Walter Mosley

by Socrates Fortlow 02 - Walkin' the Dog

  That night he considered Darryl and Killer, deciding that it would be wrong to leave either one by going to jail. Socrates wasn't afraid of prison; he wasn't afraid of anything. But he didn't need to prove that. What he needed was to make what amends he could and still meet his obligations.

  “Okay now lift him,” Nelson Saint-Paul said to his temporary helper Socrates Fortlow and to Stuart Lane, a regular worker in the funeral home. The two men were big but Ronald Logan was heavy with death. They had him all dressed up in a suit that was slit in the back so that it would fit. Nelson had slipped white silken socks on Ronald's feet but there were no shoes for the coffin.

  Socrates had asked Topper if he could try out there for a while without pay. The first day he had helped to connect the tubes under Ronald's armpit to suck out the blood and replace it with the embalmer's fluid, the formaldehyde. He watched as Nelson put a placid visage on the boy's face and as he used makeup to replace a little of the life that Socrates had taken. He couldn't fully straighten out the dent in the boy's skull. The head was still a little lopsided.

  The smell of the formaldehyde and the clammy touch of the boy's skin dismantled the hardened ex-con. The boy's deadweight did not leave his shoulders or strained heart even after laying the load down. And Ronald Logan's eyes were not fully shut. Socrates could see the dulled glimmer of his eyeballs through tiny slits. He was no longer human but neither was he gone. Socrates dreaded the three days he spent around that corpse. Every evening coming home from Bounty he clenched up anticipating the sneaky peeking of the boy he'd murdered.

  Every evening he'd gone to the pay phone to tell Topper that he couldn't come in. But he never dropped the dime. He was like a dog, he knew, that needed his nose rubbed in his dirty business.

  “Killin' ain't like a crap you could flush down the toilet,” he said to Darryl one day before going down to Topper's. “The stink stays on you. Other people can smell it. I smell it in my sleep at night.”

  The boy didn't know why Socrates chose that moment to lecture him about guilt but he nodded, submitting the ex-con's words to memory.

  On the first day, when he was alone with the naked corpse, Socrates stared at him; even in death the mugger looked menacing. A scar across his upper lip left him with the slightest sneer. The feet were pigeon-toed and the penis was small but hard. The hair was still growing, Topper told him that.

  Socrates wanted to cry but could not. The feeling he was left with was worse than prison had been. Ronald Logan was a broken promise laid out on that table.

  “You will never be forgotten,” Socrates whispered. “Not as long as I live.”

  “Okay, now settle him in,” Topper said. “You know how, Stuart. Make sure the fingers are in line, straighten out the suit. That's right. That's right.”

  “We see it all in here, Mr. Fortlow,” Topper was saying. “They all come down to death. Even that princess over there in England. They had to bury her too just like anybody else.”

  Mrs. Yolanda Logan and her mother, Roxanne, came to view the body that Saturday morning at eight fifteen. Socrates stood toward the back of the little chapel and waited for some kind of sign from the grief-stricken mother. Yolanda was somewhere in her thirties but she looked as if she'd lived more years than her own mother. She was a heavy woman and her shoulders were sagging. Roxanne, a big woman too, stood near at hand in case her help was needed.

  “Oh no there he is,” Yolanda said. “There he is. It's him, Momma.”

  “He looks nice,” said the boy's grandmother. “He looks peaceful. And his suit still fits him even after all that weight liftin' he did.”

  Yolanda put her hands up between her and the coffin trying to deny either the boy or his death. Topper, wearing his signature hat, came up with a stool. Roxanne guided her daughter toward the seat and then she took her turn visiting the coffin.

  Roxanne's face was a study in cautious anger. She raised her head as far away as she could while still trying to see the boy. Her inspection was close and complete. When she turned away you knew that she'd have no nightmares about Ronald returning.

  They stayed with the dead boy for half an hour or so.

  When they started gathering themselves together, Socrates left. He went outside the chapel door and waited.

  He had bought black rayon slacks and a button-up tan shirt for that day. He felt hemmed in and itchy, like a schoolboy in a new uniform.

