Walkin The Dog sf-2 Page 17

  Two hours later Socrates was transferred out of the Trancas detention facility. As a good-bye present he gave James the jagged bottom of the broken saltshaker.

  They met in the judge's chambers. It wasn't a trial, just an inquiry, that was what Judge Radell said. He was an older white man with white hair and blue veins at his temples. There was a hint of blue in his washed-out eyes and an air of certainty about him that made Socrates nervous.

  “Now is this a property disagreement or a question of assault?” Judge Radell asked.

  “A little of both, Your Honor,” Kenneth Brantley, the Cherry Hill Development Company lawyer, said. He was there with Burris and Trapps. The two men were dressed neatly in suits. Burris's jaw was still swollen and there were cuts across Trapps's face from his spill in the alley. “Mr. Fortlow was illegally occupying our property and he assaulted Mr. Trapps and Burris when they were merely executing their job.”

  “That's not true, Your Honor,” an unusually subdued Brenda Marsh said.

  “What isn't, Brenda?” the judge asked.

  “None of it. I've presented Mr. Fortlow's documents. These men were destroying his home and property. My client is gainfully employed and he has tried to pay his rent.”

  The judge lifted the cover of a manila folder on his desk. He didn't read much.

  “He sent a few money orders nine years ago and that makes him the legal occupant? Sounds rather slim, counselor.”

  “He paid first and last month's rent, Your Honor. No one ever tried to evict.” All of her brash tone was gone. Socrates thought that maybe Brenda Marsh had learned something even if James had not.

  “Okay.” Judge Radell smiled and put up his hands. “Why no eviction procedure, Mr. Brantley?”

  “We have no legal relationship with Mr. Fortlow. I don't know whether that document is real or not but Price Landers died almost ten years ago. He owed back taxes and Cherry Hill bought the estate. The fact that the property went through government hands absolves us from any responsibility.”

  “Absolution?” The judge's eyebrows rose and the question seemed more like an accusation. “You throw a man's bed into the street and call that absolution?”

  “It was our property, Your Honor. Mr. Fortlow had to know—”

  “Where was he going to sleep that night?” the judge asked. And before Brantley could reply, “Why couldn't you just knock on the door and say that he needed to move? Was your company going to lose money? Were you planning to build something next week?”

  “There is no law compelling us to take such an action.” Brantley, Socrates could see, was used to better treatment by the law. “Mr. Fortlow was trespassing.”

  “Oh. Huh,” Judge Radell said. “And here I thought it was the court's job to make those kinds of decisions.”

  Kenneth Brantley's left eye closed of its own accord. There was no apology or courtroom wisdom there.

  “And this court says that Mr. Fortlow is the rightful tenant of the property in question, that he will be exonerated from paying the past rent because it is an unreasonable expectation for the current landlords to expect remuneration. And I further stipulate that no development can be made upon any section of that property until Mr. Fortlow has vacated his residence. As far as assault charges are concerned I am willing to hear Mr. Fortlow's charges against Burris, Trapps, Lomax, and Cherry Hill. That will be all.”

  The last four words silenced Brantley.

  Socrates remembered to keep his smile to himself.

  “Thank you, Ms. Marsh,” Socrates said to his lawyer outside of the downtown courthouse.

  “You shouldn't thank me, Mr. Fortlow. If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have spent forty-eight hours in jail.”

  “Don't you worry about that,” Socrates said with real warmth. “I seen a lotta jail in my life. Two more days ain't nuthin'.”

  “What do you want to do now?” Brenda asked.

  “What is it you wanna do?”

  “Cherry Hill isn't going to let this drop. Radell put a hold on a multimillion project. They aren't going to let that alone for long.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “We can take Cherry Hill back to court and seek a settlement,” the young lawyer said. “I think that they'd be happy to see you in court. That way they'd have an opportunity to settle, to pay you.”

  “To pay me off, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  To anyone looking, Socrates might have been staring off into space. But really he was appreciating the swell of Ms. Marsh's buttocks and breasts. They seemed to him in perfect balance. Not large but firm.

