In this sequel to Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned, Socrates Fortlow is back in Watts, trying to leave prison in his past, and confronting the most dangerous emotion of all: hope.
Walkin' the Dog
By Walter MosleyBack Bay Books
Copyright © 2000 Walter Mosley
All right reserved.ISBN: 9780316881715
Chapter One
blue lightening
At first he thought the trill and bleating note was part of a dream. A sweet note sohigh it had to be the angel that Aunt Bellandra said the blue god sent, "to save theblack mens from fallin' out the world complete. He got a real high voice like atrumpet an' he always come at the last second, after a fool done lost his job, hismoney, his wife, his self-respect and just about everything else he got. Just aboutdead," Bellandra proclaimed, clapping her hands together loudly, "an' that's when theangel sing."
Back when he was a little boy, Socrates feared his tall and severe auntie. But he wasalso enthralled by her stories about the black race in a white world under a blue godwho barely noticed man.
"When he almost gone that angel just might make his move," she'd say. "And when ablack man hear that honied voice all the terrible loss an' pain fall right away an'the man look up an' see that he always knew the right road but he never made themove."
Again the high note. This time strained a bit. This time a little warble in Socrates'sleep.
"But not everybody could hear it. Some dope fiends too high an' some mens hatin' toohard. Sometimes the angel is that much too late and his song becomes a funeral hymn."
Socrates jerked himself upright in the bed, opening his eyes as wide as he could. Hewas afraid that the music he heard in his dream was really the dirge of that tardyangel?that he'd died in the night and it was too late for him to make up for all thesuffering he'd caused in his evil years.
He sat up on his fold-out sofa bed. There was a slight whistle in his throat at thetail end of each breath, a whistle that blended into the high notes of the trumpetplaying somewhere outside. The music was like crying. A long sigh breaking down intoa cascade of tears and then gasping, pleading notes that seemed to be begging fordeath.
The luminescent hands on the alarm clock told the ex-convict that it was threethirty-four. In less than an hour and a half he had to get up and get ready to go towork.
He listened for the song in the notes but the horn went silent. Socrates let his eyesclose for a moment, then opened them briefly only to let them close for a few secondsmore. He was considering putting his head back down on the couch cushion when thehorn sounded again. This time it was playing a slow blues; a train coming into thestation or maybe just leaving.
Socrates' sleepy nod turned into appreciation for the music. He swung his feet overto the edge of the bed, stepped into the overalls that were on the floor and stoodup, pulling the straps over his shoulders. He slid his feet into the large leathersandals he'd found in a trash can on one of his delivery runs for Bounty.
Leather slapping against his heels, Socrates walked out of his apartment door andinto the small vegetable garden that led to the alley. The black dog raised up on histwo legs and dragged himself to his master's feet.
The horn song was coming from the left, from the lot where a warehouse once stood.The warehouse had once supplied the two furniture stores, now abandoned, that flankedSocrates' sliver of a home?a corridor between the two stores that had been walledoff.
Outside, the trumpet notes were loud and clear. The music took on an angry tone inthe open air.
The night stars seemed to accompany the song. Socrates wondered why he didn't get upbefore dawn more often. The night sky was beautiful. There wasn't anyone out and itwas peaceful and he was free to go anywhere with no metal bars or prison guards tostop him.
The burned-out lot was vacant but it wasn't empty. Two rusted-out cars, several largeappliance boxes, various metal barrels and cans, piles of trash and even a rough andready structure stood here and there designed by the temporary traveler, the homelessor the mad.
Socrates couldn't see the musician but that blues train continued rolling. His auntBellandra's words were still cold in his mind. Leaving the black dog behind the gate,Socrates walked toward the lot, leather heels slapping and gravel crackling in hiswake. Everything seemed to have reason and deep purpose?the yellow light in Mrs.Melendez's window, the cold from the night breeze on his shoulders that he feltwithout shivering.
He stopped at the edge of the lot and watched the half moon just above the horizon.
