Walter Mosley

by Socrates Fortlow 02 - Walkin' the Dog

  There was nobody else in sight. And even if there had been Socrates doubted if they would have interfered with the trouble about to come down.

  “Stop right there, mothahfuckah!” the big man commanded.

  But Socrates had already stopped. He spread his legs wide enough to give him both stability and power as the young giant approached. Close up he looked impossible with muscle and rage. Those murderous eyes were squashed down, murky things that searched out weak spots and gazed down long corridors of pain.

  “Gimme the money an' you might get off with a ass-whippin',” the man said.

  Socrates noted the smallness of the mugger's head in comparison to his hard, prison-built shoulders. He wasn't a man but a killing machine built on the body of a boy who had been sent off to jail and forgotten.

  “Or you could try'n stop me.” The young man reached for Socrates' neck. Socrates tried to block the hand but he was slapped down to the ground. Slapped down. The boy didn't even use a fist to knock Socrates to his knees.

  The older ex-convict rose up delivering a powerful uppercut to the mugger's abdomen but he might as well have socked an oak tree or a granite rock. The mugger's next blow was a fist that sprawled Socrates out on the floor of the alley. Two kicks followed in quick succession. Then Socrates felt himself being lifted from the ground. He hadn't felt a sensation like that since he was a child. But this time it wasn't his mother taking him out from harm's way.

  Even that powerhouse couldn't lift Socrates from his feet. There was more than two hundred and fifty pounds to the Indiana ex-con. He let his full weight hang dead and the mugger was forced to drop him.

  “All right!” Socrates yelled from the ground. “You could have the money.”

  With that Socrates Fortlow, who had never lost a fight because in the world he came from there was no rematch, picked himself up and produced the drab green envelope that contained two hundred nineteen dollars and eighty-six cents.

  The mugger took his prize.

  “Turn out your pockets, old man.”

  “That's all I got,” Socrates said.

  “Empty out yo' pockets, niggah, else I'm'onna hafta hurt you.” The mugger slapped Socrates across the face with the back of his right hand. It was too fast to block but Socrates didn't even try. The mugger was so smug that he didn't see the palm-sized stone that Socrates had picked up with his left hand. And once the slap was delivered the mugger had no limb with which to block the hard rock from crashing into the side of his head.

  Socrates felt the bone crunching. He heard the high-pitched wheeze of the boy's last breath.

  The killer child fell to his knees and then genuflected, pressing his meaty shoulder against Socrates' feet.

  Socrates put the bloody stone in his pocket, reached down to retrieve his envelope, and walked the few back alley blocks to his home.

  He washed the stone and threw it away. He cut his pants into strips and flushed them down the toilet because of the blood in the pocket. Then he sat in a chair and waited for the police to come.

  The police always came. They came when a grocery store was robbed or a child was mugged. They came for every dead body, with questions and insinuations. Sometimes they took him off to jail. They had searched his house and given him a ticket for not having a license for his two-legged dog. They dropped by on a whim at times just in case he had done something that even they couldn't suspect.

  Because Socrates was guilty, guilty all the way around. He was big and he was black, he was an ex-convict and he was poor. He was unrepentant in the eyes of the law and you could see by looking at him that he wasn't afraid of any consequences no matter how harsh.

  The police were coming so he sat in his chair waiting and wondering if there was some other man like that mugger waiting for him in jail. He wasn't afraid but it was a new thing in his life to be kicked around and beaten by a single man. When he was younger no one could have done that to him.

  Socrates went through it over and over, the whole ninety seconds, in his mind. The slap that floored him. The humiliation and the threat. The fear he felt when he realized that he could not hurt the mugger. But when he remembered the stone in his hand and the crush of bone, that's when Socrates paused.

  He could feel the police coming after him; could almost hear his name along with the word murder.

  “Most people don't kill,” he said to himself. “They don't have to go out and murder. But what else could I do?”

