Walter Mosley

by Socrates Fortlow 02 - Walkin' the Dog

  Socrates unhooked the short leader that connected Killer's halter to the suspension rope. He wrapped the bright yellow cord twice around his big fist and said, “Okay, boy. Let's go show 'em what you could do.”

  They walked a few blocks down the alley, Killer prancing proudly on his two powerful front legs. He was a heavy dog, seventy pounds easily. He had weighed more before the accident on the day Socrates saved him in the streets of West L.A.

  Killer survived the amputations and, earlier on that summer, he made it through two operations. He was strong and brave too. Socrates would have said that he loved that dog if he ever said those two words about anyone or anything.

  His right biceps bulged as the hot sun came down on his bald black head but Socrates didn't acknowledge the strain of his labors. Killer was the first pet that he'd ever owned. Other men in the penitentiary kept garden snakes, rats and pigeons for pets. Some of them swore that they had favorite cockroaches who returned each night for special crumbs they'd hoarded. But Socrates didn't love in prison. Love was weakness and Socrates' armor had nary a chink.

  He never had a pet as a child. His father was a drunk and his mother worked too hard even to love Socrates most of the time. His aunt Bellandra loved him but she was crazy; she was too worried about her visions to have some furry creature mewling around begging for food.

  “The white Christians call Him the Shepherd,” Bellandra would tell Socrates, who was old enough to remember but not of an age to comprehend. “That makes them sheep. They made us pray like that, like we was sheep too. And you know what happens to sheep, don't ya? They cut off their woolly hair to humiliate 'em. They put the dogs on 'em. They slaughter 'em too. Now why would God want man to be lined up with sheep?”

  Children were playing softball in the alley four blocks down. Socrates noticed that there were little Mexican children sprinkled in among the blacks. Too young to hate yet. Too young to separate and draw lines; to play a different game with guns and knives.

  The children stopped and gawked at the big man and his deformed dog.

  “Hey, mister,” one black child shouted. “What happent to his legs?”

  “Front part run so fast,” Socrates responded, “that he left the back part behind.”

  “Huh?” the boy grunted, his friends mouthing the same wordless question.

  But before they could say more Socrates was moving away, Killer barking joyously at the boys and their big white softball.

  Socrates made a left on the next block. It was a street full of music and barbecue smoke, makeshift lawn chairs and people wandering back and forth. Down the middle of the street a gang of boys rode their bicycles in a swarm. Two or three old women sat on painted concrete porches fanning themselves and watching.

  A few people motioned toward the dog, pointing out his deformity. If Socrates noticed them the gesture turned into a wave.

  Killer tried hard to pull his master toward the smell of burnt flesh, but even if he had four legs he couldn't have budged the muscle built by so many years of prison life.

  There wasn't a day that Socrates forgot the single cell, the smell of rust and sweat, the sounds of metal on stone that surrounded and imprisoned him. He was like a guerrilla soldier back then, secreted underground, waiting for the moment to rise and strike; waiting for freedom that he knew would probably come only in the form of a coffin.

  But now, after twenty-seven years in storage and after nine years out, Socrates walked his crippled dog in the bright sun, unarmed and at an uneasy truce with his enemies.

  The policeman, the salesman in the store, the newspaperman or TV anchor, Socrates didn't trust any one of them. He knew that their jobs were to hold him down and rob him, and then afterward to tell him lies about what had really gone down. It was a crazy thought, he told himself, but then he'd say, “But not as crazy as this world,” and then he'd laugh.

  He was laughing right then on the way to the park.

  From behind a sickly pine bush sprang a feathery red-haired dog. The animal, one-sixth the size of Killer, bared its sharp teeth and snarled. Killer saw no harm in the dog and danced on his front paws begging for a smell.

  “Johnny, where are you?” a man called in a clear soprano. He appeared from behind the shedding, dying pine. He was tall and thin with a processed hairdo wrapped up in a nylon do-rag. He also wore a long-sleeved purple shirt, with fresh sweat stains in the armpits, and matching purple pants.

