blue lightening
At first he thought the trill
and bleating note was part of a dream. A sweet note so high it had to
be the angel that Aunt Bellandra said the blue god sent, "to save the
black mens from fallin' out the world complete. He got a real high voice
like a trumpet an' he always come at the last second, after a fool done
lost his job, his money, his wife, his self-respect and just about everything
else he got. Just about dead," Bellandra proclaimed, clapping her hands
together loudly, "an' that's when the angel sing."
Back when he was a little boy,
Socrates feared his tall and severe auntie. But he was also enthralled
by her stories about the black race in a white world under a blue god
who barely noticed man.
"When he almost gone that angel
just might make his move," she'd say. "And when a black man hear that
honied voice all the terrible loss an' pain fall right away an' the man
look up an' see that he always knew the right road but he never made the
move."
Again the high note. This time
strained a bit. This time a little warble in Socrates' sleep.
"But not everybody could hear
it. Some dope fiends too high an' some mens hatin' too hard. Sometimes
the angel is that much too late and his song becomes a funeral hymn."
Socrates jerked himself upright
in the bed, opening his eyes as wide as he could. He was afraid that the
music he heard in his dream was really the dirge of that tardy angel—that
he'd died in the night and it was too late for him to make up for all
the suffering he'd caused in his evil years.
He sat up on his fold-out sofa
bed. There was a slight whistle in his throat at the tail end of each
breath, a whistle that blended into the high notes of the trumpet playing
somewhere outside. The music was like crying. A long sigh breaking down
into a cascade of tears and then gasping, pleading notes that seemed to
be begging for death.
The luminescent hands on the
alarm clock told the ex-convict that it was three thirty-four. In less
than an hour and a half he had to get up and get ready to go to work.
He listened for the song in
the notes but the horn went silent. Socrates let his eyes close for a
moment, then opened them briefly only to let them close for a few seconds
more. He was considering putting his head back down on the couch cushion
when the horn sounded again. This time it was playing a slow blues; a
train coming into the station or maybe just leaving.
Socrates' sleepy nod turned
into appreciation for the music. He swung his feet over to the edge of
the bed, stepped into the overalls that were on the floor and stood up,
pulling the straps over his shoulders. He slid his feet into the large
leather sandals he'd found in a trash can on one of his delivery runs
for Bounty.
Leather slapping against his
heels, Socrates walked out of his apartment door and into the small vegetable
garden that led to the alley. The black dog raised up on his two legs
and dragged himself to his master's feet.
The horn song was coming from
the left, from the lot where a warehouse once stood. The warehouse had
once supplied the two furniture stores, now abandoned, that flanked Socrates'
sliver of a home—a corridor between the two stores that had been
walled off.
Outside, the trumpet notes
were loud and clear. The music took on an angry tone in the open air.
The night stars seemed to accompany
the song. Socrates wondered why he didn't get up before dawn more often.
The night sky was beautiful. There wasn't anyone out and it was peaceful
and he was free to go anywhere with no metal bars or prison guards to
stop him.
The burned-out lot was vacant
but it wasn't empty. Two rusted-out cars, several large appliance boxes,
various metal barrels and cans, piles of trash and even a rough and ready
structure stood here and there designed by the temporary traveler, the
homeless or the mad.
Socrates couldn't see the musician
but that blues train continued rolling. His aunt Bellandra's words were
still cold in his mind. Leaving the black dog behind the gate, Socrates
walked toward the lot, leather heels slapping and gravel crackling in
his wake. Everything seemed to have reason and deep purpose—the yellow
light in Mrs. Melendez's window, the cold from the night breeze on his
shoulders that he felt without shivering.
He stopped at the edge of the
lot and watched the half moon just above the horizon.
Baby bought a new hat,
Socrates imagined the notes were saying. She bought a yellow dress.
They were the words to a song the barber used to play on the phonograph
on Saturdays when his half brother Garwood would take him for his biweekly
buzz cut.
She's gonna ride that Greyhound
bus and take away my best.