  “Mrs. Logan?” he said when the women came out.

  “Yes?” Yolanda said.

  “I wanted to say how sorry I am. About your son that is. About what happened.”

  The poor mother was beyond speech. She wore a dark brown dress and blue shawl with dark green and yellow flowers printed on it. She also wore white tennis shoes.

  Yolanda took Socrates' hands in hers and stood there as if in prayer. The big man didn't pull away.

  “What's your name?” Yolanda asked.

  “Socrates Fortlow.”

  “He was a bad boy, Mr. Fortlow. I loved him but he was bad, crazy bad. It was just like havin' a wild animal right up there in the house wit' you. It was like when a old man forgets who his family is. Like when he don't remember his wife or daughter. When I looked at Ronnie I didn't even know him.” Yolanda's hands were wet and so was her face. Socrates concentrated on keeping his grip from crushing her hands.

  “That's enough now, Yoyo,” Roxanne said. She moved in to disengage the convict and his victim but they wouldn't let go.

  “He loved you, Mrs. Logan. He prob'ly just forgot up in jail how to show it.”

  “Who are you?” Roxanne asked.

  “I'm Socrates. I been in jail. I know how it hurts you and the ones you love too.”

  “Bless you,” Yolanda said. “Did you know my son?”

  “No, ma'am, I didn't. But you be strong now.”

  Roxanne pulled on her daughter's hands until finally she broke the bond. Socrates watched them climb into Topper's black Cadillac, which then drove off behind the hearse.

  A policeman was standing in front of Socrates' gate when he got home from work the next day. Albert Biggers had on a blue suit and buff shoes. Socrates thought that he looked ridiculous in those colors.

  “Officer,” Socrates hailed.

  “Where you been, Socrates?”

  “Nowhere. I ain't been nowhere. And I sure am tired so if you wanna arrest me please do it or let me pass.”

  “Why would I want to arrest you, Socrates? Have you done something wrong?”

  That's when Socrates realized that some time in the last week the violence had drained out of his hands. He didn't want to hurt anybody. He didn't care that Biggers stood there in that silly suit trying to act like he was going to trick Socrates into a confession. A confession to anything.

  “Let me pass, man,” was all Socrates had to say.

  that smell

  A man cain't be a man if he don't make the money, honey,” Leon Spellman said to Veronica Ashanti at the Saint-Paul Mortuary on a Wednesday night in June.

  “An' here I thought you young men believed it was t'other way around.” Veronica blew out a sweet smelling cloud of smoke from her short cigar.

  “What you mean by that, Veronica?” Chip Lowe, the neighborhood watch captain, asked.

  “I thought these male chirren believed that you cain't get no honey,” Veronica paused for a beat between words, “ 'less you let up on some money.”

  The older men, including Socrates, laughed at the joke. Leon glowered but even he smiled.

  “All I'm sayin' is that a man has got to be responsible if he wants a woman to stand by'im,” Leon said. “I mean a black man has got to be the bread winner. He's got to be a father and he's got to make a home where his wife an' family are safe. A black man has got to guide his people.”

  “And ain't that a man talkin',” Cynthia Lott chimed in. She was a tiny woman with a shrill voice that made Socrates' neck muscles tighten whenever he heard it.

  “No need to attack the boy, Cindy,
” Nelson Saint-Paul said.

  “You men always think I'm attackin' you,” Cynthia said. “But I'm just sayin' what I hear. Leon wanna be the breadwinner, the father and the hunter all rolled up into one. What about the woman?”

  “He didn't say that the woman couldn't help,” Chip said.

  “Help?” Cynthia cried opening her eyes as wide as possible. “Black women the ones need help. That's just the problem. You got this boy all of a sudden realizes he ain't been doin' right and now he just wanna walk in on a woman and say, ‘Okay, baby, the boss is home now,’ when what he should be doin' is askin', ‘How can I help you, ma'am?’”

  “An' does he have to get down on his knees too?” Chip asked angrily.