Baby bought a new hat, Socrates imagined the notes were saying. She bought a yellowdress. They were the words to a song the barber used to play on the phonograph onSaturdays when his half brother Garwood would take him for his biweekly buzz cut.
She's gonna ride that Greyhound bus and take away my best.
"Hey!" Socrates shouted and the music stopped. "Hey!"
The answering silence was like a pressure on Socrates' eardrums.
He didn't know why he'd come out into the dark night unarmed, out in the dangerousstreets of his neighborhood. Three weeks earlier a woman had been shot to death,execution style, and dropped in the alley. The neighbors said that all she wore was asilver miniskirt and one red shoe. He'd forgotten the name but she wasn't eventwenty, brown and slender except that she had large breasts. When he heard of herdeath, Socrates' first thought was that when she was born he had already been fifteenyears in an Indiana prison cell.
Something hard and metal fell. Socrates moved quickly in his awkward shoes.
"Stay 'way!" A small man leapt over a toppled water heater and ran the length of thelot through to another alley. By the time Socrates reached the end of the lot, thelittle man was gone.
"Looks like your watch must be a little slow today, Mr. Fortlow," Jason Fulbrightsaid in way of greeting. It was seven fifty-seven a.m.
"Say what?" Socrates answered, none too friendly. Fulbright was a tan-colored blackman with thick lips that he compressed into the thinnest disapproving frown that hecould muster. He showed Socrates his own wristwatch, tapping the crystal.
"It's almost eight," he said, his high voice like an accusing cat-bird. "You're onthe seven forty-five shift aren't you?"
"My bus driver must'a got it mixed up today," Socrates said in a bit milder tone. Heliked his job. He felt good coming in to work every day. He needed that paycheck too.
"Your bus gets you in too late. You should take an earlier one," the young man said."Even if you get in a little early at least you'll be on time. Yes sir, if you wantto make it in this business you got to take the early bus."
Fulbright clapped Socrates on the shoulder. Maybe when he felt the rock-hard muscleof that upper arm he began to realize that he was in over his head.
"Don't put your hands on me, man," Socrates uttered on a slight breath.
"What did you say?"
"I said, keep your hands to yourself if you wanna keep 'em at all." All the reservehe had built up, all the times he told himself that men like Jason Fulbright werejust fools and not to be listened to?all of that was gone. Just a few hours ofmissing sleep and a strong dream? a fool playing his trumpet in the middle of thenight?that's all it took, one bad morning, and Socrates was ready to throw everythingaway.
Unconsciously Fulbright took half a step back, but Socrates could see in the man'sface that he still intended to say something else. And no matter what he said it wasgoing to cause a fight. Not a fight but a slaughter. Fulbright was tall and strongfrom playing sport, but he didn't know the meaning of the kind of violence he calledup in the ex-con. Socrates couldn't shake the fists out of his hands.
"Good morning, Jason, Socrates," Marty Gonzalez, the senior store manager said.
Fulbright and Fortlow had to turn away from each other in order to return thegreeting.
"Mr. Gonzales," Jason said.
Socrates merely nodded. He liked the fire plug manager. Marty had once shown Socratesa pocket watch he carried that held a picture of his great-grandsire, ErnestoGonzalez, pasted opposite the timepiece. He remarked on how much he looked like hisancestor from Sonora but how little like him he was.
"I don't speak Spanish," Marty had said. "Been to Vietnam but never to Mexico. Mywife was born in Denmark. My kid has blue hair and thinks that Taco Bell is all heneeds to know about Chicano culture."
Now he stood between them.
"What's happening?" the dark-eyed manager asked.
"I don't know what the heck's going on to tell you the truth, Mr. Gonzalez," Jasonbegan.
He was going to say more but Marty cut him off. "Uh-huh. Hey, Jason, why don't you goand make sure that the twins did a shelf count and order form last night?"
"Okay, Mr. Gonzalez. If that's what you want." Jason fixed his brown and red stripedtie and gave the two men a questioning stare.
