Walter Mosley

by Socrates Fortlow 02 - Walkin' the Dog

  Ernesto Chavez had perfect white teeth and a good sense of humor to show them off.

  “You got that right, bro,” he said. “But this is free.”

  “Free?”

  “Marty used to bring me a care package from the store every week when I was in law school. You know …” Chavez finished the sentence by rubbing his hands together indicating how one washed the other.

  Socrates understood.

  “So,” Ernesto continued. “You got a problem here.”

  “Somebody killed a girl and dumped her in the alley not too far from my door. I was in for a murder in sixty-one. They think it's in my blood.”

  “Did you tell them anything?”

  “Nuthin' to tell.”

  “But maybe they made something up,” Ernesto suggested. “Your eye's kinda swollen.”

  “I asked 'em for a lawyer. They said that there wasn't no charge.”

  The young man's eyes rolled and a smile flitted underneath his mustache.

  “You have some good friends, Mr. Fortlow. They came down here with the money to get you out but I think a quick call to the court will work just as well. You didn't tell 'em anything, right?”

  Socrates stood up and gestured to the guard that he was ready to leave.

  Outside the police station that morning Socrates found Marty Gonzalez, his friend Howard Shakur and Darryl, along with the lawyer, Ernie Chavez. Howard was by far the largest of the men and Socrates was most surprised to see him there.

  “Darryl called me,” triple-chinned Howard said. “He got my number from Luvia and called out to Venice.”

  “Are you okay, Socco?” Marty Gonzalez asked. “Did they do that to your eye?”

  Socrates didn't answer Marty's question. There were too many things going through his head. It was early in the morning. Each man there was missing something, work or sleep or a paycheck or school.

  “You okay, Mr. Fortlow?” Ernesto Chavez asked.

  “Man, I don't even know you,” Socrates said.

  “He's my cousin,” Marty Gonzalez said.

  All Socrates could do was stare. His friends looked at each other.

  “Well,” big Howard said. “I got to go home and get to bed. You know I just did the graveyard shift. You wanna ride to school, Darryl?”

  The boy looked at Socrates.

  “Try to stay in it this time,” Socrates said.

  “You wanna ride to work?” Marty asked.

  “No.” Socrates was curt. “I got to do some things at home first. I'll be in at about noon.”

  “You wanna a ride home before I take Darryl?” Howard wanted to know.

  “Just lea'me alone, all right?”

  They left him standing on the street in front of the police station. Again he was like a statue; a slightly larger than life-size image of a black man against white stone. His khaki pants and black T-shirt were tight over arms and legs that bulged with angry strength. His head tilted up slightly.

  The assistant manager Jason Fulbright looked at the clock when he saw Socrates coming through the sliding glass doors of Bounty. Socrates followed his immediate boss's eyes to see that it was two fifteen.

  Socrates stifled the urge to go up to the younger black man and say, “I have a good excuse, boss man. I had to wipe the prints offa my thirty-eight and go hide it under a wreck in the empty lot down the alley from my place. 'Cause you know a ex-con been down for double murder and rape cain't own no pistol to protect himself in this country. In this country they got to protect niggahs like you.”

  Socrates realized that he was speaking under his breath, saying what he was thinking and building into a fury. So he turned away and went to the back of the store where he could find some hard work for his hands to do.

  “The police came to see me today before you got here,” Marty Gonzalez, the store manager, told Socrates.

  It was ten fifteen that night and the last customer had been let out of the front door with a key by Sarah Shulberg and her best friend, the black girl Robyn Craig.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “They said that you killed two people, that you raped the woman, and that you were labeled incorrigible at a prison in the Midwest.”

  They were standing next to a bin of pink grapefruits that were piled in a pyramid.

  “Oh yeah? What you say?”

  “I said that to begin with I knew about your record and that Bounty had a policy of giving people a chance to reform. And then I told them that midwestern prisons must be pretty strange to release incorrigibles and let them move out of state.”

  “I ain't told you 'bout my record,” Socrates said.

  “It's not any of my business and those cops were wrong to tell me.”