"Hey!" Socrates shouted and
the music stopped. "Hey!"
The answering silence was like
a pressure on Socrates' eardrums.
He didn't know why he'd come
out into the dark night unarmed, out in the dangerous streets of his neighborhood.
Three weeks earlier a woman had been shot to death, execution style, and
dropped in the alley. The neighbors said that all she wore was a silver
miniskirt and one red shoe. He'd forgotten the name but she wasn't even
twenty, brown and slender except that she had large breasts. When he heard
of her death, Socrates' first thought was that when she was born he had
already been fifteen years in an Indiana prison cell.
Something hard and metal fell.
Socrates moved quickly in his awkward shoes.
"Stay 'way!" A small man leapt
over a toppled water heater and ran the length of the lot through to another
alley. By the time Socrates reached the end of the lot, the little man
was gone.
"Looks like your watch must
be a little slow today, Mr. Fortlow," Jason Fulbright said in way of greeting.
It was seven fifty-seven a.m.
"Say what?" Socrates answered,
none too friendly. Fulbright was a tan-colored black man with thick lips
that he compressed into the thinnest disapproving frown that he could
muster. He showed Socrates his own wristwatch, tapping the crystal.
"It's almost eight," he said,
his high voice like an accusing cat-bird. "You're on the seven forty-five
shift aren't you?"
"My bus driver must'a got it
mixed up today," Socrates said in a bit milder tone. He liked his job.
He felt good coming in to work every day. He needed that paycheck too.
"Your bus gets you in too late.
You should take an earlier one," the young man said. "Even if you get
in a little early at least you'll be on time. Yes sir, if you want to
make it in this business you got to take the early bus."
Fulbright clapped Socrates
on the shoulder. Maybe when he felt the rock-hard muscle of that upper
arm he began to realize that he was in over his head.
"Don't put your hands on me,
man," Socrates uttered on a slight breath.
"What did you say?"
"I said, keep your hands to
yourself if you wanna keep 'em at all." All the reserve he had built up,
all the times he told himself that men like Jason Fulbright were just
fools and not to be listened to—all of that was gone. Just a few
hours of missing sleep and a strong dream— a fool playing his trumpet
in the middle of the night—that's all it took, one bad morning, and
Socrates was ready to throw everything away.
Unconsciously Fulbright took
half a step back, but Socrates could see in the man's face that he still
intended to say something else. And no matter what he said it was going
to cause a fight. Not a fight but a slaughter. Fulbright was tall and
strong from playing sport, but he didn't know the meaning of the kind
of violence he called up in the ex-con. Socrates couldn't shake the fists
out of his hands.
"Good morning, Jason, Socrates,"
Marty Gonzalez, the senior store manager said.
Fulbright and Fortlow had to
turn away from each other in order to return the greeting.
"Mr. Gonzales," Jason said.
Socrates merely nodded. He
liked the fire plug manager. Marty had once shown Socrates a pocket watch
he carried that held a picture of his great-grandsire, Ernesto Gonzalez,
pasted opposite the timepiece. He remarked on how much he looked like
his ancestor from Sonora but how little like him he was.
"I don't speak Spanish," Marty
had said. "Been to Vietnam but never to Mexico. My wife was born in Denmark.
My kid has blue hair and thinks that Taco Bell is all he needs to know
about Chicano culture."
Now he stood between them.
"What's happening?" the dark-eyed
manager asked.
"I don't know what the heck's
going on to tell you the truth, Mr. Gonzalez," Jason began.
He was going to say more but
Marty cut him off. "Uh-huh. Hey, Jason, why don't you go and make sure
that the twins did a shelf count and order form last night?"
"Okay, Mr. Gonzalez. If that's
what you want." Jason fixed his brown and red striped tie and gave the
two men a questioning stare.
"Yeah," Marty said, clapping
Jason on the shoulder. "You just go on and check out the twins' work."
The twins were Sarah Shulberg,
a Jewish girl who lived on Spalding Drive, and Robyn Craig, a light-skinned
Negro child whose father was a plastic surgeon with an office on Roxbury.
