of the church, and the healing force of the Lord.
Stopping in front of B.J.’s, the local bar, grill and everything in between, Quinn pushed open the scratched, blacked-out Plexiglas door and stepped into the smoke-filled room.
“Whatsup, brotherman?” greeted Turk, the bartender. “Whatcha tastin’?”
“My usual. Jack on the rocks.” Quinn slid onto the well-worn wooden stool and perused his surroundings. The place was packed as usual for a Friday night. Women in all their finery lounged in various vogue positions to catch the eyes of available men on the prowl, their perfumed bodies cutting through the stench of stale cigars, cigarettes and body heat.
“Here ya go.”
“Thanks, brotherman.” Quinn absently raised his glass to his lips and took a quick swallow of the smooth amber liquid, its fire warming him. “Boys in the back?”
“Whatcha think?”
Quinn nodded, slapped a five dollar bill on the bar and headed toward the gray steel door.
“Luck to ya, brother,” Turk called, wiping up the ring that Quinn’s glass had left behind.
The small back room was even stuffier than the front. Smoke billowed like cumulus clouds, hanging over the tight, dark room like a canopy. One lone seventy-five watt bulb hung above the round, green, felt-covered table, casting grotesque shadows against the cracked and peeling lemon yellow walls. Sweat, perfume, Old Spice, cheap liquor and moldy carpet odor all blended together into one unique aroma. It was all an acquired taste, the boys in the back always joked.
Smalls, the bouncer, who was about the size of a Sumo wrestler and obviously nicknamed as a joke, expertly patted Quinn down, then gave his customary caveman grunt and hooked thumb over his shoulder, indicating that it was all right for Quinn to enter.
Several pairs of eyes momentarily locked on his approach, then quickly returned to the aces, queens and kings that beckoned them, daring them to make a move. Quinn spotted Sylvie, the hostess of sorts, and signaled her with a crook of his finger.
Sheathed in a tight-fitting red rayon dress, Sylvie strutted across the hardwood floor, leaving little to the imagination in her wake. Her heels clicked in perfect syncopation.
“Quinn,” she cooed, looking up at his smooth, chiseled face, her full, red-painted mouth pouting seductively, as if waiting to be kissed. “What can I get ya, sugah?”
Quinn’s dark eyes were shadowed by long lashes as his lids slid partially downward. The right corner of his artist-drawn mouth curled. “Remy set for the pick up? Time is money,” he added, giving her the benefit of his dimpled smile.
“Follow me, lover. They’re…just…about…ready.”
Quinn slung his hands into the pocket of his Versace jogging pants, his Nike-sneakered feet moving soundlessly behind Sylvie’s undulating form. She knocked twice on the brown wooden door, turned the knob and entered.
Remy, Charles and a face he didn’t recognize were seated around a long table, counting and stacking Washingtons, Hamiltons and Franklins into neat rows of dead presidents.
“Be witchu in a sec,” Remy acknowledged, briefly looking up from his task. He tilted his head in the direction of the young boy. “Dis here is T.C. He gonna run wit you tonight. I want you to school ’em on da route and da ropes.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I ain’t no damned nursemaid,” he grumbled, his ire directed at T.C., who seemed to shrink under the scornful gaze. “Send him with one of the other runners. I ain’t got time for no baby-sittin’.”
Remy’s ink black face hardened as if suddenly tossed into quick-drying cement. “He goes wit you. You knows da street and the connections better than anyone. And, more important, ‘they’ knows you. Brothers see T.C. rolling wit you, they’ll give him his props. Understood?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Quinn reluctantly conceded. “But he better pay attention.” He threw T.C. a withering glance, then leaned his muscled frame nonchalantly against the doorjamb. His gaze slanted back in T.C.’s direction. The kid looked to be no more than seventeen. Quinn sighed inwardly—just about the same age he was when he started to build a rep for himself with Remy as his tutor.
Over the years Quinn had been elevated from errand boy to principal courier, responsible for the money transport between five of Remy’s clubs. His cut was substantial for the safeguarding of the nightly takes. That took trust and nerves of steel. Trust—that he wouldn’t run off with the goods—and nerves of steel when situations got dicey, as they did on many occasions.
As much as observers believed that Quinn had ice water for blood, he was anything but cold. Unfortunately, in his world there was no room for the soft of heart. So he played the role: hard, untouchable, unattainable, dangerous. The one person with whom he could truly be himself was his sister, Lacy.
Lacy didn’t laugh when she read one of his rhymes, or when he played tunes off the top of his head on the antique secondhand piano. She’d just sit there all dreamy-eyed and listen with a pretty smile on her face. Lacy believed in him, believed that he could go places. “Do something worthwhile with your God-given talents,” she always preached. Sometimes she made him almost believe in himself, too.
His mouth twitched as he fought back a smile. Lacy, the dreamer, the idealist. What could he possibly do with a twelfth-grade education? He frowned, marring his smooth mahogany brow. Through the years the two personas who made up Quinn Parker had merged, one nearly indistinguishable from the other. Sometimes even he didn’t know where one began and the other ended.
A thud near his feet pulled him back. He looked down to see two black duffel bags, packed to near bursting.
“Take my ride. It’s out back,” Remy said. He tossed Quinn the set of spare keys, then came from behind the table. He walked up to Quinn, clapping him roughly on the shoulder. He leaned close to his ear. “And take it easy on da kid. That was you once, remember?” Remy moved back, his gold front tooth sparkling against his skin of midnight.
“You never stop remindin’ me.”
Remy laughed loud and hard. “Dat’s to keep you humble.”
“Yeah, right. Come on, man,” he called to T.C. over Remy’s short salt-and-pepper head.
Quinn eyed T.C. up and down as they made their way to Remy’s Lexus 400. His Tommy Hilfiger jeans were barely held up on poke-you-in-the-eyes hip bones, proudly displaying the red, white and blue waistband of his Fruit of the Looms. His Air Jordans flopped on his feet, for lack of tied shoestrings. Quinn slowly shook his head.
“Yo, man, when you gonna get you some clothes that fit?” T.C. checked out his outfit. “What? All the brothers dress like this. These pants cost—”
“Yo, check this. All the brothers don’t dress like that. Only the ones who don’t know no better. Where’d that style come from?” he challenged.
T.C. shrugged and tried to look defiant, cutting his eyes up and down the length of Quinn’s hard-packed body. He chewed his gum a little faster.
“From those fools who go busted and tossed in the joint. That’s where. They can’t wear no belts, so their pants are always saggin’. Can’t wear laces in their kicks, so they’re
