A Private Affair Page 2

  “Hmmm. That’s all good. I know it’ll work out for you,” he said, though he couldn’t see how. But then again, things were different for women—better. Black women definitely stood a better chance of getting out and making a real life. As a black man he didn’t even stand a good chance of catching a New York City yellow cab in Harlem. He had yet to meet a black man who owned his own business through legal means.

  “Where’s your man? I know there’s got to be somebody takin’ care of all that,” he teased, moving away from the topic that haunted him.

  She hesitated, weighing her response. “There’s no one special.”

  “Fine thing like you. Brothers must be crazy not to snatch you up.”

  “Humph. That’s what I keep saying,” she rejoined.

  “The right dude’ll come along and sweep you off your feet just like in those romance books that you and Lacy love to devour.” He chuckled at the thought.

  Maxine poked him in the arm. “Very funny. Those books are good. There’s a lot more to them than folks like you give them credit for.”

  “Yeah, right. You tellin’ me those blond-haired, blue-eyed devils could tell you ’bout lovin’ a man? What do they have in common with us? Arr-nold, pretty boy Tom Cruise, De Niro?”

  “First of all, love is a universal thing, Q. Color has nothing to do with it. We all feel it and we all want to experience it with the right person. Besides, the new wave of romance novels that we read have black characters, showing black men who are about something, and the women. At least in those books it’s a place where we can read about black people in a positive light. Not like how we’re always played in the news and on TV. I know you think they’re corny, but they have a lot of reality in them. They’re about people just like you and me. About them struggling to get their relationships together while dealing with life. Just because they’re about love don’t mean that there’s nothing to them.”

  Quinn turned his head and looked at her profile for a long, silent moment, maybe seeing Maxine for the first time. She was no longer a skinny little girl with braces and knock-knees. She was all grown up, smart, hardworking and a real beauty. And seemed as if she had a head on her shoulders. She was Lacy’s best friend, and like a second sister to him. When they were kids he’d chased her up and down 135th Street, trying to pull her long hair. He would hide in Lacy’s closet, then jump out and scare them witless when Maxine spent many a night. He’d seen her with her unpressed hair standing on top of her head when she woke up in the morning and teased her about the lumps of sleep in the corners of her eyes. That all seemed like another lifetime, when things were simple. Looking at her now, fine as she wanted to be, he wondered when she’d changed from the skinny little pain in the neck to the woman she’d become. Yeah, some man would be real lucky to have Maxine Sherman as his woman.

  Chapter 2

  I Don’t Wanna Cry

  Quinn was sprawled out on his sofa, just about to take a quick nap before his evening run, his belly full from yet another one of Lacy’s lip-smacking meals, when the downstairs doorbell rang. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned. He was in no mood for company. He’d turned his phone down and his beeper off earlier just to have a little peace. He’d been working on a short story that he wanted to share with Lacy when she got back from wherever she’d gone, and hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Maybe if he didn’t answer they’d just go away. Then he realized that his lights were on, that with his apartment facing the street anyone could just look up and see that he was home.

  The bell pealed again. He practically threw himself off the couch. Maybe Lacy forgot her keys again—he hoped. He crossed the room in long, smooth strides, pulling his locks away from his face as he leaned toward the intercom.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me, man, T.C. Buzz me.”

  Quinn pressed his head against the cool wall and expelled a silent string of damns. It was rare that he ever allowed any of his “associates” into his crib. This was his refuge, a place to cleanse himself of where he’d been. He didn’t want to dilute it by bringing the outside in. He could count on one hand the number of men and women who’d ever crossed his threshold. He guarded his privacy, and everyone who dealt with him knew it. Obviously nobody had schooled T.C.

  He pushed the talk button, said, “Come on up,” then pushed the button marked DOOR. The telltale buzz hummed through the control panel.

