by Donna Hill
After Gail left, Rae stared at the pile of soiled linen, the evidence of her torrid night with Quinn. She walked over, grabbed the sheet that was ripe with the aroma of their love, husky and carnal, and sat on the bed. Without a second thought, her hands brought it up to her nose and she inhaled deeply as though she were going underwater.
For some reason, Quinn stopped at the door of B.J.’s, watching the group of black men sitting and squatting on the cars a half block down from the bar, shooting dice. They were having a friendly game of craps, no arguing, no scrapping. He smiled and nodded before pushing open the old Plexiglas door. As usual, Turk was behind the bar, serving a few early afternoon regulars some brews. Other guys lined the long wood glancing up at the Saints-Vikings football game, bickering about which NFL teams would make the playoffs, which quarterback had the strongest arm, and which defense unit gave up the least scores. Turk paid them no mind. He perked up when he saw Quinn walk in.
“Whassup, stranger?” the bartender asked, all smiles. “What you been up to?”
“Nothing much,” Quinn answered, looking around. “All’s cool.”
“You lookin’ for Remy? He’s in the back, getting his gear together. Today’s his fishing day, out on that rickety boat of his. He loves that piece of crap, thinks he’s Captain Ahab or somethin’. Go on back, kid.”
“Thanks, man.”
The back room was still small, a little larger than a cell in lockup, and just as rank smelling as usual. Sweat, booze, bodies, perfume, you name it. Nobody remembered to put in a stronger lightbulb, so the glow in the room was faint, eerie, almost otherworldly. Quinn squinted his eyes, trying to make out the faces of the handful of people gathered near a battered pool table in a corner of the room. At least the pictures of the women on the walls had been changed. Remy, ever the mack, loved a pretty woman. Out of the shadows, Smalls, the ever faithful bouncer, waddled over to Quinn, about to frisk him, when a familiar raspy voice cut through the cigarette fog.
“Leave the man alone,” Remy said, appearing out of the crowd, holding a fishing pole. “Come on over, kid, and let me check ya out.”
Quinn and the older man hugged as men do, patting each other on the back. They remained that way for three seconds until Remy, dressed in casual fishing gear, stepped back. He looked at his young protégé long and hard, nodding his head in approval.
“Look good, my man,” the slickster said in a grumble. “Whatcha been doing since I seed ya last?”
Quinn noticed the once salt-and-pepper hair was now more salt than pepper. The years were passing. He smiled, his heart warm at the sight of the old man. “Hey, I’m hanging, doing my thing. Everything’s pretty decent but I would like some words with you, Mr. R.”
“No problem. Had some business I had to wrap up with my man over there. You remember Willie Stiles, once was the big man around here. All through Harlem, even up in the Bronx. Ran girls, numbers, a couple of after-hour clubs, hot sheet hotels, had his hand in everything. Well, one of his girls turned up dead. They pinned the rap on Willie, did a long stretch up in Sing Sing. Just got out. Willie, come over here. Wantcha to meet somebody.”
Willie looked older than Remy, had the stoop of somebody who’d been inside a long time, thin and gaunt. His face was like that of an eagle, all angles and corners. He was dressed all in black, turtleneck and pants, long coat and cowboy boots. Shades hid his eyes and an old-style stingy brim covered his head. Anyone could see that Remy had much respect for the old-school gangster by the way he deferred to him.
“Glad to meet you, youngblood,” Willie said, his lips barely moving. “Remy, we can conversate on that other thing later this evening. Call me when you get back from the water.”
He shook Quinn’s hand, the diamond ring on his pinkie throwing off rays, then he was gone. Remy started talking to Quinn about how the numbers game wasn’t what it used to be, with the lotto and all, how the young thugs were muscling in on a lot of the other hustles, how heroin, or “boy” as he called it, was making a comeback. He talked as he gathered up his fishing gear, the rods, the box with his lures and bait.