  “Mr. Fortlow?” Brenda Marsh said. “What do you want to do?”

  “I think I'ma go see Iula down at her diner and have a home-cooked meal,” he replied. “Yeah. Some home cookin'.”

  “But what about Cherry Hill.”

  “I'll call ya on Friday, Ms. Marsh.” Socrates touched her forearm with two big fingers and inhaled deeply the scent of her perfume.

  “Four hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, Mr. Fortlow,” King Malone said in a rumbling bass voice. “That includes utilities.”

  It was a small garden house in the middle of a green lawn. Killer hopped up and down on his forepaws. Socrates held up the dog's legless hindquarters with a harness attached to a bright yellow nylon rope.

  “The dog likes it,” Socrates said. “What you think, boy?”

  “Cool,” Darryl crooned. “It's bad.”

  There was a large lemon bush in the center of the lawn. Five feet high and wider still. Golden bees buzzed around the tiny white flowers. A snow white cat flitted in among the leaves of the roses that lined the high redwood fence circling the yard. The sun was hot on Socrates' bald head. He did his best to suppress a grin.

  “All I ask is that you keep the lawn mowed and that you rake up after your dog,” King said.

  The air was sweet with lemon blossoms. Socrates feared that the image in his eyes would somehow disappear if he blinked or sneezed.

  “Topper says that you'd be a good tenant. He said I wouldn't have to worry 'bout you messin' up or havin' them wild parties,” King said.

  “Don't party. No,” Socrates said. “And I put all my trash in a big plastic bag.”

  “They pick up on Tuesday afternoons,” King said.

  “Say what?”

  “The trash. They come pick it up in front of the house at about four but you'd do best to have it out there by noon. I got the new rubber cans that the dogs can't knock over.”

  Socrates stared at the small crippled man before him. He was trying to decipher the words he just heard. He remembered the smell of the trash fires when he was a boy living outside Indianapolis. He remembered the brown paper bags they gave him for trash in his prison cell. It would take two months to fill that bag.

  Inside, the house had real oak floors made from wide planks of cured and stained wood. The walls were painted white with a deep green trim and the windowpanes were so old that they presented a mild distortion of the outside yard. There was a kitchen with a gas stove and a built-in sink. The bedroom was large and surrounded by windows. And the living room was big enough to contain three single cells.

  “Whyn't you take it?” Darryl asked later that day when they returned to Socrates' home.

  “I'm thinkin' 'bout it, Darryl. You know four hundred and twenty-five dollars is a whole lotta money for a man ain't paid a dime in nine years.”

  “You get paid. They pay you at Bounty.”

  Socrates loved Darryl and he trusted the boy above anyone else. But he didn't know how to express the fear he had of moving on to some place as beautiful as King Malone's garden home. He'd never lived anywhere that he couldn't leave without a backward look. “Home is where I hang my hat,” he used to say.

  “ or where they hang your neck,” Joe Benz, a fellow inmate, would always add.

  “Lemme think about it a couple'a days.”

  “But s'pose Mr. Malone rent it before you make up your mind?”

  “Then I guess I just have to stay here.”

  “But I thought you said that Ms. Marsh said
that they gonna kick you out?”

  “Yeah.” Socrates had no desire to stifle his grin. “Yeah, I'd like to see 'em try.”

  The Cherry Hill Development Company was on the twelfth floor of the Astor building on Crenshaw. It had glass doors and a beautiful black receptionist who wore African cloths cut in a western style. When she looked up at Socrates to ask his business, his heart skipped once and he forgot everything that he had come there to say.

  “Yes?” the child asked.

  “Has anybody told you how beautiful you are yet today, uh, Malva?” Socrates asked looking at the nameplate on her desk.

  Her smile was a gift that only a man who'd spent half of his life in prison could appreciate.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “Socrates Fortlow.”

  The frown that came across Malva's face brought back the business at hand.

  “Oh,” Malva said. “Please sit down. I'll call Mr. Lomax.”

  “Come in, Fortlow,” Ira Lomax said. His office had a glass wall that looked out over the Hollywood Hills. His desk, which was shaped like the body of a guitar, was made from white ash.