  Socrates wanted to hit Marty. He wanted to pick up a grapefruit and squeeze it until all of the bitter juice was wasted on the floor. His distress was physical. His head ached and his stomach was ready to roll over. Socrates' mouth was filling up with saliva when he said, “I got to get outta here, Marty.”

  The shorter supervisor put his hand on Socrates' right biceps.

  “I still want you for my produce man, Socco.”

  “I gotta go” was the only answer he could give.

  Weakness was the convict's worst enemy. Soft muscles, bad eyesight, poor mental faculties or just plain tired—all of these were life threatening conditions in the state pen.

  Socrates couldn't rise out of bed for twenty minutes after he woke up the next morning. The room was spinning. He hadn't eaten since the afternoon of the day before. In the slam the guards would have beaten him to his feet, or to the floor.

  Because of the dizziness he had to sit down to urinate. He was still on the toilet when the knocking started.

  They knocked for a long time. Long enough for Socrates to drag himself to the door.

  Beryl and Biggers stood side by side.

  “Can we come in?” the milk chocolate man asked.

  Socrates slumped in his good chair while the two cops leaned up against the wall.

  “You know we got a quota down at the station, Fortlow,” Beryl was explaining. “They expect us to solve one out of three murders and they expect one out of five of the perps to be put in jail. It's not as bad as it sounds. Because you see if you killed once you probably will again. I mean it's like a habit with you people.”

  Socrates looked at Biggers but the black cop didn't seem to think his partner meant any insult to his race or kind.

  “One out of five is more like three or four outta five because the one you get's prob'ly done a couple'a others.” Beryl smiled. “Like those three Mexican kids killed up on MLK last March. Girl was raped and shot just like this Minnie Lee. Would you submit to a blood test, Mr. Fortlow?”

  Whatever it was they expected from Socrates, it wasn't laughter.

  “Shit, man,” the big friendly killer replied. He took a deep breath and then sat up straight. “I ain't never bled for nobody wasn't willin' t'give up sumpin' too. Shit.”

  “We know you killed her, Socrates.” Biggers spoke so softly it was almost a whisper. “And we intend to bust you for it, don't make any mistake about that.”

  “Tell me, Detective Biggers,” Socrates said. “What's your first name?”

  “We're asking the questions here,” Beryl answered for his partner.

  “Listen t'me, motherfucker.” Socrates stood up from his chair. “I ain't afraid of you. You get that? You ain't gonna scare me into pleadin'. An' if you think you could hurt me then you don't know what pain is.” Socrates thumped a heavy point finger against his own chest. “I am pain. Me. I ain't killed nobody in a lotta years. So you could forget a confession. Ain't nuthin' that the cop squad gonna get outta me. You sure cain't hurt me. You could kill me. You could set me up. You can put chains on my arms and legs but you sure the fuck cain't make me lie on myself.”

  The policemen stood straight and made subtle defensive motions with their hands. Socrates laughed again.

  He looked into Bigger's face an
d said, “Listen, brother. You one'a them, I know that, but you one'a us too. You know what it's like out here. You know what it's like. Read up on me, brother. Read about how when I woke up and found I had killed my friends I just wandered off to a bar somewhere, I didn't even know where I was. When the cops come and th'ew down on me I gave up. They asked if I knew why I was bein' arrested. I said yeah. I knew. I knew. I ain't no gangster, man. I ain't no thief or hired muscle. I'm just mad, mothahfuckah. Now take this white man an' get outta my house.”

  The veins on Socrates' neck writhed as if some unnatural evil threatened to burst through his skin.

  Beryl stepped in front of his partner but there was no need.Neither man would have stood up to Socrates, not in the mood he was in, not if he was eighty.

  “We're gonna take you down on this one, Fortlow. You'll be back in prison soon enough. And this time there won't be any parole for you.”

  Socrates went in to work. He was only half an hour late. He avoided Marty most of the day. Even when they had to talk, Socrates kept it short and gave away nothing of what was going on.

  “How's it going?” Marty asked after the lunch break.

  “Fine.”