Once outside, they walked to his new ride, a brand-new Jaguar, two-door. Fire-engine red. Quinn could tell he was proud of the car by the way he patted it before opening the door on the driver’s side. “Hop in. We can talk while we ride,” Remy instructed. They pulled away from the curb, cruising slowly.
“Quinn, guess what?” He turned west, going toward the river.
“What?” He loved watching the old man, his style, his sense of cool. They didn’t make black men like him anymore, strong, polished, and solid.
“Man, I’d love to go down to the Keys one day and fish for marlin and swordfish,” Remy said, his eyes sparkling. “I love this fishing thing. Relaxes you. You get on the water, throw your line in, and the world just drifts away. You need to get back out here to cool you right out.”
Quinn remembered once going with his “Uncle” Ike and his crew fishing off Long Island, the men wrestling with the big ones, and the rows of long gray fish strung along the block and tackle, their insides removed and fins cut off. Ike drank, smoked his cigars, and bragged about the ones that got away. They had a good time. It was one of the first times he recalled feeling like a man, a real man, hanging out with the old guys. Chilling.
They parked the car near the water, locked it up, and walked over to the pier. Remy pointed out his boat, a not-so-small fishing craft with an outboard motor on the back. It had sleeping quarters, a galley, a TV, and a modern guidance system. The old man got him onboard and cast off, heading out to sea. They didn’t say much until he got out beyond the harbor into the open water. He offered Quinn a cold beer and the two men sat for a while, catching up on old times.
“How you doin’? You okay?”
Quinn noticed the boats out on the horizon, some fishing, others carrying cargo. “Yeah, I’m dealing. But I’ve got a bunch of other stuff gnawing at me, Remy. My life’s all messed up. I got a son I never see, you know the deal with that. Still can’t play. Haven’t written a word for my book that’s overdue, and now I’ve got this new woman who wants to get close to me. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”
“Hmmm,” was all Remy said, as if that was enough. And for the moment it was. All Quinn wanted right then was some peace and a willing ear, no accusations, no judgments.
There was a stiff land breeze from Remy’s right. He moved the gear and box to the middle of the deck, watching the water, its eddies and currents moving in a steady dark stream. Quinn was glad that he had come. The serenity of the sea took his mind off his problems for a while but he knew he had to talk with the old man, get it out, settle the confusion. Overhead, a group of large gulls sailed, glided, then dived into the water after food.
“You can eat the fish from out here, but I wouldn’t cook any of the fish caught from the Hudson,” Remy said, attaching bait to his line. “The water over there is so polluted, even the fish look sick.”
Cooking. Quinn remembered in a flash Nikita’s slender body standing next to his in the kitchen of their apartment, her fingers clumsily trying to bread some strip of whiting, the coating all over the place. When she dropped the strip, she turned to him and gave him her fabulous half smile. Even now, he could see her glorious body, recall how she looked so delicious in clothes, no matter what she wore. Oh how those T-shirts clung to her! But she couldn’t cook to save her life. She was a total disaster in the kitchen.
“What’s on your mind, son?” Remy asked, preparing to cast a line into the water.
“Mr. R, I’m all screwed up in the head,” Quinn said, watching the slow churning of the blades in the water. “I think I’ve come through the grieving thing over Niki, worked through that for the most part, but now there’s a new woman in my life. She wants to get into something. I don’t know if I’m ready. I still feel raw inside. All of this old stuff I’ve got to work through. It’s like life doesn’t let you stop and take a deep breath. Everything’s
always coming at you.”
“Do you like this new woman?” Remy asked, looking up at the gray clouds far off. “You notice I said nothing about love. I don’t trust that love at first sight crap. You like her, the new one?”
“Yeah, she’s stable and consistent, talented,” Quinn said. “A solid sistah.”
“Does she keep you in check?” Remy had two poles now over the water.
“That’s just it. We’ve been going at it back and forth. She’s always deep in my stuff, probing, digging, won’t let me get off with some jive answer. She’s tough. Niki used to do that. But it’s different with Rae.”