  Lomax was tall and well dressed, black and a little greasy. He stood taller than Socrates but lacked the bulk to reinforce his height.

  “Sit down, why don't you?”

  Socrates took a seat. Lomax remained standing.

  “I'm surprised to see you, Fortlow. But I'm glad that you're here. Maybe we can get a few problems ironed out without any more difficulty.” Lomax was a crook. Socrates knew that from the moment he walked into the room. A man who was too smart to rob a Stop n' Save but too stupid to fly right.

  “You see,” Lomax said when Socrates stayed quiet, “you're costing this company money. You attacked my employees. And just because some foolish judge doesn't know the law that doesn't mean you can hold us up.”

  The silence that followed Lomax's declaration didn't bother Socrates. He looked the sleek land developer up and down and sucked on a tooth.

  “Heavy fists won't stand up to my kind of power, Fortlow. All I have to do is make a quick phone call and your apartment will disappear. If I stay on the line a minute more you could be gone too.”

  When James came into his mind Socrates knew that he was experiencing fear. James, he thought, was afraid of getting beaten or raped or killed. Socrates wondered if the boy had used his saltshaker on Lex.

  With that thought Socrates stood straight up from his chair. Ira Lomax stumbled backward and took in a gasp of air.

  “Listen to me, Ira,” Socrates said. “I know that you know people. I probably even know some'a the people you do. I been to Blackbird's bar an' I'm sure you have too. But I'm not like they are. I don't do it for money, brother. I ain't a thief or a leg-breaker, I ain't a robber or con man. I'm a killer plain and simple. A killer.”

  Socrates paused to allow his words to have their meaning then he continued, “I lived in that place for nine years. If you added up the money I owed it's probably ten, twelve thousand dollars. So if I turn that around then it would be you owe me instead'a I owe you. I'm sure your banker bosses would think that was a good price.”

  “I ain't payin' you shit, niggah.” Lomax's voice was harsh but his eyes were like James's.

  “Then you better not miss,” Socrates said before he turned and walked out of the door.

  For a week or so there was talk about Lomax around the hood. Iula heard a few things in the diner and Chip Lowe got the word through members of the watch. There were men willing to inflict pain for money but Socrates was nowhere to be found. He rarely showed up at his alley home. Killer moved across the street to stay with Mrs. Melendez for a while.

  One evening Socrates showed up at Blackbird's bar. He took the new owner, Craig Hatter, to the side for a powwow.

  Late the next morning Socrates showed up at Lomax's big home in View Park. He wasn't admitted by the housekeeper and so he merely left the expensive box of chocolates he brought as a gift. The box was big, red and velvet, in the form of a Valentine's heart.

  In the next week Socrates spoke to Brenda Marsh three times. Lomax had called her, the police did too. The cops wanted to know if her client had delivered a box of chocolates to Lomax's address. Brenda asked them if delivering chocolates was a crime.

  Craig Hatter met with Socrates at Bebe's bar and said, “Lomax is a pussy, man. He asked me who I could get to kick your ass.”

  “What you tell'im?” Socrates asked.

  “Last I heard Mike Tyson was in jail.”

  The money exchanged hands in Brenda Marsh's office on Pico and Rimpau at the end of that week. Lomax looked scared and tired.He handed over the cash and Socrates signed the letter Brenda had drafted that said he no longer contested the apartment between the furniture store walls.

  The only things Socrates took from his home of nine years were a suitcase full of clothes, a few cooking utensils and the photograph of a painting of a disapproving woman dressed in red.

  He bought a king-sized bed, and twelve folding chairs that he put in his closet with a fancy folding table. He also bought a folding cot that he kept in a corner for when Darryl stayed with him. He had a phone installed. Other than that his house was bare and pristine.

  He walked around the rooms smiling. He had a home that he loved but still he could disappear leaving nothing behind.

  rascals in the cane

  W

  hat I wanna know is if you think that black people have a right to be mad at white folks or are we all just fulla shit an' don't have no excuse for the misery down here an' everywhere else?” The speaker, Socrates Fortlow, sat back in his folding chair. It creaked loudly under his brawny weight.