  Even from a distance of a few feet Socrates was assailed by the thick sweet scent of the man's cologne.

  “Oh my,” the younger man said. He held his hands in front of him in a cautious, almost feminine gesture.

  “Yo' dog wanna fight and mine wanna make friends,” Socrates said to help the purple man settle down.

  “Johnny B. Goode, sit!” the younger man ordered.

  The fluffy red dog obeyed instantly.

  His master had a pencil-thin mustache and was older than Socrates had at first thought. Forty, maybe even forty-five. He had a slender scar down his left cheek and one eye was a light walnut, the other a deep mahogany brown.

  “He like to growl but that's about all,” the man said, still eyeing Socrates cautiously.

  “Killer'd lick a razor blade if you'd let 'im. I don't think they taught survival in his brood.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Sometimes Johnny be wagging his tail, snarlin', and takin' a piss all at the same time.” The purple man smiled then he stuck out his hand and said, “Lavant Hall.”

  Socrates grabbed Lavant's right hand with his left because he was holding on to Killer's rope.

  “Socrates Fortlow.”

  “What happened to your dog's legs?”

  “Run over by a car,” Socrates said, shrugging slightly.

  “How come you call him Killer if he so friendly?” Lavant Hall asked.

  “I figger that if somebody hear me callin' him that they might stay offa my property on account'a the name.”

  Lavant Hall laughed and took a pack of no-name brand cigarettes from his oversized shirt pocket. He shook the pack at Socrates and a single tan filter appeared. Socrates took the cigarette. That was etiquette on the prison yard and a habit Socrates kept even though he rarely smoked after moving to L.A.

  When Socrates leaned forward to take a light from the skinny man Killer got a chance to sniff the shiny red dog. Johnny B. Goode snarled but he didn't back away or snap. He was sniffing too.

  “That's a fancy-assed dog,” Socrates said with the familiarity of an old friend.

  “Grand Long-Haired Red Terrier they call the breed,” Lavant said. “It's a valuable dog but I ain't got the papers.”

  “How come you don't?”

  “ 'Cause I stole him off the street up in the Pacific Palisades.”

  Socrates took a deep drag on his cigarette and held the smoke for a few seconds before exhaling.

  “Why you steal him?” Socrates asked. “You gonna sell him?”

  “No.”

  “Hold him for ransom then?” Socrates was remembering Ahmed Jones, who used to say, on the recreation yard, that kidnapping favorite pets of rich people was just as lucrative as kidnapping their children but that the law didn't get that crazy over a missing cat or a dog.

  “I ride a bicycle,” Lavant Hall said, smiling. “I ride it everywheres just so they don't think that they could keep me down here. I don't need to be white or rich or nuthin' to go up in the canyons or down to the beach. Not as long as I got my legs and my bike… .”

  Johnny B. Goode jumped on Killer's head but the larger dog shrugged him off and barked. Somehow the motion started the two men walking on a zigzag path through Will Rogers Park.

  “… they cain't stop me from usin' the streets,” Lavant continued. “Anyway I was up there at the Canyon Mall lookin' for a liquor store or someplace to get a soda pop 'cause it was hot an' I rode up all the way from down here… .”

  There was a young couple lying near a bush in the lawn. They were kissing each other pass
ionately, rubbing their hands all over each other's body. Socrates could see the big man's erection pressing urgently against his loose pants. The woman was holding on to it as if they were in a private room with the doors shut and locked.

  “You see that,” Lavant Hall said, nodding toward the lovers. “That's love right there on the ground. Ain't nuthin' t'be shamed about. An' if somebody don't like it then they don't have to look.”

  They passed the lovers and Socrates asked, “What about the dog?”

  “Yeah,” Lavant said. His smile flashed against a dark background of skin. “I saw this woman wearing a fur coat that was probably chinchilla. I say that 'cause the fur was like feathers, like Johnny look. That's not mink or nuthin'. Mink's heavy. But you know that white woman made me mad. There she had that cute dog and she was wearin' ten or twelve other animals on'er back that looked just like him, at least their hair did.”