Sarah and Robyn did everything together. They dressed alike, talked about
cute boys. Their mothers took turns driving them to work and home again.
"I swear I'ma break that mothahfuckah's
head right open he don't get up offa me," Socrates said loudly as Jason
walked away. Marty gestured with both hands for his employee to lower
the volume.
"I know," the manager said.
He was broad but short and had to look up to address the big man. "He's
a prissy prick."
"You better talk to him, Marty,"
Socrates said. "He come up here sayin' that my watch must be busted, that
I better get on a earlier bus. Man, I take the first bus leave in the
mornin' an' I ain't ever even owned no watch."
"It's okay, Socco. Jason's
just a kiss ass. He don't know."
"He gonna find out soon enough
he keep on fuckin' wit' me like that."
"What's bothering you, Socco?"
"Nuthin'," the big man said.
"He just made me mad, that's all." Marty nodded and looked down at his
feet.
"Yeah, he's a bitch all right,"
the manager said. "Why don't you'n me and Hector unload the big truck
this mornin'? Give us somethin' to do."
Socrates liked unloading the
big truck that delivered on Monday mornings. Tons of groceries had to
be pulled off onto the loading dock at the side of the store. It was hard
work but Socrates was a strong man. More often than not he was the strongest
man in the room.
He lifted and toted, stacked
and wheeled thousands of pounds off the truck that day. Hector La Forna
and Marty Gonzalez had to take turns just to keep up with the big, bald,
black man. He worked until the sweat was glistening on his head. He knew
he'd be sore for a week because even though his muscles were strong they
were still old and reluctant.
"Lets break for lunch," Marty
suggested at eleven fifteen.
"Lunch ain't till twelve twenty
for the seven forty-five shift," Socrates reminded him.
"Fuck that. Let's get some
corned beef sandwiches from the deli and go over to the park. I'll tell
Jason that he can be in charge while we're gone. That'll give him such
a hard-on that his wife'll send me a thank-you card."
The little patch of green across
the street from the Bounty Supermarket had a park bench and table, a bronze
statue of a nameless prospector and a boulder more than nine feet high
and almost as broad, all shaded by a very old and green pine. Marty bought
the sandwiches, with beer for after the meal. Socrates accepted the apology
for Jason Fulbright's behavior and relaxed for the first time since three
thirty-four that morning.
After some solid eating and
drinking Socrates nodded and blinked. Maybe he napped for a minute or
three. In the stupor he leaned a little too far forward and had to jerk
up quickly to keep from falling.
Marty was grinning at him.
"What time is it?" Socrates
made to stand but relaxed when Marty put up his hand.
"It's about a quarter to one."
"I'm a half hour late. What's
Fulbright gonna do wit' that?"
"What's wrong, Socco? Why're
you so nervous today?" Marty's eyes were so black that they seemed like
bullet holes to the ex-con.
"Wrong? Lotsa stuff is wrong.
All kinds a shit. I seen in the paper last night where the cops beat up
a whole truckload of illegal Mexicans again. Right in broad daylight.
Right on TV. But nobody cares. They didn't learn nothin' from them riots."
"But that's every day, Mr.
Fortlow," Marty said. "What's wrong today? I mean, they didn't kick your
butt."
"You mean they didn't try.
'Cause you know, man, the next mothahfuckah try an' kick my ass gonna
be dead. Cop or whatever. I don't play that shit. How about that for wrong?"
Marty Gonzalez was lying on
his side, propped up on an elbow.
"What?" Socrates asked after
a few moments' silence.
"I didn't say anything."
"You wanna go back?"
"Whatever you say, Socco."
Marty shrugged one shoulder but otherwise stayed still.
"You ever worry that you might
be goin' crazy, Marty?" Socrates didn't even know what he'd been thinking
until the question found words.
Marty nodded. "Every time my
wife's mother comes to dinner until about an hour after she leaves."
Socrates' laugh sounded like
far-off explosions, a battery of cannon laying siege to a defenseless
town.