  He wondered if there was a court somewhere back in the old days of Africa where a man could lay out what had happened and decide, among his peers, if there had been a crime. If there was a world where a man had a say and was concerned about his own guilt. He didn't want to plead but to understand.

  He thought about the boy hunched down over his knees paying final homage to the violence he lived by. In some ways there didn't seem to be anything wrong. It was all natural. The man made into a wild thing going against his ancestor who was now half tame.

  It was after midnight when Socrates decided to go to bed. The police hadn't made it yet and he was tired, very tired and sore.

  They didn't show up at Bounty the next day either. Socrates was happy about that. He didn't want to embarrass his boss or to be humiliated in front of the people who saw him as a friend.

  That evening he went to Iula's diner and ordered the fried chicken. It was the best-tasting meal he'd had in many years.

  “This chicken's good, I,” Socrates told her. “You doin' somethin' different?”

  “It's just the same old chicken,” Iula said. “An' it's just the same old me.”

  You look as good as it taste was what Socrates wanted to say but he didn't because he was a murderer again and a murderer had no right to flirt.

  “What's wrong with you, Socrates?” Iula asked.

  “How you'n Tony doin'?” Socrates asked back.

  “He's okay I guess. He moved back out last Friday.”

  “Moved out? I thought you two was gonna get married again?”

  Iula rubbed the back of her neck, raising her elbow as she did so. Socrates remembered that gesture when she was relaxed at his house late in the evening.

  “I should'a known that he wasn't no different. Naggin' me about why I couldn't close the restaurant down and spend the day with him. You know a business cain't run itself.” Iula looked directly into Socrates' eyes.

  “I'm sorry about that, honey,” Socrates said. “You need a good man. And you deserve the best.”

  “I don't know about all that,” Iula said. “But I sure could use some company.”

  Socrates knew that in a few hours or a few days at most he was likely to lose his freedom, forever this time.

  “Could I walk you home after?” he asked.

  “If you want.”

  “I'll just wait for ya then.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah. Sumpin' wrong with that?”

  “No. Nuthin' wrong but maybe just weird. I mean you don't come in on chicken night. An' you ain't been in at all in weeks. An' I thought you give up on walkin' me home, that you was with that Charlene Willert.”

  “An' I thought you chose Tony,” Socrates replied.

  Iula's nostrils flared. Socrates could see that she wanted to say more but didn't know how. She had decided on Tony. What Socrates did was none of her business.

  “What night Topper come in?” Socrates asked hoping that he didn't sound desperate.

  “Why?”

  “Iula, can you get up off me an' be civil? I'm sorry if you mad. I thought you wanted to marry Tony. I stopped comin' 'cause I don't have no right to want you like I do if I cain't put up my nickel.”

  Iula's orangish skin brightened and her lips quivered with words that she held in.

  “He be in in about a hour,” she said finally.

  When Socrates touched her arm she sighed.

  “Hey, hey, Mr. Fortlow,” Nelson Saint-Paul, more commonly known as Topper, said. “How you doin'?”

  �
��Not so bad I guess.” Socrates took a seat next to the pudgy undertaker who was named for the top hat he wore at services in his funeral home. “I mean I'm still breathin' and I'm still free.”

  “Would you like something to eat?” graciously asked the undertaker.

  “Take some coffee if you offerin'.”

  “Done,” Topper said. “Mrs. LaPort, please bring my friend some coffee and a slice of coffee cake.”

  Iula nodded but didn't move. There were a lot of customers in the diner that evening. Socrates didn't mind waiting. It was a little after eight o'clock and Iula wasn't off until eleven at the earliest.

  He sat and discussed the day's events with Topper, who was one of the few men Socrates knew who read the newspapers each day. In prison there was a limited amount of news allowed to get out among the general population. Among a certain crowd talk about the news was like real cream in your coffee or a glimpse of the sea.

  Sometimes Socrates sought Topper out to discuss the news but this day he had another purpose in mind.

  After Topper and Socrates had dispatched with international and national events they discussed local comings and goings.