  “Wouldn't hurt,” said Cynthia. “Wouldn't hurt one bit. You know women been down on their knees cleanin' and beggin' while their men be drinkin' that wine and jokin' out here on Central and a hundred and third.”

  Socrates tried to hear past the piercing tones to get at Cynthia's words. He hadn't said much at Nelson's Wednesday meetings. Ever since he'd done a little apprentice work for Nelson, Socrates had an open invitation to the Saturday prayer meeting and the Wednesday night talk. Socrates usually spent his Saturday days with Darryl and most weekend evenings, lately, with Iula.

  But Socrates came to Nelson's on Wednesdays and listened to the men and women talk. There was no dress code but the men often wore sports coats and ties. Socrates wore a pair of tan slacks and a black dress shirt with a Salvation Army pullover sweater even on a hot day like that one.

  “All us men don't do like that,” Leon complained. “I'm here ain't I?”

  “Here callin' me honey an' tellin' it like you was the boss.” Cynthia's anger drove her voice higher.

  “But men should be the boss,” Leon argued. “Man was made to be the boss but somehow the black man lost his uh, his uh, authority.”

  “Oh please,” Cynthia said with disdain.

  “I agree with part'a what Cyn says,” Veronica agreed. She was a pear-shaped woman with large hips and a small chest. Her face was luxurious and full featured, as dark and shiny as polished ebony. “I mean I don't need no man comin' in on me an' mine all of a sudden sayin' he the boss. But I don't want no man on his knees either.” She paused, considering the imagined pose with her eyes. “Well, maybe sometimes.”

  The sly grin that the cigar-smoking woman revealed got everybody laughing again.

  “But what I mean is,” Veronica continued, “that I want a man to feel good about hisself. And men are different. They protect the home while the women raise chirren.”

  “Black men don't do shit,” Cynthia said flatly.

  “They come here,” Nelson said. “I open my doors for you. Chip works on the neighborhood watch.”

  Socrates thought that Cynthia was biting her lip so as not to snap at Nelson. They all appreciated the Wednesday meeting because of the good conversation but also because of the chicken sandwiches and port wine that Topper served.

  “Yeah,” Leon barked. “You always wanna make all that's hap-penin' bad the black man's fault. It ain't all our fault. If you'd back us up more better maybe we'd get somewhere.”

  “You can't have it both ways Leon.”

  Everybody turned when they heard Socrates speak. Even Cynthia seemed interested in what the quiet man had to say.

  “What you mean, Socrates?” Nelson asked.

  “I mean if a boy wanna be a man he cain't be askin' for help. He just got to pick up and do what he have to do. Now Cynthia over here don't want him. Well, okay, don't ask her for nuthin'. There's some woman out here want your help.”

  “So you mean that it's on Leon not on black women?” Chip Lowe frowned. He was smaller than Socrates, but still large, with a gray mustache and black skin except for his hands and a big splotch on his face that had turned a milky white.

  “It's on everybody, man.” Socrates fought to keep the anger out of his voice. “Everybody think it's them or their people got it bad. We all got it bad, all of us.”

  “I don't know, Socrates,” Nelson Saint-Paul said. “Some people have it better, easier, than some others. Some have homes, some are homeless.”

  “Yeah,” Leon said bitterly. “Some is white, the rest sleep outside.”

  “You don't sleep outside, Leon,” Cynthia said. “You live at home with your mother.”

  “All I'm sayin',” Socrates said. “Is that we all gonna walk out on Central Avenue when this talk is through. We all gonna be lookin' around in the shadows an' ain't nobody gonna feel friendly if you see a strange black face.”

  “So you think we're all in the same boat?” asked Veronica Ashanti. It was the first time she'd heard Socrates speak and she smiled at him approvingly through a haze of cigar smoke.

  “And the boat is leakin' an' here we are arguin' 'bout which way is land.” Socrates nodded with finality and everyone went quiet.

  Even Cynthia was silent.

  “Well,” Nelson said. “On that note I guess we should call it a night. We all have something to think about until next time.”

