The Right Mistake

by Mosley, Walter

  Billy leaned forward.

  Wan Tai placed his hands on the table before him.

  “It means,” Socrates said, “that Mr. Zetel has twenty-five black and brown chirren workin’ for him. They drive around the city lookin’ for things thrown away that can be fixed. They work in a little workshop he got up in Silverlake. They make a livin’ and learn a trade all under this man here.”

  “Prob’ly gettin’ rich off ’em too,” Zeal said.

  “So what if he make a dollah?” Socrates said, coming to his feet. “They gonna do bettah wit’ you? Carryin’ guns? Dealin’ drugs?”

  Ronald Zeal clutched his hands on imaginary weapons and cut his eyes to laser points on Socrates. The fight brewing between them sent waves through the room.

  “What about a niggah?” Leanne Northford said, obviously addressing Zeal.

  Ron’s eyes were still on Socrates but his hands loosened a bit. He glanced briefly at the small social worker.

  “What about a niggah,” Leanne said again, “who kills his brothers? Lays ’em out in a coffin for their mothers and fathers to cry ovah.”

  “What you talkin’ ’bout, woman?” Zeal said, turning his head fully to regard her.

  “What about you, niggah?” the previously sedate lady said. “You walkin’ down the street laughin’ an’ drinkin’ while Thomas King and Terry Lingham laid up there in the cemetery.”

  Zeal seemed stunned by Leanne’s declaration. He looked at her as if he had not understood the words.

  “Killer,” she said. “Just a damned killer. Talk about that little white man like he was our enemy. You the enemy, niggah. I been alive seventy-one years an’ I seen it all—but you are the first black man that I have evah called a niggah. The first one— niggah.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this shit,” Zeal said. He set the chair upright and turned.

  “Sit down, Ron,” Socrates commanded.

  “You think you can make me?”

  “I know I could,” Socrates said simply. “But it’s not an order. I want you to stay here. This woman not insultin’ you. She hates you right now. She really do. But she got reason. You know it’s true. I’m not askin’ you to confess or apologize or nuthin’ like that. I’m just sayin’ sit down an’ finish your gumbo an’ tell us somethin’.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me why it’s okay for one black man to shoot down another one but it’s wrong for Chaim here to make a buck while teachin’ our youngsters a trade.”

  Something in Socrates’ tone persuaded the angry young man. He banged the chair into position and sat. Leanne was staring across the table at him.

  Luna was watching Socrates.

  “You old people don’t understand what it’s like out here,” Zeal said to the dark tabletop. “It’s a fuckin’ war out here.”

  “Did Thomas King and Terry Lingham attack you?” Leanne asked.

  “I’m not sayin’ nuthin’ about them,” Ron said. “That’s for the court. Right, Miss Wheaton?”

  “Yes,” the lawyer said. “Mr. Zeal would be well advised not to address any crime still under investigation by the police and the district attorney.”

  “Yeah,” Ron averred. “But if a niggah disrespects me you know we got to go. If one man walk on you out here then you ev’rybody’s bitch. You got to stand up. You got to take care’a business.”

  “And is that right?” Mustafa Ali asked.

  “Ain’t got nuthin’ to do with right. Niggah don’t have no rights. All he got is his respect, his pride.”

  “But what about the question?” Wan Tai asked. “What about Mr. Zetel? Is what he’s doing better than you, Mr. Zeal?”

  “I ain’t talkin’ to no Chinaman,” Ron said, his eyes glued to the white bowl between his fists.

  “Then let me ask you,” Socrates said. “Who’s doin’ better for our people—you or Chaim?”

  “That don’t count, man. He a rich Jew. I’m a poor man been pushed down by him and his kind from the gitgo.”

  “I’m a po’ niggah too, brothah,” Socrates said. “Me an’ Billy an’ Darryl an’ Tony here. Po’ don’t mean helpless. Po’ don’t mean stupid. You could be down in Mustafa’s soup kitchen tomorrow helpin’ feed people got even less than you. Naw, man, Chaim’s money ain’t what makes his work good.”

  “Niggah,” Leanne Northford said again.

