what living in Florida was all about. This was what he had worked for.

      There was a certain tranquility that came with living on the water. He even loved the briny ocean smell. Maybe a run would loosen him up. No, he didn’t have time to cover his usual five miles today. He would just have to stand here taking everything in, breathe and enjoy it.

      Several industrious souls were taking advantage of the cooler temperatures. The boardwalk was busy for that time of day, probably because the sunset promised to be a beauty. Teenagers whizzed by on skateboards and Rollerblades, almost knocking the pedestrians over. A few senior citizens, those who’d stood their ground refusing to move when gentrification rolled around, carried groceries in the baskets of their three-wheel bikes. Much as Tre sometimes groused about Flamingo Beach’s lack of sophistication, he had to admit he had it made.

      He thought about earlier today when he’d allowed Jen St. George to push his buttons. He’d worked damn hard on controlling a temper that had often gotten him in trouble and he wasn’t going to let the ballsy woman undo all of his hard work.

      He ran a hand over the closely cropped hair that his fans, mostly female, said made him look sexy and mysterious. They compared him to supermodel Ty Beckford. Must be the dark, shiny skin. Lines like that had once fed his ego. But his days of quick hits and meaningless sex were over with. He was looking for something more substantial now. Maybe even marriage, but something longer lasting than the occasional fling.

      Thoughts of sex made Jen St. George come to mind. Now she would be a woman he wouldn’t mind breaking his forced celibacy for. She intrigued him because she was not impressed or intimidated by him. He’d have to make sure he took her up on her lunch invitation and soon.

      Right now he had a bigger challenge; how to get that Dear Jenna woman on his show. Ratings were everything. Ratings were what Boris understood. If he could persuade her to have a live debate he’d have it made. He’d get her on the air and make mincemeat of her. Dear Jenna could help get him where he needed to go.

      He definitely had big plans for himself. One of them was moving up to an urban city where his hip way of talking and crass irreverence would be applauded and not misunderstood, where he would reach a bigger audience that was not necessarily white or black. He needed a major radio station that would recognize his talent and reward it accordingly.

      Tre planned on holding his own with the likes of Howard Stern. A Northeast audience