Walter Mosley

by Socrates Fortlow 02 - Walkin' the Dog

  In the middle of the night when he got up to go to the toilet he was hard. He wondered if something had broken, a blood vessel or something. But he knew that it was a dam that had burst, a dam that he had built in his heart many years before. Somewhere between Iula's angry lips and Charlene's eager willingness, somewhere between his promise to Levering Jones and his job, Socrates had allowed himself to want. But the wanting scared him. Charlene scared him.

  He decided that he would meet her in the yard and stay there. If she wanted to go to the toilet he'd point the way but stay outside. If she said she was hungry he'd take her to Bolger's for short ribs and corn bread.

  That way he wouldn't have to do something that might get out of hand. That way he could honor Levering without going crazy and doing something wrong.

  Socrates spent the morning excavating a hole for the coral tree. After that he went down to the nursery on Hooper to get fertilizer for the soil. He read the newspaper and ate canned chili for lunch. Then he went down to Harold's to buy a bottle of Old Grand-Dad just in case Charlene wanted a drink.

  “Old Grand-Dad?” Bernie asked with a sly grin.

  “Yeah, what of it?” Socrates said.

  “Nuthin', man. Nuthin',” Bernie said. “It's just that Old Grand-Dad is Charlene's favorite whiskey and you just axed me for her number the other day …”

  In his mind Socrates was afraid. Deeply afraid, but not for his physical safety. He knew a hundred ways to kill a man. He knew how to disappear and show up when you least expected it. He wasn't afraid of Stony Wile's jealousy and neither was he afraid to die.

  But there he was again, still doing the same thing, making the same mistake after thirty-six years of prison and poverty. His fear was that he couldn't stop making the same mistake. He didn't want to kill another man over a woman who smiled his way. That's what frightened Socrates: he was afraid that he couldn't control his own urges and that those urges would wipe out all the good he had tried to do.

  But the fear was on the inside of Socrates' mind. His face was, to judge by Bernie's reaction, a visage of black rage.

  “Hey, Socco. Hey, man. I was just jokin',” Bernie stammered. “I didn't mean nuthin', man. You know what you do is your business an' you better bet I ain't gonna get in that. Here, take this fifth. It's on me, brother. On me.”

  Socrates accepted the gift because he knew that he couldn't talk without throwing his fists. He gritted his teeth and shoved the paper bag under his arm then he nodded to Bernie and walked out holding his breath.

  For a long time after he got home Socrates rehearsed how he'd plant the tree and drink a toast and then tell Charlene that he had to go to work to do an overnight inventory at Bounty.

  But then four-thirty rolled around and he got hard again. He went out into the yard and began playing with Killer. Socrates had set up two seven-foot steel poles at diagonal opposites across his small yard. He attached them with thick nylon cord. He took another cord, nine inches shy of six feet, attaching one end to the high wire and the other end to a leather harness that supported Killer's backside. That way Killer had the run of the yard and Socrates could take down the short cord and use it as a kind of leash to take his dog for walks. It was good exercise for the ex-con because even without his hind legs Killer was seventy pounds of jet-black mutt.

  By five thirty Socrates could hear his heart beating. By six he was sure she wouldn't show.

  When she finally appeared at six fifteen he didn't know what he was feeling.

  She was wearing a black dress that you would have said, if you saw it on a wire hanger, belonged on a woman half a foot shorter and twenty pounds lighter. But Socrates didn't complain about the deep brown cleavage or the flesh of her thighs. He didn't ask why she was late. He didn't even remember that she was late. He said no more to Charlene than he had to Bernie but his face was an open book.

  She said, “Hi,” and he opened the gate to the alley. She held out her hand and he took it to lead her across the threshold. They walked past the hole he'd dug and the tree next to it. Killer shoved his friendly snout up under the short dress. Charlene giggled and scratched his ear.

  In the kitchen Socrates took Charlene by her waist and guided her to sit in his one good wood chair. He took off her flat-heeled black suede shoes and caressed her calf with a hand that knew a hundred ways to kill.