  The watch captain Chip Lowe was the first one to stand up. Cynthia looked from side to side, scowling as if her final words were cut off.

  “You wanna ride to your house, Ms. Lott?” young Leon asked.

  “I guess so.” She had to hop out of her chair because her feet didn't touch the floor.

  “I'll take Veronica,” Nelson offered.

  They left through a door in the small back room that led to the chapel in the Saint-Paul Mortuary. At the front of the chapel stood a coffin faced by five neat rows of wood chairs. The ghostly audience seemed real to Socrates in the dim room. He wondered if there was a body up there waiting for the morning service.

  Outside, Chip and Socrates saw the women and their escorts safely to their cars. Leon had a 1968 sky blue Pontiac. The prosperous undertaker drove a late model maroon BMW.

  “You need a ride, Mr. Fortlow?” the watch captain asked.

  “I could walk.”

  “I thought you said that we were all scared walking down Central?”

  “We are. But there's a difference with me.”

  “What's that?”

  “I ain't scared'a bein' scared,” Socrates said with a grin. “If I was I couldn't even sleep at night. But I'll take a ride I guess. You know I'd rather be scared than have my feet hurtin' like they do sometimes.”

  “I like what you had to say,” Chip Lowe said to Socrates once they were on the way. He drove a 1959 pink and turquoise Chevy pickup. It looked as good as the day it was new.

  The ex-con had no reply.

  “I mean,” the watch captain continued, “we got to settle this shit about men and women to get on with the problems we got down here. Don't you think so?”

  “I don't know.”

  “But that's why we get together,” Lowe said. This was the first time he'd been talkative with Socrates. Before that night he had been cold, even suspicious. “So we can talk all this stuff out. You know, everyday people talking. Not no Jesse Jackson or soul brother number one. Just folks. Right?”

  Socrates looked over at Chip, who was looking back.

  “I'ont know, man,” Socrates said. “Talk is cheap.” He was thinking about a man, J. T. Helms, who they said was having a conversation about the upcoming presidential election all the way to the electric chair. He talked until he died.

  “But why would you wanna come to Nelson's if you don't think it matters?”

  “I like chicken and wine,” Socrates offered. “An' anyway, cheap is all a poor man can afford.”

  “But what you said back there to Leon came from your heart,” Chip said with conviction.

  “Maybe,” Socrates admitted. “Maybe I felt it but feelin' don't make the difference. If all you leave wit' is a good feelin' you coulda stayed home.”

  Chip frowned and turned his eyes to traffic. Then he glanced at Socrates and looked away again. After he'd done this a few times Socrates realized that the man
had something to say.

  “You know there's been some talk about you, brother,” Chip Lowe said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. I mean I'm not the sort to get in a man's business but some people out here just ain't happy 'less they can run somebody else down.”

  Socrates' window was open. There was a scent in the breeze, the odor of human waste.

  “I just wanted to tell you that people been talkin',” Chip said. Then he paused giving Socrates a chance to say something.

  “Okay,” the ex-con answered.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay I hear ya. People been talkin'. I know, people talk.”

  The odor was picking up strength. Socrates tried to pierce the night darkness and see where the smell came from.

  “It's just that I thought you should know about it,” Chip said. “A man should know when he's bein' bad-mouthed.”

  “And now I know.” When the odor began to lose strength Socrates gave up his surveillance.

  “But you don't know what they said.”

  “I ain't askin' you about gossip, Chip Lowe. If you got somethin' t'say then just get on wit' it.”

  “It's the police,” Chip said in a heavy tone.

  “Yeah?”

  “They said that they suspect you of killin' that girl, that Minnie Lee that they found four months ago near your place. They told the watch to be careful around you because you were in prison for murder and they think you still at it.”

  “How long ago they tell you this?” Socrates asked.

  “I don't know.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Last week then?”

  “Well …”

  “How about last month? They tell you about me last month?”

  “Maybe, maybe it was then.” Chip looked up to see what cross street they were at.

  “But you waited till now to tell me.”

  When Socrates rubbed his hand over his head Chip stiffened a little.