  “The police come to see you any more?”

  “Naw. They just want somebody t'pin it on. I woulda been the one if you hadn't put your cousin on the case. Thanks, Marty. I owe you.”

  “Have you—” the manager began.

  “I got to get to work, Marty,” Socrates said. “Talk to you later.”

  Socrates was sure that the knock on the door at six thirty that evening was the police again. He looked forward to their visit more than any friends. Enemies brought out his strength. Somebody to go up against where you knew the trouble and were ready for war. That's what Socrates knew best.

  He put away his evil grin before pulling the door open but the men standing there were not official.

  “Darryl. Howard. How you boys doin'?”

  “You gonna stand outta the way an' let us in?” Howard asked.

  “I'm tired, man. Been workin' all day. What you want?”

  “We done drove all the way out here,” Howard said. “You know I picked up Darryl 'cause he was worried about you.”

  “Well I'm fine. Just fine. You don't have to worry 'bout me.” Socrates shifted from one foot to the other as if he wanted to close the door but didn't want to be rude. Howard put three hundred and some odd pounds across the threshold to make sure that the door stayed open.

  “What's wrong with you, Howard?” Socrates said. “You wanna get hurt?”

  “What's wrong wit' you, man? Here we come on down to the jail wit' our piggy banks and lawyers an' all you got to say is you tired and please step out the way.”

  Socrates looked hard at his friend. Howard was one of the few men that Socrates was jealous of. He had a beautiful wife who had a job, he had kids that were just like butter and brown sugar. He had a job working with computers and lived in Venice down near the beach. Howard had more than Socrates could ever hope for but he didn't seem thankful or even proud.

  “Let us in, Socco,” the big man said. “We got stuff to talk about.”

  “… so I went over to the MacDaniels' an' told 'em that me an' Corina would be happy to take Darryl in,” Howard was saying. He and Darryl were sitting on folding chairs in Socrates' sleeping room. Socrates only had two rooms. One was the kitchen, where he ate, and one was for sleeping and talking to his guests.

  Darryl was quiet and so was Socrates. Howard explained how when he drove Darryl to school they talked about how he had been suspended for hitting a girl.

  “I told 'em that maybe Darryl needed a little more supervision from somebody who come from down where he was from,” Howard said. “'Cause you know old Mr. MacDaniels is okay but he don't know how to thump a boy upside his head when he get fresh or sullen.”

  Howard playfully flicked a finger at Darryl's ear. Socrates saw the pain on the boy's face but Darryl didn't complain.

  “When they took him in they thought he'd be just like their son that died, like he'd know all the rules. But I told'em that Darryl's a hardheaded boy from the hood an' he needed somebody like me t'keep him straight.”

  “What they say?” Socrates asked Howard.

  “They were scared, man. Scared 'cause 'a how their son died in that drive-by. You know they worried that Darryl be arguin' 'bout goin' t'bed at night. They think that might lead to crack.” Howard laughed at his own joke while Socrates and Darryl watched. “Naw, man, they want somebody t'take Darryl.”

  “They said that?”

  “I'ma bring the papers down to social welfare next week.”

  Dizziness assailed Socrates again. He felt like a boxer sucker-punched after the bell.

  “ 'Cause you know, Socco,” Howard said, not yet tired of his own voice. “You done me some good turns. You helped me out an' ain't never axed me for nuthin'. Corina said that I owed you, man. An' I know that you an' the MacDaniels don't get along so good. But you know Darryl could come down here wit' you whenever you want. I mean me an' Corina'll have custody through the foster service but you could be like his uncle.”

  Darryl rubbed his hand over the top of his head and stared at Howard the mountain, as Socrates' friend Right Burke used to call Howard Shakur.

  “Well?” Howard asked Socrates.

  Socrates was still reeling, looking for a reason to get mad. He wanted Howard to go away. He wanted Darryl to go away too, but then he didn't. He never felt like an old man before he walked out of that jail. But now just standing up seemed like a heavy chore.

  “What you want, Howard, a medal?”

  “At least a thank you.”