  Charlene sighed and he said, “Stand up.”

  He pulled the black straps off her shoulders and then went down on his knees again as he pulled the dress toward her ankles. He swung around to sit in the chair. Using his hands he turned her slowly around to look at the body that had lived in his dreams.

  “Baby,” Charlene said in a voice that was almost pleading.

  Socrates could see that she was getting shy from his deep scrutiny and his powerful hands.

  “What?” he asked her.

  “I don't know,” she said.

  They played love until nearly midnight. It wasn't until then that Socrates broke the seal on his whiskey. They had only one drink before going back to bed.

  “What you thinkin'?” Charlene asked him in the darkness of his sleeping room.

  “That it's always about me,” Socrates said.

  “What you mean?”

  “Here I am sayin' that I did this for Levering. But Levering is gone and I'm here with you. You know I think I woulda bust if you didn't come over. It was me had to sleep with you. Even though I knew it was wrong.”

  “What's wrong with it? I ain't married. You ain't neither. Are you?”

  “Maybe it ain't. I don't know. At least nobody died over it.”

  “I almost did,” Charlene sighed.

  They fell asleep in each other's arms.

  At four o'clock the next afternoon Socrates went to Iula's diner. Before he climbed the aluminum ladder he saw Tony working in the machine shop below the restaurant. Socrates waved at Tony who had a blowtorch in his hand. The mechanic made some kind of gesture and Socrates continued his climb.

  Iula was alone behind the counter. Charles Rinnet was in the kitchen bus behind.

  “Hello,” Iula said in a neutral tone.

  “I,” Socrates said.

  “Not quite ready yet but if you give us ten minutes you could have somethin'.”

  “I just had to say somethin'.” Socrates' voice was full of the love that Charlene gave him. It arrested his ex-girlfriend and she gave him a nod.

  “I ain't stayin',” Socrates said. “I just wanted to say that you mean somethin' to me and I care a lot about you. You a good woman. You got a lot goin' for you that any man would like to share. If you need a man today you should have that. And I'm sorry it ain't me. But you know I got business t'take care of before I could saddle a woman with this here heart I got. You know sometimes I feel like I'm gonna explode. An' you cain't blow up on someone you love, baby. No.”

  Iula said nothing but she didn't seem angry. She just nodded and looked at him.

  He kissed her on the cheek and left.

  That night he sat outside with the black dog's head in his lap drinking toasts to Levering's coral tree. At some point he fell asleep. Hours later he came awake. The stars were shining and his neighborhood was quiet and peaceful. He felt safe even though he was outside because there was no light stronger than a star shining on him or his promise.

  shift, shift, shift

  But I ain't did nuthin',” Darryl said in a voice that was sometimes husky and sometimes high.

  “If you ain't did nuthin' then why they kick you outta school?” The ex-convict asked. They were facing each other in Socrates' apartment.

  “It wasn't my fault,” the skinny boy said. He had shot up in the last year. Almost as tall as Socrates, the boy slouched under the angry glare.

  “Then whose fault is it?”

  “It was Cassandra. If she wasn't always messin' wit' me everythin' woulda been okay. But she always wanna be makin' fun.”

  “So you hit her?”

  Darryl's head bowed even
lower.

  “You hit a girl on the school yard but it wasn't your fault? Somebody threw your fist for you?” Socrates brought his knuckle underneath Darryl's chin and pulled him up straight. “Huh?”

  “I didn't hit her wit' no fists. I just pushed her an' she fell. I'idn't mean it.”

  What Darryl saw in Socrates' eyes had meant death for some unlucky men in the past. Darryl knew all those men's names and the exact time of each death. He was the closest living being on earth to the ex-convict/murderer turned boxboy. Darryl had also killed once and confessed to Socrates. There were no secrets between man and boy.

  “Ain't you learned nuthin', Darryl? Ain't you listened t'me at all?”

  “She was makin' fun'a my clothes. I asked her to go out wit' me an' she run to her friends an' started talkin' to them 'bout how I was dirty an' dressed bad.” Darryl was shaking with rage even while he cowered under Socrates' stare.