"Yeah," Marty said, clapping Jason on the shoulder. "You just go on and check out thetwins' work."
The twins were Sarah Shulberg, a Jewish girl who lived on Spalding Drive, and RobynCraig, a light-skinned Negro child whose father was a plastic surgeon with an officeon Roxbury. Sarah and Robyn did everything together. They dressed alike, talked aboutcute boys. Their mothers took turns driving them to work and home again.
"I swear I'ma break that mothahfuckah's head right open he don't get up offa me,"Socrates said loudly as Jason walked away. Marty gestured with both hands for hisemployee to lower the volume.
"I know," the manager said. He was broad but short and had to look up to address thebig man. "He's a prissy prick."
"You better talk to him, Marty," Socrates said. "He come up here sayin' that my watchmust be busted, that I better get on a earlier bus. Man, I take the first bus leavein the mornin' an' I ain't ever even owned no watch."
"It's okay, Socco. Jason's just a kiss ass. He don't know."
"He gonna find out soon enough he keep on fuckin' wit' me like that."
"What's bothering you, Socco?"
"Nuthin'," the big man said. "He just made me mad, that's all." Marty nodded andlooked down at his feet.
"Yeah, he's a bitch all right," the manager said. "Why don't you'n me and Hectorunload the big truck this mornin'? Give us somethin' to do."
Socrates liked unloading the big truck that delivered on Monday mornings. Tons ofgroceries had to be pulled off onto the loading dock at the side of the store. It washard work but Socrates was a strong man. More often than not he was the strongest manin the room.
He lifted and toted, stacked and wheeled thousands of pounds off the truck that day.Hector La Forna and Marty Gonzalez had to take turns just to keep up with the big,bald, black man. He worked until the sweat was glistening on his head. He knew he'dbe sore for a week because even though his muscles were strong they were still oldand reluctant.
"Lets break for lunch," Marty suggested at eleven fifteen.
"Lunch ain't till twelve twenty for the seven forty-five shift," Socrates remindedhim.
"Fuck that. Let's get some corned beef sandwiches from the deli and go over to thepark. I'll tell Jason that he can be in charge while we're gone. That'll give himsuch a hard-on that his wife'll send me a thank-you card."
The little patch of green across the street from the Bounty Supermarket had a parkbench and table, a bronze statue of a nameless prospector and a boulder more thannine feet high and almost as broad, all shaded by a very old and green pine. Martybought the sandwiches, with beer for after the meal. Socrates accepted the apologyfor Jason Fulbright's behavior and relaxed for the first time since three thirty-fourthat morning.
After some solid eating and drinking Socrates nodded and blinked. Maybe he napped fora minute or three. In the stupor he leaned a little too far forward and had to jerkup quickly to keep from falling.
Marty was grinning at him.
"What time is it?" Socrates made to stand but relaxed when Marty put up his hand.
"It's about a quarter to one."
"I'm a half hour late. What's Fulbright gonna do wit' that?"
"What's wrong, Socco? Why're you so nervous today?" Marty's eyes were so black thatthey seemed like bullet holes to the ex-con.
"Wrong? Lotsa stuff is wrong. All kinds a shit. I seen in the paper last night wherethe cops beat up a whole truckload of illegal Mexicans again. Right in broaddaylight. Right on TV. But nobody cares. They didn't learn nothin' from them riots."
"But that's every day, Mr. Fortlow," Marty said. "What's wrong today? I mean, theydidn't kick your butt."
"You mean they didn't try. 'Cause you know, man, the next mothahfuckah try an' kickmy ass gonna be dead. Cop or whatever. I don't play that shit. How about that forwrong?"
Marty Gonzalez was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow.
"What?" Socrates asked after a few moments' silence.
"I didn't say anything."
"You wanna go back?"
"Whatever you say, Socco." Marty shrugged one shoulder but otherwise stayed still.
"You ever worry that you might be goin' crazy, Marty?" Socrates didn't even know whathe'd been thinking until the question found words.