  Turning, he retraced his steps and snatched up his discarded sneakers from the floor and the red T-shirt he’d worn earlier from the back of the couch, then took them both into his bedroom and shut the door. Returning, he took a quick look around, picked up Walter Mosley’s Gone Fishin’ and Ecstasy, a black romance novel by Gwynne Forster—which he’d sneaked from his sister just to see what they were like (it was actually pretty good)—and returned them to the bookcase. One lesson he’d adopted from his sister was cleanliness. He kept his place so immaculate that women who’d paid him visits always thought he had a woman living with him. He took one last look around and spotted his notebook, which contained all of his rhymes and short stories. He grabbed it and slid it under the couch just as T.C. knocked on the door. No point in giving anybody the opportunity to be nosy. Besides, if word ever hit the street that he wrote poetry, there wouldn’t be a hole deep enough for him to hide in.

  With great reluctance he opened the door. “Whatsup?” T.C. sauntered into the room, taking in the decor. Black leather furniture, situated on clean-enough-to-eat-off floors, dominated the living area, which was separated from the cool, cream-colored kitchen by hanging ferns and standing banana plants at either end of the archway. A six-foot bookcase was filled with hardcover and softcover books. The state-of-the-art stereo system, encased in smoked-glass and chrome, pumped out the soulful sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “Distant Lover.” The scent of jasmine came from a stick of incense.

  T.C. turned toward Quinn. “Nice crib.”

  Quinn gave him a short look and stepped down into the living room. “You sound surprised.” He changed the radio station from R& B to all rap. The intangible words and driving beat vibrated in the background.

  “Naw. I ain’t mean it like that, man,” T.C. stammered. He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I just meant, you know…living ’round here, you just don’t figure—”

  “To see people livin’ halfway decent. Ain’t that what you meant?”

  He shrugged again.

  “You sittin’ down, or what?” He indicated the six-foot couch with a toss of his head. “Want a brew?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Quinn’s mouth curved into a wry smile. He opened the fridge and pulled out one beer and a can of Pepsi, which he kept around to mix with rum. He handed the Pepsi to T.C., who started to open his mouth in protest until he looked up and caught Quinn’s stern expression and arched eyebrows. “I don’t give alcohol to minors,” he said simply. “Whatever you do in your spare time is your bizness.” He popped the top of the beer and took a long, ice-cold swallow. Beads of moisture hung on the can. “Even in this game you need to have some ethics.” He looked pointedly at T.C. “Don’t ever forget that, kid, ’cause when you do you stop being human.”

  T.C. popped the top, gave Quinn a curious look, then nodded his head. He took a long swig of his Pepsi, tapping his foot to the beat.

  Quinn plopped down in the matching recliner, flipped the switch and leaned back. The clock on the facing wall showed nine-fifteen. He wondered where Lacy was. Maybe it was one of her church nights. The last time he’d set foot in a church he’d prayed for his mother’s return. She never did, and he never went back. Pushing the thoughts aside, he turned his attention to T.C. “What’s with the visit? You ain’t running with me tonight.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to…you know…say thanks…for the other night. I mean, I know you didn’t want me hangin’ around with you…so…thanks.” He took a quick swallow of soda to hide his discomfort.

  Quinn held back his smile. He remembered all too well how he’d
felt on his first run: the rush of adrenaline, the eagerness to please. “Where are your folks, kid?”

  “Around. I have six brothers and sisters. My mom waits tables. Don’t know where my pops is. I’m the oldest,” he added, and Quinn could hear the note of pride in his declaration.

  He already knew the rest: oldest male in the house became the man of the house, and the man of the house had to take care of himself and his family by any means necessary. It was the tale of the inner city.

  “You still in school?”

  He nodded. “I graduate in June.”

  “Just make sure that you do,” Quinn warned, suddenly seeing himself in T.C.—if he’d had the chance to start over.

  They talked about this and that, their favorite athletes, which team was going to win the NBA championship, and the characters in the neighborhood.

  “Did you hear about the shoot-out on Riverside?” T.C. asked.

  “Naw. I been holed up in here all night. What went down?”

  “The usual.” T.C. shrugged, already jaded by the circumstances of life. “Cops got into it with some brothers. It got ugly and shots got fired. Coupla dudes got popped. Some girl, too, with a stray.”