  “So what you do?” Socrates asked. He was getting angry imagining the blood of some woman shed by a man who saw his own life in that of a dog.

  “I followed her,” Lavant said. “She went into a couple'a stores carryin' Johnny in her arms but then she come to this one place, this delicatessen. They wouldn't let no dogs in there. Even that bitch couldn't break that rule and so she tied his leash to a bike rack. That's all I needed.”

  The man in purple showed all of his teeth. “You know I pretended like I was lockin' up my bicycle but then that I changed my mind. I scooped up little Johnny and made a beeline back home. He's mine now. License, shots, everythang.”

  Lavant put up his hands feigning modesty at pulling off a great prank.

  “Why?” Socrates asked.

  “It's a war out here, brother,” Lavant Hall said with conviction. “They wanna make us into slaves with the dollar. They wanna make us into slaves next to the TV. They even wanna make you a slave to taxes, my brother. You pay 'em yo' money an' they use it to buy your chains.”

  “Listen, man,” Socrates said. “I done heard all that shit in the lockup. All day long you hear men talk about bein' political prisoners an' all that shit. What I wanna know is what's all that got to do with you stealin' that woman's dog?”

  They had both stopped walking at the south end of the park. Socrates let Killer's backside down on the grass. But the dog didn't care because he was with his new best friend, barking and biting playfully.

  “I didn't steal 'im I freed 'im,” Lavant said with glee in his high voice. “I'm a freedom fighter. That's my job twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. While you sleepin' I'm out fightin' for freedom. While you makin' chains I'm puttin' acid in the locks. While you countin' your pennies on a bare tabletop I'm partyin' with the people free from all the raggedy flags and law books of the Man.”

  “You do all that, huh?”

  “Yep, I do,” Lavant said.

  “Then why ain't I heard about you, you so famous?”

  “You done heard you just don't know. I'm all around you but I'm invisible like Ralph Ellison.”

  “I don't know him either. And I still don't see why you stole that dog. But I thank you for the cigarette.” Socrates bent down to heft Killer's rope and said, “Come on, boy. Let's get you home before somebody wants to make you free.”

  “Hey, brother, hold up,” Lavant Hall said. “What they have you in prison for?”

  “I broke the law right on the jaw,” Socrates said. “I fucked it up and they come down on me with a hundred tons of chain.”

  The man with the different-color eyes got serious.

  “They can lock up your body,” the purple man said. “But your mind is yours even if you don't want it.”

  Socrates stopped a moment to think over those words. He nodded and then nodded again. Then he gave a little half wave and turned away.

  He walked back toward his own apartment. Before he reached his home he had forgotten about Lavant Hall; except for once in the middle of the night when he was awakened by a thickly sweet odor. He sniffed his left hand in the darkness and realized that it was the scent of Lavant Hall's cologne.

  September was hotter than August that year. One Saturday it was so bad that Socrates got a ride from the gypsy cabbie, Milton Langonier, out to Venice Beach where he and Darryl walked along the ocean with Killer at dusk.

  Every hundred yards or so Killer would test the waves with his big red tongue, hoping to find fresh water somewhere in that vast ocean.

  “How you like yo' new job?” Darryl asked. He was lanky and awkward but Socrates could see the beginning contours of a man's face coming out to replace the child's.

  “They miss you down at the store, Darryl. Robyn and Sarah always askin' after you.”

  “Really?” the child said. “That Robyn's fine.”

  “They both cute.” Socrates liked the black and white girlfriends even though they were wealthy and didn't know a thing.

  “I miss 'em too but Howard won't let me work at Bounty no mo'.”

  “That ain't true an' you know it, boy. Me an' Howard an' Corina all talked to that vice principal. He said you got to buckle down if you wanna get good grades.”

  Darryl bent down quickly and picked up a fistful of sand, which he threw into the water. Killer barked and lurched against Socrates' grip, looking for the ball he used to chase when he had four legs.