Marty nodded. "Every time my wife's mother comes to dinner until about an hour aftershe leaves."
Socrates' laugh sounded like far-off explosions, a battery of cannon laying siege toa defenseless town.
"You always been a fool, Marty?"
"I guess so. What about you?"
"Yeah, I guess," Socrates rubbed his rock-breaking left hand over his pate. "Fool tobegin wit' now it looks like I'm comin' back for another shot at it. You know I wasgonna break Jason's face for 'im if you didn't show up."
"And I almost let you do it too." Marty smiled. "You'd be doing that brother a favorbut I'd surely hate to lose you, Socco. You're the only full-grown man in the wholestore. Outside of you, it's just women, kids and kiss asses."
Socrates laughed again. "Yeah," he said. "I know what you mean. Uh-huh. Sometimes Iwonder how some'a these men get dressed in the mornin'. An' here I got to listen tothis shit just to make four ninety-five a hour."
"That's all we're payin' you?" Marty actually seemed shocked.
"Yeah. Don't you know what you pay people?"
"Uh-uh. They cut the checks by grade downtown. But I thought you'd at least be agrade four by now. You been here over a year. That boy you look after, Darryl'smaking four sixty."
"Shit. I'm lucky to have a job." Socrates looked left and right then pulled himselfup and on to his feet. "We better be gettin' back." Marty stood up too. He puthimself face to neck with the big black man. "Gibbs is leaving the produce departmentto go downtown. He's going to supervise the southwestern purchasing area."
"Yeah. He deserves it, I guess."
"I need a new produce manager." Marty's eyes did not blink.
"Uh, yeah, I guess you do. Benny lookin' to move up. He got a wife and kid."
"How old are you, Mr. Fortlow?"
"Me an' sixty's kissin' cousins."
"And you work harder than two Jason Fulbrights."
"Not if I sit out here suckin' beer all day." Socrates bit his lower lip with a rowof powerful yellow teeth.
"You could be my produce manager, Socco."
"Naw, Marty. Not me. I just come in and do what I'm told. Pick that up, put thatdown?that's me."
"You're the best man I got, Socco. And I need somebody I can trust in produce.Produce and meat?they're perishable and need a responsible eye on 'em."
Socrates turned away from his supervisor and looked across the street at the hugesupermarket with its vast parking lot. It seemed very far away.
"We better get goin', man," Socrates said to his boss.
Socrates and Darryl worked next to each other on checkout counters five and six,bagging groceries for the four o'clock rush. "How you doin' in school, little D?"Socrates asked his young friend.
"S'okay I guess." The boy concentrated on the number ten cans of tomatoes he wasplacing at the bottom of the bag.
"Okay good or okay bad?" Socrates pressed. He could bag twice as fast as any child inthe store. His hands did his thinking for him? a trait that brought him more troublethan help over the years. "I already brought my report card home to Mr. and Mrs.MacDaniels. They got it."
Socrates finished putting his six bags into the wire cart for a small white woman. Herecognized her face but couldn't recall her name.
"Can you help me, young man?" The white lady smiled at Socrates while skinny Darrylstruggled with the heavy bag he'd loaded. Socrates could have told the boy that hewas putting too many big cans in one bag but Darryl needed to learn for himself.
"Sure," Socrates said to the little white woman in the synthetic brown pants suit."Happy to."
When Socrates returned Darryl was still working counter six but the only otheropening was on number fourteen. They worked through the rush until it was time forthe late afternoon break. Darryl was the first to get the nod from the assistantsupervisor of the late shift, Evelyn Lau.
Darryl left through the deli department. Evelyn always kept Socrates on until the endbecause he was the best worker at Bounty; the only one who could bag for two checkoutcounters at the same time.
After Evelyn gave him the nod, Socrates found Darryl smoking cigarettes with some ofthe other children around the Dumpster at back of the store.
"Come on, we gotta talk," Socrates told the boy.