  It was a story so typical you almost didn’t pay it any attention, Quinn mused, shrugging off the sudden chill that surprised his body. “Where’d you say this was?”

  “Down on Riverside, couple of blocks from that big church. They still had the area all taped off when I left a couple of hours ago.”

  Quinn nodded absently, took another swallow of his beer and a quick look at the clock. Ten forty-five.

  “Hey, gotta roll. My moms is working late and I promised I’d make sure the kids were in.”

  Quinn grinned. “Then you better get steppin’.” They both stood. “Hold on a minute, I’ll walk out with you.” He went into his bedroom and changed clothes. He didn’t have to be at B.J.’s until eleven-thirty. He had time.

  The three block stretch of Riverside was completely blocked off from traffic. Police cars and ambulances crowded the street. Swirling blue and red lights dotted the night sky. He spotted the meat wagon and immediately knew what that meant. From the look of all the uniforms that blanketed the street, the unfortunate victim was a cop. Guiltily, he released a sigh of relief.

  Quinn was directed by a beat cop to move on. He made a wide U-turn and headed back down the way he’d come, passing a Channel 7 Eyewitness News van headed for the scene.

  Quinn stepped on the accelerator. He’d catch it on the news.

  Quinn arrived at B.J.’s a little early and was surprised not to see Turk behind the bar. He kept walking and stopped in front of the gray door, to be met by Smalls.

  All eyes turned to him when he entered, but this time instead of refocusing on the poker game the stares remained fixed on his face.

  He strolled past the gambling table, ignoring the odd looks. Halfway across the room, he spotted Sylvie heading in his direction. Her usual sunny smile was missing, her butterscotch face a portrait of sadness. When their gazes connected her eyes widened in surprise. An unnamed fear coupled with a rush of adrenaline snaked its way through his veins.

  “Oh, Quinn. I’m so sorry.” Sylvie pressed her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around his stiff body.

  He wouldn’t panic. Something had obviously happened to Remy. He would handle it. Gently he clasped her shoulders, peeling her away from him. He looked down into red-rimmed eyes. “What are you talkin’ about? Sorry for what?”

  Sylvie blinked several times before realization struck. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  Just then Remy stepped from the back room and Quinn’s pulse escalated its beat. “Hey, man, you know you don’t have to be here. I wouldn’t expect you to—” He caught Sylvie’s warning look.

  Quinn looked from one to the other. “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but somebody better damn well tell me somethin’—and quick.”

  Remy put his hand on Sylvie’s bare arm. “Lemme have a minute with Quinn,” he said softly. Sylvie nodded and stepped aside as Remy put his arm protectively around Quinn’s wide shoulders. “Come on in da back, son, where we can talk private like.”

  Quinn threw off Remy’s hold. “Talk about what?” he demanded. His heart started beating like crazy.

  “Just come on, man. Come on.” Remy ushered him into the back room.

  All eyes trailed the pair as they walked into Remy’s office and shut the door. Moments later, the door flew open with such force that everyone in the room flinched and held their breath. Quinn stormed out, his eyes glazed, with Remy hot on his heels.

  “Quinn, wait. I’ll go wit you,” he called.

  Quinn threw up his hand to halt Remy’s pursuit. “No!” There was no room for argument. Suddenly the decor, the drab, stark nakedness, the shadows, the familiar scent of the back room, overwhelmed him.

  Quinn raced from the building. His mind whirled in horrified disbelief. Of course it was some macabre mistake. They were wrong. Everyone was wrong. It happened all the time.

  The Beamer assumed a life of its own as it hurtled down the darkened streets of Harlem, darting in front of cars and terrifying unsuspecting pedestrians. His entire life rolled before his eyes as if projected on some sort of larger-than-life screen.

  He pulled to a screeching stop in front of the precinct house. For several moments he just sat there, staring at his hands that gripped the wheel to keep from trembling. Calling on something deep inside, he forced himself to get out of the car and put one foot in front of the other.