  “Bitch, you bettah shet yo’ mouth,” Ron told her. “You could get hurt.”

  “She just sayin’ what she sees, Ron,” Billy Psalms said. “You call yo’self a niggah.”

  “Ain’t the same word,” Zeal said.

  “Maybe it is, man. Maybe she mean exactly what you do.” Billy Psalms smiled and shook his head the way he did when he was about to slap down the winning bone in dominoes.

  “You can kill who you wanna kill, Ron,” Socrates said. “Shoot ’em in the back if you want. I cain’t stop you and I wouldn’t try. I won’t condemn you neither ’cause for every bad thing you done I done five. But I just want two things from you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “For you to see the hate you stir up for what it is and for you to answer the question of why you can insult my Jewish friend here when he’s tryin’ to do right.”

  The rigidity in Ron Zeal’s arms released. He sat back and Darryl handed him a Dixie Cup filled with Blue Angel red wine.

  “I ain’t sayin’ I’m bettah than him. I’m just sayin’ he got it easier. An’ I don’t care who hates me. That’s their business.”

  Socrates, who was still standing, looked at the angry youth and then at Leanne, whose eyes were alive with rage—then Socrates smiled. “Billy,” he said, “I think it’s time to bring out that cherry cobbler you made.”

  While the gambler moved away Cassie said, “You still haven’t answered the question, Socrates.”

  “What’s that, Cassie?”

  “Why are we here?”

  “We here to say what we just said.”

  “That’s no answer,” she observed, gesturing around the table with an upturned hand. “Nothing we said here tonight is going to save the world from crumbling.”

  “I don’t know about that. I think you seen things tonight don’t happen every day. Just the people at this table and the things they said make this night special. Next Thursday Billy said he’s gonna put together some Texas chili make you cry. I expect to see all’a you back here again.”

  5. Billy carried out a large Pyrex pan of cooked cherry filling with a dozen short biscuits floating in the red. Darryl followed him, bringing out a stack of smaller bowls while Luna collected the dishes and silverware used for the gumbo. Socrates served this time, passing the dessert around to his left.

  Cassie and Antonio made coffee together.

  Zeal did not partake of the desert—but he didn’t leave either. When the food and drinks were all served the talk became

  light again. Billy told more jokes. Mustafa conversed across the table with Wan Tai. “Me an’ Darryl take care of the dishes,” Socrates was saying to Billy when the front door blew off its hinges and a dozen cops in riot gear rushed into the room.

  “Nobody move!” a muffled order came. The host turned toward the advancing army, watching the short-barreled rifles pointed at them.

  Some police flanked the table in a military formation while others of them rushed into the building, moving through the kitchen. Socrates could hear them stomping on the floor above.

  Amid the drumbeats and the strained faces came a tall man dressed for battle but not bearing a weapon. He was tall and slender, fair-skinned and in charge. He wore gloves and a bulletproof vest.

  Socrates stared at him and smiled.

  “What are you smiling at?” the commanding officer asked.

  “Everybody on the floor!” another voice commanded.

  “Captain Beatman,” Cassie said, coming to her feet. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Socrates could see the commanding officer mouthing the words,
“Oh shit.”

  Wheaton approached the unarmed cop.

  “Counselor, what are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Show me your warrant,” Wheaton replied, holding her hand out.

  “Everybody on the floor!” the second voice called again.

  The rifles rose higher.

  Captain Beatman held up a hand and the rifles came down. He handed an official looking sheet of paper to the lawyer. She read it over quickly and laid it on the table, next to Socrates.

  “Drugs?” Wheaton asked.

  “We saw Ronald Zeal coming to this address. We suspect him of trafficking.”

  “So you break down an innocent man’s door?”

  “Mr. Fortlow is an ex-convict.”

  Socrates’ smile became a grin. The footsteps upstairs rumbled like thunder.

  “Either kill us all or leave,” Cassie Wheaton said, the waver in her voice underscoring anger, not fear.

  “Morton,” Beatman said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Any contraband?”

  “No, sir. But we haven’t performed a thorough search. With the warrant we can break out the walls . . .”