  “I heard somebody got killed down near me,” Socrates said almost incidentally.

  “You mean that Logan child?” Topper asked.

  Socrates shook his head. “Was that his name?”

  “Ronald Logan. He was raised not five blocks from your house. Fell in with gangsters. Went to jail and came out wrong. It's amazing to me how they take these children and turn 'em into something that isn't even human any more. That boy was a terror on the street for the whole time he was out of jail. Ten days. No. No I'm a liar. It was nine days. Nine days and then they found him dead in the alley right up the street here.”

  “Somebody shoot'im?”

  “Crushed his skull. That's what his mother told me. And you know I believe that she was relieved. Relieved that the evil she released on this world was gone.” Topper had a Bible group that met on Friday evenings at his funeral home, business permitting. He sounded like a minister but Socrates liked him anyway.

  “You doin' the funeral?” Socrates asked as if just making conversation.

  “When the coroner gets through with the body. When there's a murder the coroner has to take a look. He don't do much.” Nelson Saint-Paul sneered in professional disdain. “Just take a look and then release the body. Only it usually take him a whole week to get to it because of the backlog they got. Backlog of death. You know that's a shame.”

  Socrates winced but remained quiet.

  He was thinking about the bodies he had seen in his life. The dead men and women, almost all of them dead before they should have been. He considered Ronald Logan, who had just been a corpse until Nelson named him. Now he had a mother and a history.

  “Socrates,” Nelson was saying.

  “Huh?”

  “Where are you, man? Here I am offerin' you employment and there you are examining your feet.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “You wanna try doin' a little work for me?”

  “What you want? Some kinda janitor?”

  “Naw. Janitor's easy to find. I need somebody to help with the embalming and the preparation for service. You know that's a real profession ain't gonna fall outta style.”

  Socrates put both of his hands on the table to keep his balance. He felt as if he might fall right out of his chair. Dumb luck, that's what they called it in stir. Dumb luck.

  In prison, Cap Richmond used to say, every day is April Fool's day. After 'while you begin to think that life is just one big gag.

  “Lemme see 'bout that,” Socrates said. “You know I might have to go outta town a little while. But if I don't I'll be by.”

  He stayed at Iula's house that night. They got there at about midnight. Four bright red numbers burned 03:39 when Iula finally said, “Baby, I cain't take no mo' right now. Not right now.”

  Socrates rolled back on his side and reached for her in the darkness. She took his hand in hers.

  “I'm sore all over, honey,” she said. “But that's not complainin'. I just ain't that young anymore.” She chuckled for a moment and then added, “Maybe I wasn't ever that young. You was goin' at it like you just got outta jail yesterday.”

  Socrates woke up at five. He sat around the big living room thumbing through old Jet magazines and waiting for the sun. Every now and then he'd wonder if the police had been to his house, if they issued a warrant once they found him missing.

  “Mornin',” Iula said, breaking Socrates' trance.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “What you thinkin' 'bout?”

  “That it ain't true that a white man think we all look alike. That if there was a white man out there lookin' for me he'd know just who to look for.”

  “Why a white man be lookin' for you?” Iula's question was pointed but Socrates didn't care. Iula was a sharp woman.

  “Any reason. I owe him money, kissed his daughter, forgot to take off my hat.”

  “Where you been wearin' that hat?”

  “You ever?” Socrates said as the beginning of a question. But the question never came.

  “I ever what?”

  “You ever think that you the only one out here who cares? I mean that if the right thing gonna get done it's you got to do it 'cause nobody else even know?”

  Iula frowned. She looked at the man who had worn her ragged with love. She shook her head and then turned to leave the room. A while later Socrates smelled coffee brewing. When Iula returned with her tarnished, silver-plated tray she was still frowning.

  Socrates raised his head as she handed him a white diner mug.

  “You a good man, Socrates Fortlow,” Iula declared. “Now drink your coffee and come on back down to earth.”