  “What the MacDaniels said about this?” Socrates asked.

  “Nuthin'.”

  “You told 'em?”

  “Yeah,” Darryl complained. “They just said not to do that no more and that I better just go to Bounty for the day I was suspended so I don't get in no trouble while they at work.”

  “They didn't make you do nuthin' else?”

  “No.”

  Darryl slumped away from the big hand. The ex-convict could see by the way the boy held his shoulders that he expected to get hit. He'd been standing in that posture ever since Socrates came up and asked him why he was at work when it was a school day.

  “I'm not gonna hit you, li'l brother,” the man said. “Somethin's wrong here but hittin' ain't gonna make it right.”

  “What then?” Darryl asked.

  Before Socrates could answer, Killer started barking in the yard. Then a hard knock came on the door.

  Socrates hesitated a moment. Maybe, if Darryl wasn't there, he would have fished his .38 from behind the loose board in his kitchen wall.

  Instead he called out, “Who's out there bangin' like that?”

  “Police!”

  There were three white men standing at Socrates' only door. Two of them were in uniform and one sported a well-worn brown suit. Socrates cursed himself silently for never putting in the escape door he'd always thought about.

  “Socrates Fortlow?” the man in the suit asked.

  “You got a badge, man?” Socrates said in a voice that didn't give away his fast-pumping heart.

  “Don't fuck with me, jailbird,” the man in the brown suit said.

  He was short and well built for a middle-aged man. His face was flat and oval. He had squinty eyes and tight skin but he was still a white man, confident with the tall and athletic-looking cops at his back.

  Confident but no fool. He made sure that Socrates' hands were in sight. They were big hands. A giant's hands really.

  “Inspector Beryl,” the plainclothes cop said as he displayed a badge and identity card in a leather fold. “Homicide.”

  The spasm that went through Socrates' neck and shoulders was one tick away from attempted murder.

  “Are you Socrates Fortlow?” Inspector Beryl asked again.

  “Yeah. What you want?”

  “Put your hands against the wall behind you and spread your legs.”

  Again Socrates' mind went to violence. The policemen were standing close to each other. None of the three had weapon drawn. Socrates was almost sixty and they weren't afraid of him. He could have easily bowled them over. There was a spade propped up against the outside wall that he could grab after bringing them down with his weight. The chances were good that he'd get away. But almost definitely somebody would die.

  A second had elapsed.

  “Put your hands on the wall … ,” Beryl began the command anew.

  It would have to be then that Socrates moved. Those men were all younger than him. He'd have to use surprise to the hilt.

  He turned his head, pretending that he was going to comply. Darryl was standing there trying not to look scared. Socrates felt Beryl's hand against his shoulder.

  The moment for escape passed. Maybe if he had been alone. Socrates chuckled.

  “What you say?” the plainclothes cop asked.

  “I said, you're welcome, officer.”

  At the station they took his green army belt, folding knife and shoelaces. Then he was led to an interrogation room and made to sit down on a metal chair that was bolted to the floor. They attached his handcuffs to two thick metal rings screwed into the floor and then left him alone.

  The only thing that showed how fast Socrates' heart was working was the sweat that glistened on his bald black head. Otherwise the ex-con could have been a dark statue placed in the center of that small room by some sculptor who knew that the truth could only be told in secret.

  After some time the door to the room opened again and Beryl appeared with two other men in suits. One was white and the other a milky brown. The colored man had a thick mustache. The white one had a big belly hanging down. They were about the same height, not over six feet.

  “Socrates Fortlow?” the big-bellied cop said.

  “You gonna charge me or what?”

  “My name is Kirkshaw,” the big white cop continued. “Captain Kirkshaw. Tell us what you know about Minnie Dawn Lee.”

  There was a mechanical hum somewhere in the wall. Socrates wondered where it came from.

  “Do you understand me?” the policeman asked.

  “Do I get a lawyer?”