Remy laughed. “I once knew a woman named Rae. She was a wild, crazy girl. Party girl but down-to-earth. The real article. Rae-Rae, we called her. Now your Rae, how much you know about her?”
Quinn stood, feeling the breeze on his face, his eyes riveted on the old man walking briskly from the bait box to one of the poles at the rail of the boat. Its line was now taut, straining under the weight of the fish’s pull. Remy calmly gripped the rod in one hand, started reeling the fighting fish in, yanking it back easily. The water rippled, its surface disturbed by the conflict; then the long back of the gray fish became visible. With a quick jerk of his arm, he swung it over the side and onto the deck.
“Get that big bucket with the lid on it,” Remy ordered.
Quinn brought the bucket and watched as his mentor separated the struggling fish from the hook, its mouth agape. “Man, it’s big!”
Looking up from his kneeling position near the bucket, Remy smiled, then asked again. “So how much do you know about the girl, the new one?”
“She has her stuff like anybody but none of it is the kind of craziness that would scare me off. I think we could have something if we just settled down.”
“Good.” Remy put the rod back in the water, looked up at the sky. “Winter’s coming. Real winter coming soon. No more of these fake spring days. Anyway, that’s good. If she’s a decent girl, give the thing time. It’s like fishing. The fun part is the wait. You have to have patience, give the fish time to decide what to do. You can’t rush him. If you do, you’ll chase him off. That’s what you need in this, patience, give it time, and what will be will be.”
“What about Max and Jamel?” Quinn asked, concern on his face. “I don’t know how she’ll react to all that. You know how women are. Another woman and a child. They head for the hills.”
“Not if she’s worth anything,” Remy said. “Hell, she’s grown. She knows you had a life before you met her. She’ll deal with it if she cares about you. You take somebody into your life, you take everything that comes with them. Don’t worry about it.”
The rod shook, another fish on the hook. This time Remy turned to Quinn and said, “You take him in, son.” Quinn went over and did as he had seen the old man do. Struggling, he started reeling it in, the fish not as big as the other, but putting up a good fight. After he landed it, Remy patted him on the shoulder much as a proud father would do and broke out some food. Sandwiches, chips, and a couple of cold brews. They sat in silence, watching the lines, the other boats, the dark clouds, and felt at peace with the water and themselves.
Later that day, Quinn sat in his living room, listening to Roy Hargrove on trumpet and Johnny Griffin on tenor play sweetly on the ballad “When We Were One,” their soft, silky sounds filling the space. It had been a cool day. Real nice spending time with Mr. R. He was the closest thing Quinn had ever had to a father. He drank his Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and thought about everything Remy had told him. Patience. Let everything take its time. He closed his eyes, sank into the warm arms of the music, its serenity, its gentle sway like the movement of the boat that day. Then the doorbell rang. Grumbling, he got up, put down his drink, and walked over to open it.
It was Rae.
“I know what I want, Quinn,” she said without preamble, staring him down in the doorway. “I’m not going to give you up this easy and walk away. Do you want to be with me or not?” Her heart thundered in her chest as forever seemed to tick by.
Slowly his eyes roamed across her face, down the length of her body. He leaned down and tenderly kissed her lips. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he whispered, before pulling her inside and kicking the door shut behind them.
Chapter 17
This relationship thing wasn’t too bad, Quinn mused, watching Rae putter around in her kitchen. Since they’d come to terms that they really wanted to be a couple, really work things out, it wasn’t as difficult or as intrusive as he’d imagined.
He liked the idea of waking up with Rae, hearing her hum in the shower, walking up behind him and kissing him in the ear, asking him what he was thinking. Most times he would tell her, and most times she would tell him when he asked. And it was all good.
He was beginning to understand her because he’d slowly begun to realize that they were very much alike in many ways, and, yeah, it was going to take some time to knock all the kinks out, but as Remy said, he had to learn patience.
“Looks like it’s gonna snow,” Rae commented, peering out of the kitchen window.