"You always been a fool, Marty?"
"I guess so. What about you?"
"Yeah, I guess," Socrates rubbed
his rock-breaking left hand over his pate. "Fool to begin wit' now it
looks like I'm comin' back for another shot at it. You know I was gonna
break Jason's face for 'im if you didn't show up."
"And I almost let you do it
too." Marty smiled. "You'd be doing that brother a favor but I'd surely
hate to lose you, Socco. You're the only full-grown man in the whole store.
Outside of you, it's just women, kids and kiss asses."
Socrates laughed again. "Yeah,"
he said. "I know what you mean. Uh-huh. Sometimes I wonder how some'a
these men get dressed in the mornin'. An' here I got to listen to this
shit just to make four ninety-five a hour."
"That's all we're payin' you?"
Marty actually seemed shocked.
"Yeah. Don't you know what
you pay people?"
"Uh-uh. They cut the checks
by grade downtown. But I thought you'd at least be a grade four by now.
You been here over a year. That boy you look after, Darryl's making four
sixty."
"Shit. I'm lucky to have a
job." Socrates looked left and right then pulled himself up and on to
his feet. "We better be gettin' back." Marty stood up too. He put himself
face to neck with the big black man. "Gibbs is leaving the produce department
to go downtown. He's going to supervise the southwestern purchasing area."
"Yeah. He deserves it, I guess."
"I need a new produce manager."
Marty's eyes did not blink.
"Uh, yeah, I guess you do.
Benny lookin' to move up. He got a wife and kid."
"How old are you, Mr. Fortlow?"
"Me an' sixty's kissin' cousins."
"And you work harder than two
Jason Fulbrights."
"Not if I sit out here suckin'
beer all day." Socrates bit his lower lip with a row of powerful yellow
teeth.
"You could be my produce manager,
Socco."
"Naw, Marty. Not me. I just
come in and do what I'm told. Pick that up, put that down—that's
me."
"You're the best man I got,
Socco. And I need somebody I can trust in produce. Produce and meat—they're
perishable and need a responsible eye on 'em."
Socrates turned away from his
supervisor and looked across the street at the huge supermarket with its
vast parking lot. It seemed very far away.
"We better get goin', man,"
Socrates said to his boss.
Socrates and Darryl worked
next to each other on checkout counters five and six, bagging groceries
for the four o'clock rush. "How you doin' in school, little D?" Socrates
asked his young friend.
"S'okay I guess." The boy concentrated
on the number ten cans of tomatoes he was placing at the bottom of the
bag.
"Okay good or okay bad?" Socrates
pressed. He could bag twice as fast as any child in the store. His hands
did his thinking for him— a trait that brought him more trouble than
help over the years. "I already brought my report card home to Mr. and
Mrs. MacDaniels. They got it."
Socrates finished putting his
six bags into the wire cart for a small white woman. He recognized her
face but couldn't recall her name.
"Can you help me, young man?"
The white lady smiled at Socrates while skinny Darryl struggled with the
heavy bag he'd loaded. Socrates could have told the boy that he was putting
too many big cans in one bag but Darryl needed to learn for himself.
"Sure," Socrates said to the
little white woman in the synthetic brown pants suit. "Happy to."
When Socrates returned Darryl
was still working counter six but the only other opening was on number
fourteen. They worked through the rush until it was time for the late
afternoon break. Darryl was the first to get the nod from the assistant
supervisor of the late shift, Evelyn Lau.
Darryl left through the deli
department. Evelyn always kept Socrates on until the end because he was
the best worker at Bounty; the only one who could bag for two checkout
counters at the same time.
After Evelyn gave him the nod,
Socrates found Darryl smoking cigarettes with some of the other children
around the Dumpster at back of the store.
"Come on, we gotta talk," Socrates
told the boy.
Darryl dropped his cigarette
and crushed it with his Nike shoe. They walked around to the ice-making
machine at the other side of the store and stood there for a while watching
the blue skies darken.