  “Come on, boy,” Socrates said. “Let's go on up and get you a chili dog.”

  There was a big boarded-up building on the promenade. It was vacant but not abandoned. Men had been working on the inside changing it into some new business to sell trinkets or junk food at the beach. There was an unfinished pine plank blocking the main entrance. Socrates and Darryl sat on the step there eating their hot dogs and fries.

  Pasted on the planking was a large yellow poster which was printed with bright red lettering.

  It's War!

  The racist and imperialist forces of Amerika are waging a war on you; a war in your schools, a war on your bodies and your minds. The poison in your food is chemical warfare. The lies in the schools are propaganda and nothing less.

  Wake up! Wake up, Amerika! Don't let your children drown in the gutter. Don't let the so-called Democrats and their so-called free elections tell you what's on your mind. You got freedom on your mind. You got love on your mind. You got a good time with good neighbors on your mind.

  They're using your money to kill in Rwanda, to kill in South Amerika, and right here in your own backyard. They put the blood in your hands but don't you drink it.

  If there's a war you could win it. Just stand up and fight. Burn down the raggedy flags of the Man.

  Rebel, Rebel

  Socrates eyed the poster because of the bright red letters on the yellow paper. He looked closer at the texture of the paper than at the words. It was rough fabric plastered with thick glue onto the wall. There had been attempts to tear it away but the poster had resisted. Looking closer Socrates realized that the words were handwritten, each letter painstakingly rendered between faint pencil lines. It was then that Socrates felt something familiar about the poster. Not the words but the poster itself.

  “So you like it?” Darryl asked.

  “Like what?”

  “The produce job?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I like it fine,” Socrates said. “Work hard though. Harder'n motherfucker when Marty gets a bug in his ass. But I make some money though. A poor man might think I was rich.”

  “You gonna move?” Darryl asked.

  “I just barely got a phone, man. Gimme some time.”

  “It's just that they got some good apartments out around here. You could come live out here if you wanted.” Darryl pulled his head back, indicating that it didn't matter one way or another if Socrates moved closer to him.

  But Socrates knew better. He looked up at the poster again.

  “Huh,” the big man grunted.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinkin',” Socrates said. “You wanna come stay out at my house tonight?”

  “Yeah,
” the boy said without hesitation.

  The next morning they were both up early. Killer was ready for a walk. They went down to Iula's house where they made pancakes and pork links for her.

  “We figure that you cook every day, I,” Socrates told his weekend girlfriend. “At least one day a year somebody should make a meal for you.”

  Iula smiled and drank her coffee. She took only a bite of pancake, explaining that she never really ate until afternoon.

  “But thank you for the meal, baby,” she said to the boy while smiling for the man. “It's nice to be thought of any way you get it.”

  They ate in her small backyard under the thin branches of a pomegranate tree. Iula made the second batch of pancakes. Socrates helped by standing behind her with his hands on her hips.

  “You ever meet a man name'a Lavant Hall?” he asked after kissing her ear twice.

  “Mmmm,” the diner owner crooned. “Smell like a whole bot-tle'a perfume done falled on his head. I always thought he was one'a them funny men. Why?”

  “I don't know. I met'im 'bout a month ago. He had this fluffy red dog. He said somethin' that I didn't think about at the time but now I wanna talk to'im about it and I was wonderin' where he lives.”

  “He stay up in Theda Johnston's garage. He don't pay rent but I think he know somethin' about electricals and he rewired and did some other stuff for her.”

  Socrates and Darryl and Killer made it to Theda Johnston's house on Denker at two in the afternoon.

  It was a big house for the block. Only one story but wide, with a front porch that almost ran the full length of the property. The porch was shaded by overhanging eaves. There was a sofa on either side of the front door and a huge dark evergreen tree in the front yard. Everything about the house looked cool and relaxing. Except for the loud African music coming from the backyard. The three Sunday strollers followed the music back to a garage that was newly painted yellow with crayon blue trim.