  Killer was whimpering when Socrates got home. The ex-con thought his pet was hungry but the dog refused to eat and cried even louder.

  That night Socrates let Killer's cries into his dreams. They were a perfect fit for his thoughts. Ronald Logan died over and over again against the screen of pain. And every time the boy fell Socrates sank lower. There were policemen eating ice cream cones, arresting old ladies and driving fast for fun. There were blind men walking past the murder scene ignorant of the criminal and the crime. Behind it all there was a trumpet playing. It was a jazz man playing but he was an angel too.

  All angels ain't from heaven, his skinny aunt Bellandra whispered. But you cain't choose your angels so you better not mind.

  In the morning Socrates realized that the police were not going to come, that he had gotten away with murder, that there was no price he had to pay.

  He carried his freedom out the front door, past the whimpering dog, and on the bus to work. His freedom wasn't light or happy or proud. People spoke to him but he didn't understand and had to ask them to repeat what they'd said. They'd oblige but still Socrates didn't get it. Finally he'd just nod his head as if he knew what they meant.

  “Sumpin' wrong wit' you?” young Darryl asked him on their one forty-five lunch break.

  “I don't know if it's me or everybody else, Darryl. Damn.”

  “What is it?”

  Socrates looked at the boy. They were both killers. But Darryl still had a chance to be better.

  “How you feelin', Darryl?” Socrates asked.

  “Okay.”

  “How is it out there with Howard and Corina?”

  “Okay I guess. I mean Howard always talkin' 'bout how good he is. 'Bout his job an' how him an' Corina wanna buy that house they rentin'. It's like he braggin' all the time but he okay.”

  “But you could talk to 'im, right?” Socrates wanted to know. “I mean if you got a problem you could talk to Howard.”

  “If I got a problem I could talk to you,” Darryl said simply.

  “But if you was home and you wasn't gonna come in to work,” Socrates argued. “If you couldn't see me for a few days you cou
ld talk to Howard and Corina, right?”

  “I guess,” Darryl said, sounding no happier than Socrates felt.

  It was sixteen miles from work to Socrates' home. He decided to walk part way, telling himself that it wasn't much longer than waiting for the bus to come.

  On the way he had a talk with himself. A talk about what if.

  “What if the cops drove up beside me right now?” he asked himself as he neared Robertson and Olympic. “What if they stopped me and said, ‘Hey, niggah, what you doin' walkin' on the street up here? You live around here?’”

  Socrates thought he might say, “I live in this city. I pay the tax pay your salary and fix these here streets. I guess I could walk if I want to.” And then, in his daydream, he walked away from them.

  But the cops followed him down the streets of his imagination. They stopped him on Fairfax and made him stand up against the wall. When they couldn't find anything in his pockets Socrates demanded their badge numbers because, he said, “Now you gone through my pockets and that's illegal 'less you got reason to 'spect me of a crime.”

  The scenario played itself out in a dozen different ways. In some he was shot and others the policemen were killed. In one long fantasy the people in the street rose up in a riot that lasted for fifteen days and leveled the streets of L.A. into the rubble of rage.

  After more than two and half hours, almost three, Socrates was tired but he hadn't been stopped by the police. He climbed into a bus and sat there exhausted. In the middle of a nap he decided to turn himself in.

  It was well past dark when Socrates got home. He'd taken the shortcut past the place where Ronald Logan had died. He only remembered when he saw the spot where Logan had fallen. He stood there trying to feel something for the boy he had slaughtered but all he felt was wrong.

  When he got home Killer was so sick that he couldn't even propel himself on his halter to greet his master. Socrates decided to put off turning himself in until the next day when he could make sure that his dog would survive.

  He took the dog back to the veterinarian who saved his life when his legs were crushed. Dolly Straight told him that he would have to put the dog in a hospital where he'd have to undergo an operation if he were to survive. Socrates had never heard of an animal being operated on but he trusted the doctor and cared more about that dog than he cared for most people.