"How much that shoe cost you,
boy?" Socrates asked.
"Regular one sixty for a pair,
but I got these for ninety on sale."
There was pride in the boy's
voice but he squinted and flinched a little because he could hear a lesson
behind Socrates' question.
"And you gonna stamp out a
cigarette with a rubber-soled shoe that cost you a whole week's salary."
"It's mines. I bought it."
Darryl said. But the defiance was only in the words, none of it in his
tone.
Socrates was the only man that
had a right to hit him, that's what Darryl thought. Even though Hallie
and Costas MacDaniels were his foster parents, Socrates was the one who
had taken him out of a life of gangs and forgave his mortal crime. The
social welfare department wouldn't let a convicted felon adopt the boy,
but Socrates looked after Darryl anyway and made sure that he had a chance.
"You work two weeks for shoes
you shouldn't be burnin' 'em like that. Bad enough yo' feet outgrow 'em
in six months. I mean where you think money come from anyways?"
Socrates could see that Darryl
was angry but he didn't mind.
"And what about that report
card?" Socrates asked. "You gonna tell me about that?"
"I got dees and stuff."
"An' what stuff?"
"You know."
"What's wrong?" Socrates wanted
to know. "Don't you do your homework?"
"They'ont like me, that's all.
They just don't care. I'ont know what they be talkin' 'bout. An' if I
ask they'ont even say." The glower in Darryl's eyes reminded him of the
boy who spent so much time with his Aunt Bellandra.
"Why ain't they gonna like
you, Darryl? It's a school. You a student. It's their job to tell you
what things mean."
"But they don't. I just don't
get it. They think I'm stupid, that's all."
"You not stupid," Socrates
said. "You not. But that ain't gonna help if you fail in school. I mean
what you gonna do if you fail?"
"I could work right here wich
you. People work here. Mr. Gonzalez do."
"If that's what you want,"
Socrates said. "If that's what you want. But don't make it all you could
have. Ain't no shame in bein' a grocer but it's bitch and a half if they
think that that's all you're good for."
Socrates made German potato
salad for his dinner that night. He boiled six potatoes and fried bacon
on his butane camping stove. He used two tablespoons of good vinegar with
mustard and minced onion, garlic powder, and a pinch of cayenne for seasoning.
He ate until he couldn't swallow any more.
Then he pulled on his fatigue
pants and jacket, stepped into his high army surplus boots, and put two
pints of Myrtle's brand brandy in the inside pockets of the lined army
coat. In the vacant lot he climbed into a Westinghouse refrigerator box
carrying a red plastic milk carton box for his seat.
The sun was down and there
was a chill in the air but between Myrtle's brand and Uncle Sam Socrates
was snug and warm.
He used the oversized bottle
cap for his shot glass and poked a hole in the box to see the night sights.
He had brought a half gallon plastic milk container to use as a urinal.
Socrates was on a mission like a small boy camping in the backyard, or
a sniper laying in wait. He nodded out now and then, talking to his Aunt
Bellandra in a brandy stupor on the plastic milk crate.
"Does the angel play for white
men?" the boy Socrates asked.
"No, baby," Bellandra replied
in a surprisingly gentle manner. Socrates thought that she must have been
drunk to be so friendly like that. "White men don't need that angel, neither
do white women nor black ones either. It's just black men so hardheaded
that they cain't do right even by themselves."
"Oh Reggie! Oh yeah!" a woman's
voice cried. "Oh do that! Do that! Yeah."
Socrates came awake to the
sound of the lovers. The young woman's pleas got him half hard in his
refrigerator box and he had a difficult time getting the right angle with
the milk container to relieve himself. After a while he got it right but
the stream was noisier than he would have liked.
"What's that?" a man, probably
Reggie, said.
"Uh, what?" asked his girlfriend.
Socrates managed to stop urinating
but the last few drops were as loud as tapping fingers on a tight drumhead.
"Who's that?" Reggie called
out.
Socrates stifled a giggle thinking
about how he was hiding in a box way past midnight. There he was with
some clown swinging his dick in the night air and calling him out.