Darryl dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his Nike shoe. They walked around tothe ice-making machine at the other side of the store and stood there for a whilewatching the blue skies darken.
"How much that shoe cost you, boy?" Socrates asked.
"Regular one sixty for a pair, but I got these for ninety on sale."
There was pride in the boy's voice but he squinted and flinched a little because hecould hear a lesson behind Socrates' question.
"And you gonna stamp out a cigarette with a rubber-soled shoe that cost you a wholeweek's salary."
"It's mines. I bought it." Darryl said. But the defiance was only in the words, noneof it in his tone.
Socrates was the only man that had a right to hit him, that's what Darryl thought.Even though Hallie and Costas MacDaniels were his foster parents, Socrates was theone who had taken him out of a life of gangs and forgave his mortal crime. The socialwelfare department wouldn't let a convicted felon adopt the boy, but Socrates lookedafter Darryl anyway and made sure that he had a chance.
"You work two weeks for shoes you shouldn't be burnin' 'em like that. Bad enough yo'feet outgrow 'em in six months. I mean where you think money come from anyways?"
Socrates could see that Darryl was angry but he didn't mind.
"And what about that report card?" Socrates asked. "You gonna tell me about that?"
"I got dees and stuff."
"An' what stuff?"
"You know."
"What's wrong?" Socrates wanted to know. "Don't you do your homework?"
"They'ont like me, that's all. They just don't care. I'ont know what they be talkin''bout. An' if I ask they'ont even say." The glower in Darryl's eyes reminded him ofthe boy who spent so much time with his Aunt Bellandra.
"Why ain't they gonna like you, Darryl? It's a school. You a student. It's their jobto tell you what things mean."
"But they don't. I just don't get it. They think I'm stupid, that's all."
"You not stupid," Socrates said. "You not. But that ain't gonna help if you fail inschool. I mean what you gonna do if you fail?"
"I could work right here wich you. People work here. Mr. Gonzalez do."
"If that's what you want," Socrates said. "If that's what you want. But don't make itall you could have. Ain't no shame in bein' a grocer but it's bitch and a half ifthey think that that's all you're good for."
Socrates made German potato salad for his dinner that night. He boiled six potatoesand fried bacon on his butane camping stove. He used two tablespoons of good vinegarwith mustard and minced onion, garlic powder, and a pinch of cayenne for seasoning.He ate until he couldn't swallow any more.
Then he pulled on his fatigue pants and jacket, stepped into his high army surplusboots, and put two pints of Myrtle's brand brandy in the inside pockets of the linedarmy coat. In the vacant lot he climbed into a Westinghouse refrigerator box carryinga red plastic milk carton box for his seat.
The sun was down and there was a chill in the air but between Myrtle's brand andUncle Sam Socrates was snug and warm.
He used the oversized bottle cap for his shot glass and poked a hole in the box tosee the night sights. He had brought a half gallon plastic milk container to use as aurinal. Socrates was on a mission like a small boy camping in the backyard, or asniper laying in wait. He nodded out now and then, talking to his Aunt Bellandra in abrandy stupor on the plastic milk crate.
"Does the angel play for white men?" the boy Socrates asked.
"No, baby," Bellandra replied in a surprisingly gentle manner. Socrates thought thatshe must have been drunk to be so friendly like that. "White men don't need thatangel, neither do white women nor black ones either. It's just black men sohardheaded that they cain't do right even by themselves."
"Oh Reggie! Oh yeah!" a woman's voice cried. "Oh do that! Do that! Yeah."
Socrates came awake to the sound of the lovers. The young woman's pleas got him halfhard in his refrigerator box and he had a difficult time getting the right angle withthe milk container to relieve himself. After a while he got it right but the streamwas noisier than he would have liked.
"What's that?" a man, probably Reggie, said.
"Uh, what?" asked his girlfriend.
Socrates managed to stop urinating but the last few drops were as loud as tappingfingers on a tight drumhead.
"Who's that?" Reggie called out.
