A Private Affair

by Donna Hill

  The steady flow of nervous energy propelled him back and forth across the beige carpeted floor.

  Nice lights. He would have chosen track, but the recessed ones were cool, too.

  On one wall were photographs of Johnnie Cochran and a smiling couple. On another was the same couple, looking as if they were talking with Al Sharpton.

  He had turned to look at the plaques when a tall, well-built, Armani-bedecked man just about Quinn’s height stepped out into the reception area and greeted them.

  Same dude as in the pictures. High-powered, connected, Quinn decided. Maybe he could make something happen. He’d have to see.

  “Sorry to keep you two waiting. I’m Sean Michaels.”

  “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice,” Maxine said. “Valerie recommended you highly.” She shook his outstretched hand.

  Sean smiled. “I taught a litigation class last semester. She was one of my best students. I’m expecting great things from Val.” He turned his attention to Quinn. “Mr. Parker.” He extended his hand to Quinn, who seemed to take it reluctantly and merely nodded his head in response.

  “Why don’t we talk in my office?” He ushered them into his office and shut the door.

  Sean asked all the basic questions about where they’d lived, for how long, names of friends. He told them about his legal background, that he’d started off in New York and then relocated to Atlanta, where he’d met his wife and business partner, Khendra.

  As he talked he gauged Quinn’s reaction: the subtle relaxing of his body and facial expression. He’d run into brothers like Quinn all his life. Men who’d come to experience violence and poverty and day-to-day survival as the norm. The mistrust, that belief that everyone was out for himself, the quick buck, the fast hustle, was part of their makeup. They believed that there was nothing but more of the same on the other side of the elusive rainbow. In Quinn Parker, Sean saw something of himself as he’d been, growing up on those very same streets, watching friends and family fall victim to drugs, violence and early death. Sean had found a way out, and so could Quinn. He needed Quinn to know that he understood.

  “I know this will be hard, but I need to hear about Lacy.” He looked at Quinn and then at Maxine. “As your sister, and as your friend.”

  Quinn had known this time was going to come. Thought he was ready. But the knot in his belly grew, taking up all the space, squeezing out the air in his chest. How could he tell this man, who had it all, what it was like to only have one thing, one person, in your life who mattered, who made you feel that you mattered, and have it taken away? How could he ever explain that she was the wind beneath his wings, the wind that kept him afloat, away from being completely consumed by the life he lived? There were no words.

  So instead he listened to Maxine, and he ached. That twisting sensation got tighter, and he couldn’t breathe. He kept seeing her face as she’d looked that night, laid out on that cold metal table, and he wanted to cry—again.

  But he couldn’t.

  Wouldn’t.

  Quinn finally snapped, unable to stand listening to the recollections. “What’s all that she was about got to do with what you got to do?”

  Sean sat back a little, glad that he’d finally gotten Quinn to react. He folded his hands on the desktop. “I know this is hard. I can only imagine what it must be like for both of you. But I need to know as much about Lacy Parker as possible. When I present our case, I want it to be so powerful that a jury will have no recourse than to find in our favor.”

  Quinn swallowed. “Do you think we have a shot?”

  “I don’t take cases I can’t win.”

  Quinn pressed his lips together, assessing the man in front of him. “Then you’d better check the rest.” He told him of the word that had been circulating in the hood. How the cops were looking to pin it on somebody else, not the dudes they had locked up. But the real deal was that the cops were scurrying around trying to cover their own asses, because it was one of them that took out Lacy.

  “That’s right, Mr. Michaels,” Maxine said. “That’s the word on the street.” She looked to Quinn and squeezed his hand, her reassuring smile loosening the knot.

  Sean nodded. The ramifications were more complex than he’d anticipated, and that pushed his buttons in all the right places. Since his own false arrest years earlier for the murder of his ex-wife, and vilification in the press, he’d been a staunch advocate for the rights of those wrongly accused, especially the families of victims. Though he didn’t press a civil suit, the real perpetrators would never see the sun shining through their backyard windows again.