“You mind if I hide out over here for a while?” he asked. “’Cause I know with the first flake, Mrs. Finch is gonna have me shoveling and salting like we’re in the middle of a blizzard.”
Rae laughed. “Be nice. That woman loves you to death. She just keeps you busy because it makes her feel good by keeping you out of trouble.”
“Yeah,” he said with a sarcastic chuckle. “That’s the line she keeps running on me.”
Rae came up to him and plopped down on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. “It’s true, baby,” she cooed. “If she didn’t have you running all over the place, just think of all the mischief you could get yourself into.” She kissed him on the lips. “Know what I mean?” she said in a sultry whisper, sliding her hand under his shirt.
“Oh, you mean this kind of trouble.” He cupped her breast until she moaned in pleasure and nuzzled his neck.
“Yeah…this kind of trouble.”
Satisfied from a draining session of lovemaking, Rae had no intention of moving from her very comfortable position next to Quinn, wrapped up in her down quilt and watching the first flakes of snow fall beyond her window.
This is what she’d been hoping for, she thought dreamily, to be in a relationship on equal footing. Although Quinn still steered clear of the studio, he was at least contemplating playing again. At least it was something he was considering. That was definitely a good sign.
Both of them were moving forward, taking steps, but instead of walking that path alone, they were doing it together. She’d finally told him the full story about her and Sterling, that their issues were never about his parents, but her, her drive, something Sterling could never quite understand. Yes, there would always be sorrow, sorrow for the husband she lost and mostly for the child that she would never see grow up. It was the kind of pain she still couldn’t put into words, and Quinn seemed to understand that.
In a way, she envied the fact that he had a son, a child that he could pick up a phone and talk to, hear his laughter and all the funny stories that children tell. See his face, watch him change. She sighed deeply. If there was one thing she’d come to realize, you couldn’t change the past, only learn from your mistakes and move on. That was a part of her life that was gone. Now, instead of allowing the memories to weigh her down, she would use them to spur her on.
She snuggled closer to him and he stirred.
“Don’t move,” he mumbled. “You feel too good right where you are.”
“You might just have to stay put for real. The snow is here.”
Quinn groaned.
Rae giggled and nudged him in the side. “As much as I hate to see you go, you know Mrs. Finch is going to be frantic.”
He groaned again.
“Come on, you big baby. I’ll get dressed and come with you. How’s that?”
Slowly he sat up, reached for her, an
d kissed her slow and long. “Sounds like a real incentive to me.”
After shoveling the inch-high dusting of snow and salting down the front walk and the steps to Mrs. Finch’s precise instructions, Quinn tiptoed upstairs hoping she wouldn’t hear him.
When he returned, Rae was reclining on the couch reading a magazine and listening to some music. She looked up. “All done?”
“Yeah, and if you cared about me like you claim you do, you’d offer to give a tired brother a massage for all the hard work he’s done.”
Rae grabbed a pillow from behind her head and threw it at him, catching him on the shoulder.
“See, that’s what I mean. If I wasn’t so tired, I could have ducked. Between you and Mrs. Finch you try to wear a brother out.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Some men would love to be in your place.”
“Sure, having two women mistreat him. Yeah, I bet they’re standing in line for that.”
He came and sat down beside her. “What are you reading?”
“Sears catalog. Just looking at some stuff for Christmas. They say they can have it here by Christmas if I order in the next two days. Kinda iffy to me, though,” she said, picking up the catalog and flipping through the pages. “With Christmas just about two weeks away…”
Quinn stood. “Yeah, uh, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
Her radar immediately went up by his tone. She put the catalog down and gave him her full attention. “What’s up?” she asked as casually as she could.
“Uh, Jamel is coming down for the holidays, spending some time with me.”
Her pulse rate slowly returned to normal. Jamel, fine, no big deal. She needed to get to know him anyway. “That’s great, Quinn. It’ll be fun, we’ll plan some stuff, take him around the city, maybe—”