  Nelson Saint-Paul, the undertaker known as Topper, cleared his throat and looked to his right. There sat the skinny and bespectacled Leon Spellman. The youth was taking off his glasses to wipe his irritated eyes. The irritation came from Veronica Ashanti's sweet-smelling cigar.

  “Is that why you had us come to your new house this week?” Veronica asked.

  “It sure is a pretty house, Mr. Fortlow,” Cynthia Lott cried in shrill tones.

  Chip Lowe sat back in his chair glowering, his light gray mustache glowing like a nightlight against the ebony skin of his upper lip. His hands were clasped before him. They had turned almost completely white with the creeping vitiligo skin disease that was slowly turning the skin of his hands and the right side of his face to white.

  “How long you been here?” Leon asked.

  “ 'Bout two months.” Socrates took a deep breath to keep down the nervous passion that had built up before he asked his question.

  “You need somebody to help you pick out some more furniture,” Veronica Ashanti said. Her eyelids lowered and her hand moved to cover her small bosom. Almost everything Veronica said seemed to contain a romantic suggestion.

  But she was right. Socrates' living room was empty except for six folding chairs and a folding table, all of which had been stored in a closet before the Wednesday night discussion group had arrived.

  “I like it spare, Ronnie,” Socrates said. “I like it clean.”

  “But you need some kinda sofa,” Cynthia Lott screeched, her stubby legs dangling from the sharp-angled wooden chair. “Some place soft for a woman to sit comfortably.”

  “I use these same kind of chairs at the funeral home,” Nelson Saint-Paul said. “We meet there all the time and you never complained.”

  “But that's not a house, Topper,” Veronica explained. “You expect more comfort in a house. Here Mr. Fortlow got this nice new place and a yard with flowers and fruit. He should have a nice big sofa and a chair and maybe some kinda rug. That's what you expect to see in a house.”

  “I like the yard, man,” Leon said. “It's fat.”

  “And if you had some lawn chairs ,” Veronica began to say.

  “What kinda shit you mean by that, man?” Chip Lowe, head of the local neighborhood watch, blurted out.

  “Excuse me?” Veronica did not like the interruption.

  “I said what
the hell does he mean by that question? Do black people have the right? Do I have the right? Who is he to question me?” The anger rolling off Lowe's voice was like a gentle breeze across Socrates' face.

  “I was talking about lawn furniture,” Veronica said icily.

  “I don't care 'bout no damn furniture,” Chip said. “What I wanna know is what he mean questioning me?”

  “He didn't say nobody in particular, Mr. Lowe,” Leon quailed. “He just said black people.”

  “And what the hell you think I am?” Lowe said.

  “That's why I asked you, brother,” Socrates said. “I asked you 'cause you the one know. If you don't know then who does? I mean you read the paper an' you got white people writin' about it. You got white people on the TV talkin', on the radio, they vote on it too. You got white people askin' black people but then they wanna argue wit' what those black people say. Everybody act like what we feel got to go to a white vote or TV or newspaper. I say fuck that. Fuck it. All that matters is what you'n me think. That's all. I don't care what Mr. Newscaster wanna report. All I wanna know is what we think right here in this room. Right here. Us. Just talkin'. It ain't goin' on the midnight report or the early edition or no shit like that.”

  Silence followed Socrates' declaration. A police helicopter passed overhead but it could not have suspected the conversation unfolding below. And even if the policemen knew what was about to be said they wouldn't have wondered or worried about mere words.

  “Wh-wh-what do you mean, Mr. Fortlow?” Nelson asked after the loud rush of the helicopter passed on. “I mean we all know what's been done to us that's wrong. We all know what we got to do to make our lives better.”

  “We do?” Socrates stared hard at the middle-class mortician. “We don't all look the same. We don't all talk alike. We ain't related. The only things we got in common is what's on the TV an' in the papers. And ain't nuthin' like that made from black hands or minds.”

  “But we know,” young Mr. Spellman said.

  “What is it you know?” Cynthia Lott asked the boy.