  “Then we take them on,” Sean said. “But I have to warn you, this could be a long, ugly fight. It could last for months, or years. I’m up for the challenge.” His eyes zeroed in on Quinn. “Are you?”

  Quinn took a breath, and for the first time since he’d sat down the shadow of a smile haloed his lips. He stuck out his hand, which Sean shook. “Yeah, I’m down.”

  Sean smiled, hoping to reach Quinn in that dark place that he stored his emotions. “It’s gonna be all right, my brother. We’re gonna do this together.”

  The knot in his stomach was still there, but it seemed to be loosening its grip.

  “No doubt.”

  “He seems pretty cool,” Maxine said as they drove back uptown.

  “Yeah. Seems like he knows what he’s rappin’ about. I don’t have no problems with him—so far. We’ll just have to see if he’s all about what he says.”

  “You want to grab something to eat?” Maxine asked as Quinn entered the FDR Drive.

  His eyes jumped to the digital clock on the dash. Seven-thirty. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I told Nikita I’d meet her at my crib at seven.”

  “Oh,” bubbled out of her mouth. She adjusted her bag on her lap, then opened it and took out a piece of gum. “You can drop me off at the train station. I can find my way home—since you’re in a hurry.”

  “You want me to dump you out at a train station in the middle of where—the FDR?” He gave her a what-is-on-your-mind look, shook his head and kept driving. “You trippin’ again, Max. I’m takin’ you home. End of story.”

  She blew out a breath through her nose, chewed a little harder, and fixed her gaze out of her window. Damn.

  The twenty-minute ride seemed endless. She wanted to just smack some sense into him. Men! Were they born stupid, or was it an acquired thing from hanging around other stupid men—ya know, something they caught like a cold? What other explanation could there be?

  She sighed silently. Don’t even stress yourself, girl. Whatever will be, just will. What’s that sayin’, the grass ain’t greener? she reminded herself.

  Quinn cruised to a stop in front of Maxine’s apartment building. He turned and caught her profile. Humph, Maxine was all that. Had it going on. Wonder how she and her man are doing. Didn’t look like her type. In his mind, he shrugged. Whatever. “Here ya go, babe. Safe and sound.”

  She turned toward him.

  Did she just roll her eyes? Must be imagining things.

  “Thanks, Q.” She opened her door.

  “You still comin’ tomorrow, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “You bringin’ that dude with you from the other night?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Just askin’. No prob. Later.”

  “See ya. Tell, um, Nikita, I said hello.”

  “Yeah.”

  She got out and strutted, with purpose, to the building entrance. Quinn could hear the “Hey, beautiful’s” and “Yo, baby’s” even through the closed windows.

  “Ya’ll wish,” he mumbled, and sped off.

  Nikita checked her watch. Seven forty-five. Just how long did he expect her to wait? She was beginning to feel really silly. She shouldn’t have come in the first place. Now he’d had her sitting in her car for forty-five minutes. She didn’t want to go to Nick and Parris’s apartment in Midtown, and she definitely d
idn’t want to go home. Now she saw more than ever how much she needed her own place—and quick.

  She absently twirled the lock of hair with the shell on the end around and around her finger. The disk playing Anita Baker’s greatest hits came to an end. She leaned over and popped open the glove compartment and searched through her assortment of tapes. Finding an older Patti LaBelle, she slipped the tape into the slot. She rolled down her window and leaned back.

  He had ten more minutes, then she was leaving. Going where, she wasn’t sure. But suppose something had happened to him? How would she know?

  She began to worry, getting more nervous by the minute.

  Quinn turned the corner onto his block and spotted Nikita’s Benz parked in front of his building. Mrs. Finch was in the front yard sweeping again. That woman did more sweeping, for an old lady. Guess it made her happy. He sure hoped she didn’t have a list of errands for him to run.