Socrates stifled a giggle thinking about how he was hiding in a box way pastmidnight. There he was with some clown swinging his dick in the night air and callinghim out.
"Who's there? Motherfucker, I find you an' I'm'onna cut you too!"
Socrates zipped up his pants because he didn't want to fight with his businesshanging out.
"Sh! You hear that, Tanika?"
"Let's go, baby. Maybe it's Arnold."
"Motherfucker!" Reggie shouted. "Is that you?"
Socrates wondered what those children would think if he stood up and busted out ofhis box, if he broke out on them and yelled boo. But no. That's not why he was there.He took a sip of brandy and listened to the footsteps of the sneak lovers recede.
"Beety beety dwa dwaaaa! Dwa dwaaaa!" the horn said. Just that fast sleeping Socrateswas awake and sober and so excited he began to sweat.
He put his eye up next to the hole and looked. At first he couldn't see anythingbecause his eye was still asleep. But the horn kept playing and he kept looking untilfinally he saw a foot, a toe-tapping foot that beat out a fast tempo for the slowsweet tune.
Socrates ripped the box apart and was on the small wide-eyed horn player, a lion on alamb.
"What who you want?" the little colored man cried. "What?" He was more gray thanbrown, more boy than man. He was old and tiny and slender like a child.
Socrates raised the small man by the shoulder and cried, "What the fuck you doin' outhere playin' that gotdamned horn in the middle'a the mothahfuckin' night like afool?"
He didn't mean to say all that. He didn't care why the man was there.
"Lemme go, brother," the man said. "I ain't got nuthin' but this beat-up horn an' itain't worth two dollars."
Socrates sucked down a deep breath and tried not to squeeze too hard. His grip was abone breaker, a skull buster. His hands were weapons trained from childhood for war.
"I don't want your horn, man," Socrates said after a few breaths. "It's just yourmusic woke me up. I'ont know why, I mean why I'm out here. What's your name?"
"Hoagland. Hoagland Mars."
"My name is Socrates, Socrates Fortlow."
Hoagland Mars nodded and eyed his attacker with concern.
"You wanna drink, Hoagland Mars?"
Socrates took the second pint of Myrtle's brand from his army jacket, cracked theseal and passed it over. The musician smacked his lips over his first sip and tookanother before passing it back.
"That's the right stuff right there," he said.
They went back to Socrates' small home after a few sips. Hoagland sat at the kitchentable playing his two-dollar horn and tasting the cheap brandy. Socrates glowered andplodded toward drunk but Mr. Mars didn't seem worried at what his host might do.
"Yeah, man," Hoagland opined, "I played behind T-Bone Walker and right besides LipsMcGee. I played the Dark Room in Chi and all through Motown records. You know Ifigure you could hear my horn a hunnert times every day on the oldies radio station.Shit."
Socrates was surprised that Hoagland had such thin lips. "A black man, a hornplayer," he told Stony Wile a few weeks later. "And he had lips like a white girlain't never been kissed."
Near dawn Myrtle and Hoagland's horn both ran dry. The little man was flagging, headdipping halfway to his knees.
"What you do with all that money?" Socrates asked.
"Spent it," the musician said. "Spent every dime. Real brandy and real blondes.Stayed in hotels where the ashtrays cost more than my whole Mississippicotton-pickin' family could pull down in a year. Huh. Shit. I'd drop a hundreddollars on a handkerchief or tie. You know I done lived."
"So why you out in a alley in Watts tonight?" Socrates asked. "What brought you downhere?"
"Black man cain't keep nuthin', brother. All we could do is borrah an' you know thewhite man wan' it all back?wit' interest."
Socrates didn't wake up until ten thirty-five. His pocket change was missing from thekitchen counter. Twenty dollars he kept in a sock in a shoe under the sofa bed wasgone. He didn't remember pulling down the bed or falling in it. He hadn't heardHoagland Mars stealing and neither did he care.