  “Let’s go,” the captain told the man who wanted everyone groveling.

  “But, sir . . .”

  “Let’s move.”

  “Everyone out!” the frustrated number two ordered.

  As the attack team moved to leave Socrates stood up and faced Captain Beatman.

  “You know my name?” Socrates asked.

  Socrates held out a hand to the man. For some reason Beatman shook it.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Socrates said. “Without you they might not have come back.”

  Beatman released his grip and turned away.

  “Clear your calendar for tomorrow, Captain,” Cassie said as the captain went out the door. “I will see you in your commander’s office in the morning.”

  6.

  At the door, when he was leaving, Ron Zeal looked Socrates in the eye. “I ain’t dealin’ no drugs, man,” he said. “Must be some othah niggah they lookin’ for.”

  “Thanks for comin’,” Socrates replied.

  “I ain’t comin’ back.”

  Darryl was in the kitchen washing the cherry cobbler casserole dish. Marianne Lodz and Luna were the last ones leaving. A driver in a late model Lincoln was waiting at the curb.

  “We’ll come back next week for sure, Mr. Fortlow,” Marianne said, kissing his cheek. “You know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “Say hey to Leroy for me.”

  “Okay. Come on, Luna.”

  As the light-skinned singer waltzed toward her car her darker

  companion lingered. “I won’t come next week if you don’t want me to,” the young woman said. Her stare was almost a threat—definitely a challenge.

  “Why wouldn’t I want you?” Socrates asked. “I’m the on’y one heah you didn’t pick,” she said. “I might not belong.”

  “I asked Billy too.”

  “So?”

  “Billy’s a gambler. What good is a gambler without a wildcard?”

  When Luna smiled Socrates knew that he was right to hold onto her. She shook his hand, grabbing three of his fingers carelessly, and then hurried out to the car where Marianne was calling for her.

  “Darryl,” Socrates said as he returned to the kitchen. “Uh-huh.”

  “Stop washin’ for a minute.”

  Darryl turned off the water and brushed his hands against his

  already damp clothes.

  “What you think about tonight?” Socrates asked him. “It was all right I guess. For a minute there I thought we was

  gonna get killed.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But I don’t really know what it was about.”

  “Me neither but we both will. That’s for sure.”

  He caught the boy in a headlock and wrestled him to the floor. Darryl struggled free and they both laughed and laughed.

  TWO WOMEN

  1. Myrtle Brown lived on the fourth floor of an apartment building on Piney Court, two blocks over from Hooper. The wooden structure was painted a bright turquoise blue and edged in navy, which made it stand out almost as much as the tin-plated Big Nickel where Socrates met with people from all over SouthCentral and beyond talking about what was and what might be.

  The zigzagging stairway leading up to Myrtle’s door ran along the exterior of the house on the driveway side. Socrates could hear the wooden steps straining, sighing under his muscular weight. He stopped halfway up the last tier, not because he needed to rest but to enjoy a momentary reverie celebrating his now long ago release from prison. He did this from time to time, especially when he had something difficult ahead of him.

  “They don’t have me in a cage yet,” he said aloud, not for the first time. He stared out over the mostly single-story dwellings and asphalt streets; over the black and brown pedestrians walking alone and in pairs; over the automobiles that stained the blue sky the way tobacco smoke does a white fiber filter.

  Socrates had spent more than two-thirds of his adult life in maximum security lockdown—compliments of the state of Indiana. There he dreamed of this very moment, on Myrtle Brown’s stairs and elsewhere, looking out over a broad space that he could traverse on a whim.

  He felt a deep appreciation for those moments because, like almost every ex-convict, he expected to be re-incarcerated at any moment.

  So what if he was headed for a showdown? He was at liberty right then and could eat a hamburger any time of the day or night. He could buy a beer or a butcher’s knife—or a night with a woman.

  In spite of all these potential treasures Socrates took a rueful breath and climbed the rest of the way to Myrtle’s poorly painted, two-toned, matte-brown door.