  The rest of the night was a series of nightmarish snapshots taken from a house of horrors photo album—from the drive to the medical examiner’s office to his return home, where he found himself staring at the snow dancing across his television screen.

  He had watched himself mindlessly follow the short, pudgy doctor with tufts of hair protruding from his ears down the long, dull gray corridors, the effort of walking zapping his strength like the grip of quicksand. The only sound was his own heavy heartbeat, thudding like tribal drums in his ears. A thick metal door ahead swung inward to reveal a frigid, stark and sterile room with bright white walls bouncing off highly polished stainless-steel instruments and blinding him to where he really was, projecting the illusion of virgin purity. He cringed as teeth-gritting sounds of metal hitting metal played a chilly tune to the backdrop of the whir and hum of unseen machines and the snap and pop of rubber gloves, while technicians went about their business of uncovering the mysteries of death.

  The motion of the doctor removing the stiff white sheet from her face flashed repeatedly like that of a high-speed camera shutter every time he blinked. Wrapped in a sheet like dirty laundry, with a tag for pick-up dangling over her exposed, pink-polished toenail. Something deep inside of him gave way, and he seemed to choke on his own air. Icy fingers of disbelief ran down his spine and he shuddered. Instinctively he reached for her, seeking the warmth and assurance he’d always known, come to expect. Her hand, it was so cold. All the life and the warmth that was Lacy was gone. Her face was just as peaceful and pretty as it had always been, except for that deep, dark, black hole in the middle of her forehead that could have easily resembled the blessing marks from Ash Wednesday.

  But he kept staring at her, rubbing her hand, begging her in the silence of his heart to just get up so they could get out of there. Out of this place that was too quiet, too cold, too lifeless, with its stainless-steel tables and rubber blankets, the stench of embalming fluid more pungent to him than the odor of the back alleys. Lacy didn’t belong in a place like this. She was too full of life, too full of energy. So why was she so still? Why wouldn’t she just get up, so they could leave? Dread swept through him. He wanted to run, to scream at her to get up. But the words wouldn’t come.

  So he tried to blink the vision away. But it remained, unchanged. She could have been asleep, just as he remembered from tiptoeing into her room as a kid to tug her ponytails. She’d
looked as though she’d open her mouth at any moment and make one of her smart-ass remarks, like when they were growing up and everyone always said how much alike they looked. “I’m just prettier,” Quinn would say, and Lacy would remark, “But my boobs are bigger.” And they would look at each other and crack up laughing. That’s all he wanted to hear. Just hear her laugh, tell him to eat and not stay out too late. He wanted to watch her face glow with pride when she read his work or listened to him play.

  He wanted to tell her how important she was to him. How she’d made life bearable after their mother deserted them. How much it meant to him to hear her words of praise, and how much he loved her.

  All he wanted was for her to be asleep so he could walk across the hall and smell corn bread baking in her oven. Then everything would be all right and this sick, unspeakable torment that had infected every inch of his body would go away. His fingers dug into his palm. When had he told her he loved her?

  From his eyes they fell, silently, trickling onto his clenched hands. He looked down at the unbidden wetness, blinking, momentarily confused. “Big boys don’t cry,” he could hear his mother taunt. And Lacy would whisper in his ear, “It’s all right Q. It’s okay.”

  It would never be okay again.

  “Comin’ home from church,” he moaned, the force of his sobs shaking his powerful body. “Church! Praying to her God. Where were you tonight? Huh? Why weren’t you watchin’ over my sister, like she said you always did? ’Cause there ain’t no God. You ain’t real. I knew that when you nevah brought my mama back. But Lacy kept believin’, ’cause that’s just the way she was. So why her? Huh? Why? She ain’t never done nothing but good. And you took her. So whatta we got now, huh—God?”

  Suddenly he lurched to his feet, staggering, his legs stiff and heavy from hours of immobility. He stumbled toward the window as the hazy orange sun began its ascent above the rooftop rows of tenements and high-rise projects.