Socrates got to work at twelve fifteen. The first thing he saw was Jason Fulbrightheaded straight for him down the center aisle. But before Jason reached SocratesMarty Gonzalez grabbed the assistant manager by the arm and talked to him, told ajoke, it seemed, and then sent him on his way.
The stocky manager greeted Socrates and smiled. "You look a little better," Martysaid.
"Say what?"
"I told Jason that you told me yesterday that you were sick and had to see thedoctor. You know I'd forget my head if it wasn't for my neck."
"I'll make it up, Marty. I'll stay late and help the twins with their inventory."
Socrates skipped lunch and both his breaks. He worked straight until eight forty-fiveand then hurried out of the sliding doors.
"Socco!" Marty called at the big man's back. "Hey, Socrates." "I gotta run, Marty. Igot to catch the eight fifty bus. The next one is over a hour from now."
"Hold up," Marty said. "I'll give you a ride down to Venice and you can catch the twoeighty-three."
He slapped Socrates hard on the back and walked him out to his Ford Explorer. In thehigh driver's seat Socrates rode with no seat belt looking out at the dark streets ofBeverly Hills.
"Car's nicer than my place," Socrates said. "Bet you pay more on insurance than I payrent."
"What's your rent?" Marty asked.
"Nuthin'. I used to pay this dude but he musta died or sumpin'. But you know theplace ain't worth much, it's just a space between two empty stores."
"Yeah, well," Marty said as he swerved past a red Bonneville that had loud bass musicplaying out of its open trunk. "I guess you can't beat that."
"Yeah," Socrates said, not really agreeing.
"So, Socco," Marty said. "What about that produce job?"
"I got a job. I mean I know it's a low hourly wage but I get tips for deliveries andI know if I get sick that somebody can take my place."
"I looked up your record. Today's the first time you were ever even late as far as Ican see. You've only been sick twice."
"Man, I was four hours late today, I'm almost sixty, and you don't know me. How youknow that you could trust me with that kinda responsibility?"
"I want you to be one of my men, Socco," Marty said. "I need people who I can rely onto roll up their sleeves, people who work." Marty took a left on Olympic headingeast. The wide street was lined with low apartment buildings and nice single-familyhomes. Not many streetlights and not much traffic to speak of. They made good speeddown toward Fairfax.
The car, Socrates thought, was as quiet as a tomb.
"No," he said as they turned south of Fairfax. "You let Benny have it, Marty. Andjust call on me for anything extra you need."
"You sure?"
"Sure as sin on Sunday."
There was silence past Pico and Saturn and Pickford. Silence across Airdome andEighteenth and all the way down to Venice. But when they pulled up to the bus stopand Socrates opened the door Marty said, "Gibbs isn't leaving for six weeks. I won'tmake my decision until the day he's gone."
Socrates swung one leg out of the door and then turned back to his boss.
"Why you want me, man?"
"I like working with you, Mr. Fortlow. I trust you."
"You don't know nuthin' about me."
"I don't know anything about anybody down at the store. We work together, that's all.It's none of my business what you do some place else."
"I'll think about it," Socrates said. "But I don't know. I mean if you give the jobaway before I get back to ya it'll be okay by me."
"Six weeks," the store manager repeated. "You got till then."
The bus ride took over two hours. He had to transfer twice. The connections were slowbut Socrates didn't care. He was used to wasting time. All convicts were.
When he got to his place he had the feeling of coming home. Home to his illegal gap.Home to a place that had no street address, a jury-rigged electrical system, plumbingthat turned off every once in a while, sometimes for weeks. It was a hard place.Sometimes when he was hungry, before he had a job, he had thought that jail might bebetter than starving freedom; jail or death. It was a place he slept in, a place toread or drink or almost cry. But it had never been home. It had never been hearth orasylum but now it was both of these things. For the first time he was thankful forwhat little he had. He was safe at least for one night more.
Continues...
Excerpted from Walkin' the Dogby Walter Mosley Copyright © 2000 by Walter Mosley. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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