  “An' if I was so sick that I was laid up in a hospital an' a nurse had to wipe my ass would I have to say thank you to her too?” Socrates watched Howard's back get straight. Howard was strong,and tough too. But for all his weight and youth he wouldn't have been able to prevail over twenty-seven years of studied violence.

  Socrates could feel the fight gathering in his shoulders. The tick down along his spine that had almost set him against the police was throbbing again. There was no dizziness or weakness now. All Socrates had to do was straighten up like Howard had and there wouldn't be any question anymore about who was right or who was in charge.

  “Hey, man,” the ex-con said instead of altering his posture. “I'm sorry. It's just that I don't know how to act when people get all in my business.”

  “We were tryin' t'help.”

  “I know. I know. An' I appreciate it. But you know when the shit come down I only know one way to be.”

  It wasn't much of a thank you but it was enough to smooth out Howard's feathers. The fat man nodded, considered the ex-con's words and then shrugged his acceptance.

  “Leave Darryl wit' me, Howard. I'll bring him out over to there tomorrow.”

  The big man nodded and rose to leave. He rubbed the boy's head and walked out through the kitchen. Socrates followed him to the threshhold and watched him walk to his old Impala. At the last moment Socrates went out to his gate and waved as the Impala drove off.

  “Why you wanna be tellin' my business all over the place, Darryl?”

  “Huh?”

  “Howard. Marty. Why you wanna tell them I was in jail?”

  “I told the MacDaniels too but they said that they couldn't stand in the way of the law,” the boy said. “That's why I asked Howard if I could go live wit' them.”

  “But why you wanna go tell Marty, man?” Socrates asked.

  “They killed my daddy up in jail,” Darryl said. “I didn't try an' get him out. I didn't know.”

  Cassandra Tuthill and her family lived at Stanley and Airdrome. Darryl and Socrates left home early and got to her house at just a little after seven in the morning.

  “Yes?” Mr. Tuthill, a grayish looking Negro, asked at the door.

  Socrates, his big hands on Darryl's shoulders, said, “Mr. Tuthill? My name is Socrates Fortlow. I'm Darryl's, um, Darryl
's uncle.”

  “I don't know Darryl.” Mr. Tuthill was small with sloped shoulders. He was wearing a brown suit with a vest and tie. He'd missed a small patch of hair in his morning shave and he was squinting.

  “Darryl pushed your daughter at school,” Socrates said. “He got punished but I brought him over here to apologize. Because you got to answer for what you did wrong. That's what I know.”

  Tuthill blinked twice and then took a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. He looked closer at the skinny boy and closer still at the man with the philosopher's name.

  “Cassandra,” the gray father called without taking his eyes off of the man and boy standing at the front door.

  The girl was a study in round and brown. She wasn't at all heavy but her dark eyes were like big marbles and her head was a pretty ball. The blue dress and yellow sweater set off her dark skin. Her cheeks were apples. Socrates couldn't help but smile.

  “Yes, Daddy?” she said. Her eyes turned sullen when she caught sight of Darryl.

  “This boy has something to say to you, honey.”

  “I'm sorry, Cassandra,” the boy said immediately. “I'm sorry I pushed you. I didn't mean to hurt you or nuthin' an' it won't happen no mo'.”

  “Uh-huh,” the girl said. She was just about to turn away when her father stopped her.

  “Cassie,” he said.

  “What?”

  “This boy just came all the way to your house in the morning to say he was sorry.”

  “I said all right.”

  “You shake his hand and tell him that you accept his apology.”

  The girl did as she was told. Both children were somber while the men smiled on them.

  “Have you had breakfast, Mr. Fortlow?”

  “We got to go,” the ex-convict said.

  Officer Biggers was waiting for Socrates that evening when he got home. He was standing at the back gate smoking a cigarette and staring off into the distance.

  “Officer,” Socrates said.

  “Socrates,” Biggers replied.

  “Am I under arrest again?”

  “Not this time.”

  “You got a question I ain't answered?”

  It was time for the policeman to laugh.

  “Sumpin' funny?” Socrates wanted to know.