A Private Affair. Donna Hill

(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.”