  “Do you need a lawyer?” the milky brown cop asked.

  Socrates turned toward his fellow black man but he didn't say anything.

  “The key to those chains is the truth.” Inspector Beryl spoke for the first time.

  He almost cursed them but Socrates knew that any show of feeling would bring on some sort of assault. They'd wait until he opened up a crack and then they'd concentrate on that chink until he was either dead or guilty.

  But Socrates could outwait any man who had a home to go to. From the moment those policemen showed up at his door he was a convict again. And a convict could wait his whole life without cracking a smile or shedding a tear.

  “You killed a woman in Indiana,” Biggers, the Negro cop, said. “Did you shoot her too?”

  Socrates' nose itched but he wouldn't have scratched it even if his hands were free. Just that small gesture would have given up too much to the thugs who called themselves law.

  It had already been over two hours. All Socrates had asked for was a lawyer or some kind of charge. He was thirsty and thinking about the woman he'd murdered thirty-six years before, Muriel. He could feel the husky gust of her last breath against his face. He didn't remember the night of the murder at first but this last gasp had returned to him in a dream he had in prison many years later.

  “Tell us about it, Fortlow,” Kirkshaw said. “What happened with Minnie? You wanted a blow job for free? Is that it?”

  The easiest time in a black man's life is when he cain't fight at all. The words were from his aunt Bellandra after the first time Socrates had been brought home for fighting in the street. He don't care about winnin'. No. He know he ain't never gonna win. But as long as he can swing his fists he thinks at least he could hurt somebody else. But once he caint fight at all, even if that mean he gonna die, the black man don't have to worry. He give it his one shot an' now he can take his medicine.

  Socrates let his shoulders slump down when he remembered the words of his crazy auntie and Muriel's dying sigh. The men hovering about him were in charge. They could do whatever they wanted and so he wasn't responsible for a thing.

  “You worried, huh?” Kirkshaw said, mistaking Socrates' relaxed shoulders for defeat.

  Socrates looked at the man's shoes thinking that it wasn't the first time he'd been kicked.

  The questioning went on for about five hours. Finally the shift was up and the overtime was no longer worth it. They hit him with rolled-up newspapers and open-hand slaps. The only blood
was on the inside of his mouth. Bruises didn't show on black skin unless there was swelling.

  When they brought Socrates to his cell, he was tired. He'd learned that the girl in the silver miniskirt, the one found in his alley a month earlier, was Minnie Dawn Lee, a party girl. The police were investigating but they had no leads until someone said something about the ex-con who lived in that alley. They got his records from the prison authority and figured they could close the case before Friday.

  He wasn't a suspect, they said, and so he didn't get read his rights or given a lawyer. All he got was some questions, that's what they said.

  Socrates was put in a holding cell with another man, Tiny Jones.

  “He was the kinda man,” Socrates told Darryl a few days later, “scare the panties offa some white woman at Bounty. Nineteen years old an about three hundred fifty pounds. He come up to me not one minute after I was there an' say, ‘You got some fuckin’ cigarettes on you, old man?'”

  “What you say?” Darryl asked.

  “I pushed him wit' one hand an' he fount himself up against the wall. After that he just went back to his cot an' stayed quiet.”

  “Fortlow.” The voice came from far away. Socrates imagined a black giant that sometimes appeared in his dreams. A big man with powerful limbs who came to remind Socrates, now and then, that there was a lot of work left for him to do.

  “Fortlow.” But it was only a policeman, a guard really. “Your lawyer's here.”

  “Have I been charged?”

  “Come on,” the uniformed guard said. “I don't have time to waste on you.”

  “Ernesto Chavez,” the lawyer said to Socrates. He was slender and sharp with a razor thin mustache and eyebrows that might have been plucked. His skin was olive and his eyes were the sleek color of a black widow spider's skin.

  “Who sent you?” Socrates asked.

  “Marty Gonzalez asked me to represent you.”

  “Shit,” Socrates said through the mouthpiece in the wire-reinforced plate glass. “Man, I couldn't even buy you pomade.”