  He parked on the opposite side of the street, anticipation of seeing Nikita building like a campfire.

  He glided out of his ride and started across the street. The faint strains of “You Are My Friend” drifted through the air and right to him, sucking the air from his lungs. He hadn’t heard that song since Maxine sang it at Lacy’s funeral.

  That old, tight sensation got a grip on his stomach.

  It’s just a song, man. Get it together. But the memories were so stark, so very real.

  He breathed deeply, placing one foot in front of the other until he was across the street.

  Nikita saw him approach, walking that slow, easy stroll that made him look as if he were gliding on air. She felt her heart beat just a little faster, realizing at that moment how much she really wanted to see him.

  Quinn approached her car and leaned on the hood, peering down.

  “Waitin’ long?”

  “Yes. I was. I thought you said seven.”

  “Somethin’ came up. I had some business to take care of.”

  Was that his explanation? She just looked at him.

  He’d seen that “aren’t you gonna tell me what it is?” look too many times. He wasn’t biting today.

  “You gettin’ out, or what?”

  She didn’t answer. She turned off the music, raised the windows and grabbed her purse. She had a good mind to just drive off and leave him standing there, but there was something in his tone, his manner, his stance, that made her feel unsettled. Whatever had kept him away had chipped away at his cool exterior, leaving him exposed—as much as he tried to hide it. She couldn’t begin to imagine what could have done that to a man like Quinn Parker. Maybe he would tell her if she were patient.

  She opened the door and stepped out. He placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the house. Warmth flowed through her body as if she’d stepped into a warm house after a snowstorm.

  Hmm, good.

  “Hey, Mrs. Finch.”

  “Hello, Quinten.”

  Quinten. How many people got away with that, Nikita wondered.

  He grinned like a little kid. “This is Nikita Harrell, Mrs. Finch.”

  Mrs. Finch leaned her broom against the steps and dusted her hands on her pink flower-print housecoat, which hung from her thin brown frame like a Superman cape.

  “Nice to meet you. Fine young man, this one,” she said, poking Quinn in the chest. “Just sleeps too late. Lets the day get away from him.”

  Nikita chuckled and looked at Quinn, who had visibly relaxed. The harsh lines that had tensed his eyes had smoothed. The smile was softer, real, and his body seemed to have unwound.

  He leaned down and pecked Mrs. Finch on her smooth, baby-powder-scented cheek.

  “I’ll get to the backyard this weekend, I swear.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling.

  She swatted his arm. “Told you ’bout swearing,” she scolded, peering up at him over the top of her Ben Franklin-style glasses. “Hardheaded, that’s all,” she said to Nikita, winking.

  Quinn took Nikita’s hand and chuckled. “Come on, Niki. See you tomorrow, Mrs. Finch.”

  Esther Finch watched the two young people trot up the stairs. “I have a roasted chicken in the oven…if you’re…too busy to cook, and you get hungry.”

  Quinn turned at the top of the steps. “B-y-e, Mrs. Finch.”

  “Just a suggestion,” she mumbled, retrieving her broom. She slowly looked left, then right, to see who was coming and going. She resumed her sweeping.

  “She’s a real character,” Nikita said, chuckling, when Quinn had closed the door.

  “She’s all that. But she’s cool. Keeps me hoppin’.” He inserted the key into the lock of the apartment door, then stepped aside to let Nikita in. Fact was, Ms. Finch filled a small corner of the empty space. She treated him like the child he’d never had the chance to be, but still respected him as a man. He appreciated that—needed it.

  Nikita walked in and immediately felt right at home. Everything was just as neat and orderly as on her previous visit, so she guessed it wasn’t just a fluke.

  “Didn’t get to do any shoppin’. So we’ll have to order somethin’ if you’re hungry, or we could go up on Sixth.”

  Nikita smiled. “Or, we could take Mrs. Finch up on her offer.”