"Who's there? Motherfucker,
I find you an' I'm'onna cut you too!"
Socrates zipped up his pants
because he didn't want to fight with his business hanging out.
"Sh! You hear that, Tanika?"
"Let's go, baby. Maybe it's
Arnold."
"Motherfucker!" Reggie shouted.
"Is that you?"
Socrates wondered what those
children would think if he stood up and busted out of his box, if he broke
out on them and yelled boo. But no. That's not why he was there. He took
a sip of brandy and listened to the footsteps of the sneak lovers recede.
"Beety beety dwa dwaaaa! Dwa
dwaaaa!" the horn said. Just that fast sleeping Socrates was awake and
sober and so excited he began to sweat.
He put his eye up next to the
hole and looked. At first he couldn't see anything because his eye was
still asleep. But the horn kept playing and he kept looking until finally
he saw a foot, a toe-tapping foot that beat out a fast tempo for the slow
sweet tune.
Socrates ripped the box apart
and was on the small wide-eyed horn player, a lion on a lamb.
"What who you want?" the little
colored man cried. "What?" He was more gray than brown, more boy than
man. He was old and tiny and slender like a child.
Socrates raised the small man
by the shoulder and cried, "What the fuck you doin' out here playin' that
gotdamned horn in the middle'a the mothahfuckin' night like a fool?"
He didn't mean to say all that.
He didn't care why the man was there.
"Lemme go, brother," the man
said. "I ain't got nuthin' but this beat-up horn an' it ain't worth two
dollars."
Socrates sucked down a deep
breath and tried not to squeeze too hard. His grip was a bone breaker,
a skull buster. His hands were weapons trained from childhood for war.
"I don't want your horn, man,"
Socrates said after a few breaths. "It's just your music woke me up. I'ont
know why, I mean why I'm out here. What's your name?"
"Hoagland. Hoagland Mars."
"My name is Socrates, Socrates
Fortlow."
Hoagland Mars nodded and eyed
his attacker with concern.
"You wanna drink, Hoagland
Mars?"
Socrates took the second pint
of Myrtle's brand from his army jacket, cracked the seal and passed it
over. The musician smacked his lips over his first sip and took another
before passing it back.
"That's the right stuff right
there," he said.
They went back to Socrates'
small home after a few sips. Hoagland sat at the kitchen table playing
his two-dollar horn and tasting the cheap brandy. Socrates glowered and
plodded toward drunk but Mr. Mars didn't seem worried at what his host
might do.
"Yeah, man," Hoagland opined,
"I played behind T-Bone Walker and right besides Lips McGee. I played
the Dark Room in Chi and all through Motown records. You know I figure
you could hear my horn a hunnert times every day on the oldies radio station.
Shit."
Socrates was surprised that
Hoagland had such thin lips. "A black man, a horn player," he told Stony
Wile a few weeks later. "And he had lips like a white girl ain't never
been kissed."
Near dawn Myrtle and Hoagland's
horn both ran dry. The little man was flagging, head dipping halfway to
his knees.
"What you do with all that
money?" Socrates asked.
"Spent it," the musician said.
"Spent every dime. Real brandy and real blondes. Stayed in hotels where
the ashtrays cost more than my whole Mississippi cotton-pickin' family
could pull down in a year. Huh. Shit. I'd drop a hundred dollars on a
handkerchief or tie. You know I done lived."
"So why you out in a alley
in Watts tonight?" Socrates asked. "What brought you down here?"
"Black man cain't keep nuthin',
brother. All we could do is borrah an' you know the white man wan' it
all back—wit' interest."
Socrates didn't wake up until
ten thirty-five. His pocket change was missing from the kitchen counter.
Twenty dollars he kept in a sock in a shoe under the sofa bed was gone.
He didn't remember pulling down the bed or falling in it. He hadn't heard
Hoagland Mars stealing and neither did he care.
