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