  “Naw. Don’t think so. Don’t want to get her started. Then she’ll be bringin’ me dinner every night.” He laughed. “Turn on some music. I’ma go up and change.”

  She nodded and went over to the stereo, picking up and putting down CD cases. She finally settled on Mary J. Blige’s “What’s the 411?” wanting to hear what all the hoopla was about over a girl whose reputation seemed to be built more on her attitude than her aptitude.

  While she listened, not really getting it, she strolled over to the bookcase, looking over the wide range of selections. He had everything from mystery to poetry to contemporary fiction, as well as an array of nonfiction titles.

  Had he actually read all of this? Then why did he talk as if he’d never seen a written word?

  Her slender fingers grazed over the spines of the hardcover and softcover titles until she ran across a romance novel, which stopped her cold.

  Romance? Now that was a twist. Must belong to one of the women he knew.

  She picked the book up from the shelf and opened the front cover.

  “To Lacy,

  May all of your dreams come true.

  Gwynne Forster.”

  “Who’s Lacy?” she mumbled.

  Footsteps on the staircase snapped her out of wondering. Quickly, she returned the book to its space.

  “Mary J., huh?” His eyebrows rose.

  “Why not?”

  “Hey, whatever.”

  He pushed open the sliding doors that separated the living room from the dining area and strolled into the kitchen. She followed him.

  When he turned from checking out the fridge, Nikita was posed against the counter.

  “Nice outfit,” he said, popping the top of his beer, admiring how the clingy aqua knit hugged her every which way. He took a breath.

  “Thanks.” Her lowered lids shielded her eyes. She looked up and he was still staring at her. “So what did you do today?”

  He looked away and took a swallow of his beer. “Hmm, this and that. What about you?”

  “Why won’t you tell me anything about yourself, Quinn? Why is your life such a big secret?” she added, tired of the cat-and-mouse game.

  “My life ain’t no secret. It just ain’t that interestin’. At least, nothin’ you’d be interested in.”

  “How do you know that if you don’t tell me?”

  “’Cause I know.” He crossed the room, seeing the hurt seconds before she averted her gaze, the defiant crossing of her arms. He stepped up to her. Close.

  She kept her eyes focused on the yellow-and-white tile floor.

  He tilted her chin upward with the tip of his forefinger.

  “It’s really not that interestin’,” he said in a soft voice, hoping to ease the harshness of his last respo
nse.

  “Maybe it is to me, Quinn,” she said, matching his tone. “Ever think of that?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know you—really know you. You’re such an anomaly. You present yourself to the world as this…this rock-hard, can’t-be-touched, too-cool thug. But anyone with one eye could see that there’s so much more to you than the front you put on.”

  “Umph.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Maybe this is the front. Maybe what everyone sees is the real me. Has been for twenty-odd years. Think of that?”

  “So which is it, Quinn, this or that? Tell me so I’ll know who I’m dealing with.”

  “Strange as it seems, both. It’s all me, Nikita. I choose how I wanna be, who with and when.” He shrugged. “I just don’t mix ’em together. Simple.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  She let out a breath, then looked him in the eye.

  “Listen, I’ve been led around by the hand all of my life. Told what to think, what to believe, what to do. I want to move past that phase of my life. So I don’t need to backtrack by dealing with yet another man who thinks that I’m some airheaded, fragile princess who doesn’t have an original thought in her head. I know we’re different. I think that’s part of the attraction. But in so many ways we’re the same. You’re making changes in your life, major changes. I can see it, feel it. The resistance is still there, but change is coming. Just like it is for me. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to do it by myself.”

  He looked at her for a long moment before speaking.

  “You think you wanna make those changes with me?”

  “Yes. I do. But only if you’re willing.”

  His eyes roamed over her face, searching for any hint of a game being run. He’d never met a woman in his life—except Lacy—who didn’t have some plan going on when they met a dude. But Nikita seemed different—for real. She actually seemed honest. And on the serious tip, he didn’t think she had it in her to be otherwise.