  At eye-level the middle-aged waitress had hung the laminated picture a young male musician who was singing into a microphone, beseeching the Infinite for love or release. The man was bare-chested except for a golden medallion that hung from a thick chain around his neck. The singer was fifteen years younger than Myrtle and he still had almost a decade on Darryl.

  A woman sighed behind the door.

  Socrates hesitated and then he knocked.

  There was silence and then the stumbling rumble of footsteps, silence again and then a woman asking, “Who is it?”

  “Socrates.” She said something else but he couldn’t make out the words. There came the indecipherable tenor hum of his young friend Darryl, answering her.

  “What you want?” Myrtle asked out loud.

  “Darryl there?”

  “We’re not dressed.”

  “So put somethin’ on.” Socrates waited a moment and then

  added, “I just got to ask ’im sumpin’, Myrtle.” There was more talk and footsteps, rustling and the sound of the lock tripping.

  The door swayed inward, revealing Myrtle. She wore only a peach gown of satin that barely came down to her thighs. Socrates could see why a man would get hot over her. She didn’t have a pretty face but her legs were shapely and firm and her breasts stood up well under the sheer fabric and forty something years.

  “What you want wit’ Darryl?” she asked.

  Socrates could see the strain in her horsy features. Myrtle had big lips naturally but they seemed even larger now, swollen, almost bruised from the passion she’d had over the past few days.

  “He got sumpin’ for me,” Socrates said, feeling regret for having barged into the teenager’s life.

  Darryl came up from behind the waitress wearing only black trousers. Tall and lanky, dark brown and cowed, the boy looked at the floor saying, “Hey, Socco. Sorry I didn’t come by.”

  They stood there for a moment—the mismatched lovers and the ex-con.

  “Why, why’ont you come in a minute?” Myrtle said reluctantly.

  She and Darryl backed away from the door and Socrates entered the small, one room love nest. There were clothes all over the floor. The mattress of the bed was a q
uarter way off the frame. The radio was on but turned low. Marianne Lodz was singing “Be My Desire.” The kitchen was a tiny refrigerator with a hotplate on top shoved in a corner.

  The room smelled of concentrated body odors, lubricants, tobacco smoke, and incense.

  Darryl fumbled around trying to pull on a dull orange T-shirt.

  “How you two doin’?” Socrates asked.

  “Sit down, Mr. Fortlow,” Myrtle said. She was holding the lapels of her nightie with one hand to hide her cleavage. The other hand she had fanned out over her groin area.

  Socrates took in a deep breath through his nostrils, grimaced and said, “Naw. I just come to get my phone.”

  “Phone?” Myrtle said.

  “Oh shit,” Darryl said.

  “You forget, D-boy?”

  “Yeah,” Darryl said. “I mean no. I mean I got it I just forgot to bring it ovah.”

  With that the boy got down on his hands and knees in the clothes and blankets, pillows and papers covering the floor.

  There was a single window in Myrtle’s studio. It was open and the sun shone but the room was still dark. In the dim shadows Darryl was becoming frantic in his search.

  “You seen my green bag, Myr?” the boy asked.

  “No, baby. What bag?”

  “The bag I always have. You know . . .”

  “Oh . . . yeah. Uh-uh. Where’d you put it?”

  “If I knew where it was I wouldn’t be askin’,” the boy said, his words reminding Socrates of himself.

  Myrtle’s queen sized bed stood high off the floor. Darryl stuck his head under to look, then he reached below, pulling out a hatbox and a small carton filled with paperback books. The books had photographs of scantily clad black women and barechested, powerful black men on the covers that Socrates could see. One red-lipped woman was preparing to kiss her man between his swollen pectoral muscles.

  “What you doin’, baby?” Myrtle cried. “Don’t be takin’ all my private stuff out from under there.”

  She made as if to get down on the floor but realized that her satin covering would come undone and so she just curved her shoulders and bent her knees, pleading with Darryl to be gentle with her possessions. But Darryl did not heed her. He pulled out another box that held creams and condoms, a huge anatomically correct black dildo and a strand of large red plastic beads spaced at three-inch intervals on a yard long red silken string.