the beer. I'll see you in twenty to thirty minutes.'
When Nick stopped his car in front of the small frame duplex in one of Key West's oldest sections, Troy was just arriving himself. He had apparently walked to a nearby store, for he was carrying a large brown paper bag containing three six-packs of beer. 'This ought to hold us for the afternoon.' He winked as he greeted Nick and led him up the walkway to his front door. A paper sign was taped to the door. It said, PROF BE BACK IN A JIFF TROY. Troy took the sign down and reached up to a small ledge above the door to find a key.
Nick had never wondered what Troy's apartment would be like. But he certainly would not have imagined the living room that he found when he followed Troy inside. The room was laid out neatly and furnished in what could only be called early grandmother style. The motley array of old couches and easy chairs purchased at neighborhood garage sales (none of which was the same color, which was of no importance to Troy he thought of furniture in terms of functional units, not as pieces of decoration) were arranged in a rectangle with a long wooden coffee table in the middle. An assortment of electronics and video magazines were neatly stacked upon the table. Dominating the room was a state-of-the-art sound system whose four tall speakers were carefully placed in the corners so that all the sound was focused toward the center of the room. As soon as the two men were inside, Troy went over to the compact disc player on thc top of the stereo equipment rack and turned it on. A wonderfully rich, black, female voice backed by a piano and a guitar filled the room.
'This is Angie's new album,' Troy said, handing Nick an open beer. He had been to the kitchen and the refrigerator while Nick was looking around the room. 'Her agent thinks this one will go gold. Love Letters just barely missed, but she made more than a quarter of a million off it anyway. Not counting the money from the concert tour.'
'I remember your telling me that you knew her.' Nick said, taking a long drink from his beer. He had walked across the room to a box next to the stereo rack where sixty or seventy discs were neatly arranged. On the front of an open disc jacket on the top of the box was a beautiful young black woman, softly backlit. She was wearing a long dark cocktail dress. Memories of Enchanting Nights was the title of the album. 'Is there more to the story of Miss Leatherwood?' Nick said, looking up at Troy. 'This is one magnificent lady, if you ask me.'
Troy came over beside him. He programmed the disc player to cut eight on the album. 'Thought you'd never ask,' he grinned expansively. 'This song probably says it the best.' Nick sat down in one of the strange easy chairs and listened to a soft ballad with an easy beat in the background. The title of the song was 'Let Me Take Care of You, Baby.' It told the story of a gifted lover who made the songstress laugh at home or in bed. They were compatible, they were friends. But he couldn't talk commitment because he hadn't made it yet. So in the last stanza the woman singing the song appeals to him to swallow his pride and let her make it easy for him.
Nick looked at Troy and rolled his eyes while he shook his head. 'Jefferson,' he said, 'you're too much. I never know when you're telling the truth and when you're slinging bullshit with both arms.'
Troy laughed and stood up from the couch. 'But, Professor,' he protested, 'that's what makes it more interesting.' He came over and took Nick's empty beer can. 'It's hard for you to believe, isn't it?' he said, still smiling while he looked directly at Nick, 'that maybe your funny black first mate has a few dimensions you haven't seen.'
Troy turned and walked toward the kitchen. Nick could hear him opening beer cans and putting the chips in a bowl. 'So,' Nick hollered, 'I'm waiting. What's the scoop?'
'Angie and I have known each other for five years,' Troy said from the kitchen. 'When we were first dating she was only nineteen and completely naive about life. One night we were over here, right