Socrates got to work at twelve
fifteen. The first thing he saw was Jason Fulbright headed straight for
him down the center aisle. But before Jason reached Socrates Marty Gonzalez
grabbed the assistant manager by the arm and talked to him, told a joke,
it seemed, and then sent him on his way.
The stocky manager greeted
Socrates and smiled. "You look a little better," Marty said.
"Say what?"
"I told Jason that you told
me yesterday that you were sick and had to see the doctor. You know I'd
forget my head if it wasn't for my neck."
"I'll make it up, Marty. I'll
stay late and help the twins with their inventory."
Socrates skipped lunch and
both his breaks. He worked straight until eight forty-five and then hurried
out of the sliding doors.
"Socco!" Marty called at the
big man's back. "Hey, Socrates." "I gotta run, Marty. I got to catch the
eight fifty bus. The next one is over a hour from now."
"Hold up," Marty said. "I'll
give you a ride down to Venice and you can catch the two eighty-three."
He slapped Socrates hard on
the back and walked him out to his Ford Explorer. In the high driver's
seat Socrates rode with no seat belt looking out at the dark streets of
Beverly Hills.
"Car's nicer than my place,"
Socrates said. "Bet you pay more on insurance than I pay rent."
"What's your rent?" Marty asked.
"Nuthin'. I used to pay this
dude but he musta died or sumpin'. But you know the place ain't worth
much, it's just a space between two empty stores."
"Yeah, well," Marty said as
he swerved past a red Bonneville that had loud bass music playing out
of its open trunk. "I guess you can't beat that."
"Yeah," Socrates said, not
really agreeing.
"So, Socco," Marty said. "What
about that produce job?"
"I got a job. I mean I know
it's a low hourly wage but I get tips for deliveries and I know if I get
sick that somebody can take my place."
"I looked up your record. Today's
the first time you were ever even late as far as I can see. You've only
been sick twice."
"Man, I was four hours late
today, I'm almost sixty, and you don't know me. How you know that you
could trust me with that kinda responsibility?"
"I want you to be one of my
men, Socco," Marty said. "I need people who I can rely on to roll up their
sleeves, people who work." Marty took a left on Olympic heading east.
The wide street was lined with low apartment buildings and nice single-family
homes. Not many streetlights and not much traffic to speak of. They made
good speed down toward Fairfax.
The car, Socrates thought,
was as quiet as a tomb.
"No," he said as they turned
south of Fairfax. "You let Benny have it, Marty. And just call on me for
anything extra you need."
"You sure?"
"Sure as sin on Sunday."
There was silence past Pico
and Saturn and Pickford. Silence across Airdome and Eighteenth and all
the way down to Venice. But when they pulled up to the bus stop and Socrates
opened the door Marty said, "Gibbs isn't leaving for six weeks. I won't
make my decision until the day he's gone."
Socrates swung one leg out
of the door and then turned back to his boss.
"Why you want me, man?"
"I like working with you, Mr.
Fortlow. I trust you."
"You don't know nuthin' about
me."
"I don't know anything about
anybody down at the store. We work together, that's all. It's none of
my business what you do some place else."
"I'll think about it," Socrates
said. "But I don't know. I mean if you give the job away before I get
back to ya it'll be okay by me."
"Six weeks," the store manager
repeated. "You got till then."
The bus ride took over two
hours. He had to transfer twice. The connections were slow but Socrates
didn't care. He was used to wasting time. All convicts were.
When he got to his place he
had the feeling of coming home. Home to his illegal gap. Home to a place
that had no street address, a jury-rigged electrical system, plumbing
that turned off every once in a while, sometimes for weeks. It was a hard
place. Sometimes when he was hungry, before he had a job, he had thought
that jail might be better than starving freedom; jail or death. It was
a place he slept in, a place to read or drink or almost cry. But it had
never been home. It had never been hearth or asylum but now it was both
of these things. For the first time he was thankful for what little he
had. He was safe at least for one night more.
Excerpted from Walkin' the Dog © Copyright 2009 by Walter Mosley. Reprinted with permission by Time Warner Books. All rights reserved.
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