“Here,” Socrates said, throwing his napkin toward the corner. “Cover it up.”
Right tried, and was mostly successful, but he didn’t seem to care very much.
“You wanna go, Right?”
“In a minute, Socco. First I wanna tell you about what I done. And then I wanna ask you somethin’.”
“Okay. But you know Charla ain’t gonna be smilin’ too hard if she see that mess.”
“I got a insurance policy, Socco,” Right said. He was sweating now, his good hand was shaking. “Twenty thousand dollars. You get five and Luvia get the rest. She know about it. All the stuff in my bottom drawer is yours. Luvia know that too. And there’s some letters to the boys, you know, Stony and Ralph and them.” As Right spoke his voice drifted off as if he were thinking about something else.
“Right,” Socrates said. “We better go, man.”
“What you think about me?”
“Say what?”
“I wanna know what you see when you look at me, Socrates. I always wanted to know, but a man cain’t ask that kinda question of another man. But now I can.”
“What you want?”
“I want you t’tell me what you see when you see me.”
“I don’t know, man. You my friend. That’s all. My friend.”
Right smiled and nodded, waiting for more.
Socrates didn’t want to say any more though. He didn’t want to be in that room full of young love and loud music. He didn’t want to be drunk. He didn’t want to watch Right die.
“I don’t know, Right. What you want me to say? You my friend. My friend …”
Charla came up then and asked, “Is he sick?”
“Yeah.”
{5.}
Holding Right up, Socrates walked from the loud club. He went out to a bus stop on Crenshaw and sat.
“I’ma go get us a taxi, Right. You just wait here.”
But Right put out a weak hand and stayed his friend’s departure.
“Let’s just wait for a bus, man,” he said. “I like the lights movin’.”
They sat for a few minutes in the noise of the street. It was about ten. There were lots of cars droning and honking and blaring loud music. There were sirens and swooping helicopters and blinking neon signs.
Socrates was afraid that the cool of the evening would kill Right.
“That’s okay, Socco,” the old war veteran whispered. “I know what you see.”
“Say what?”
“I know you love me, man. I love you too.”
“Yeah.”
“Help me get my pills,” Right said.
Socrates fished the bottle out of his friend’s pocket.
“Pour me out ten and then take it away.”
Socrates did what he was told.
They sat after that for a long while. Right closed his eyes and slept or maybe, Socrates thought, he died.
When the bus was coming he shook Right’s shoulder and the old man sat up, a little stronger.
“Come on, old man,” Socrates said.
Instead of accepting the help, Right started putting the pills one by one into his mouth. He’d swallow hard and then take another while Socrates watched.
“What you want me to do, Right?” Socrates asked when the bus was almost to them.
“Lea’me here, man. Get up on that bus an’ go.”
“I cain’t just leave you here, Right.”
“Why not? You cain’t save me, Socco.” Right threw another pill into his mouth and swallowed. “Just let me die, man. At least lemme have that.”
“But you my friend, man. You my friend. I cain’t turn my back on no friend.”
“That doctor you sent me to told Luvia that I’m almost dead. He said that there wasn’t no drug or no operation gonna save me.” Right was looking into Socrates’ eyes.
The light over the dying man’s shoulder turned green.
“An’ this here, tonight, is the best I’m ever gonna feel again. Drunk an’ high. I can still smell that waitress.” Right held up his gnarled hand. “Let me die wit’ sumpin’.”
The bus was almost on them.
Socrates wanted to do something but there was nothing to do. There was nothing to say. Right had said it all. He’d said it in his strong voice, the voice he used when he wanted to emphasize his manhood. It was that tone that made Socrates know he had to let go.
The bus stopped with a flatulent hiss and the doors levered open. Socrates stood up, felt the liquor in his head and staggered onto the steps. He turned around and grabbed the door to keep it from closing.
“Hey, man, what’s wrong with you?” the driver shouted. “Let that door go.”
Right smiled, actually showed his teeth, and waved at Socrates.
Socrates backed up into the cab, the doors slammed angrily, and the bus carried him away. He tried to get to a window, to wave one more goodbye, but the bus was crowded and by the time he’d reached the back he was too far away to see his friend.
The bus sped headlong into the dense night. More than once Socrates reached for the buzzer, intent on getting off and running back to his friend. But every time he pulled his hand away. He thought of Right gritting his teeth and wilting to the side; he thought of the .45 in his pocket and the power to end his own life.
“He don’t need no police car or hospital,” Socrates muttered. “He don’t need none’a that shit. And neither do I.”
WALTER MOSLEY is the New York Times bestselling author of the acclaimed Easy Rawlins mysteries, all available from Pocket Books: Devil in a Blue Dress, adapted for the motion picture starring Denzel Washington, A Red Death, White Butterfly, Black Betty, A Little Yellow Dog, and Gone Fishin. His novel RL’s Dream, the story of a dying blues musician and a redemptive friendship on the streets of New York, was hailed as “Mosley’s finest achievement“ (San Francisco Review of Books). His acclaimed short story collection, Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned, marks the debut of a compelling new character, streetwise ex-convict Socrates Fortlow.
He is a former president of the Mystery Writers of America, a member of the board of directors of the National Book Awards, and the founder of the PEN American Center’s Open Book Committee.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CONTENTS
CRIMSON SHADOW
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
{6.}
MIDNIGHT MEETING
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
THE THIEF
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
{6.}
DOUBLE STANDARD
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
EQUAL OPPORTUNITY
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
{6.}
{7.}
MARVANE STREET
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
MAN GONE
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
THE WANDERER
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
{6.}
{7.}
LESSONS
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
LETTER TO THERESA
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
{6.}
HISTORY
{0.}
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
FIREBUG
{1.}
/> {2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
{6.}
{7.}
{8.}
BLACK DOG
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
{6.}
{7.}
{8.}
{9.}
{10.}
{11.}
{12.}
{13.}
{14.}
LAST RITES
{1.}
{2.}
{3.}
{4.}
{5.}
About the Author
Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned Page 20
