Walkin The Dog

“I gotta go” was the only answer he could give.

Weakness was the convict's worst enemy. Soft muscles, bad eyesight, poor mental faculties or just plain tired—all of these were life threatening conditions in the state pen.

Socrates couldn't rise out of bed for twenty minutes after he woke up the next morning. The room was spinning. He hadn't eaten since the afternoon of the day before. In the slam the guards would have beaten him to his feet, or to the floor.

Because of the dizziness he had to sit down to urinate. He was still on the toilet when the knocking started.

They knocked for a long time. Long enough for Socrates to drag himself to the door.

Beryl and Biggers stood side by side.

“Can we come in?” the milk chocolate man asked.

Socrates slumped in his good chair while the two cops leaned up against the wall.

“You know we got a quota down at the station, Fortlow,” Beryl was explaining. “They expect us to solve one out of three murders and they expect one out of five of the perps to be put in jail. It's not as bad as it sounds. Because you see if you killed once you probably will again. I mean it's like a habit with you people.”

Socrates looked at Biggers but the black cop didn't seem to think his partner meant any insult to

his

race or kind.

“One out of five is more like three or four outta five because the one you get's prob'ly done a couple'a others.” Beryl smiled. “Like those three Mexican kids killed up on MLK last March. Girl was raped and shot just like this Minnie Lee. Would you submit to a blood test, Mr. Fortlow?”

Whatever it was they expected from Socrates, it wasn't laughter.

“Shit, man,” the big friendly killer replied. He took a deep breath and then sat up straight. “I ain't never bled for nobody wasn't willin' t'give up sumpin' too. Shit.”

“We know you killed her, Socrates.” Biggers spoke so softly it was almost a whisper. “And we intend to bust you for it, don't make any mistake about that.”

“Tell me, Detective Biggers,” Socrates said. “What's your first name?”

“We're asking the questions here,” Beryl answered for his partner.

“Listen t'me, motherfucker.” Socrates stood up from his chair. “I ain't afraid of you. You get that? You ain't gonna scare me into pleadin'. An' if you think you could hurt me then you don't know what pain is.” Socrates thumped a heavy point finger against his own chest. “

I

am pain. Me. I ain't killed nobody in a lotta years. So you could forget a confession. Ain't nuthin' that the cop squad gonna get outta me. You sure cain't hurt me. You could kill me. You could set me up. You can put chains on my arms and legs but you sure the fuck cain't make me lie on myself.”

The policemen stood straight and made subtle defensive motions with their hands. Socrates laughed again.

He looked into Bigger's face and said, “Listen, brother. You one'a them, I know that, but you one'a us too. You know what it's like out here. You know what it's like. Read up on me, brother. Read about how when I woke up and found I had killed my friends I just wandered off to a bar somewhere, I didn't even know where I was. When the cops come and th'ew down on me I gave up. They asked if I knew why I was bein' arrested. I said yeah. I knew. I knew. I ain't no gangster, man. I ain't no thief or hired muscle. I'm just mad, mothahfuckah. Now take this white man an' get outta my house.”

The veins on Socrates' neck writhed as if some unnatural evil threatened to burst through his skin.

Beryl stepped in front of his partner but there was no need.Neither man would have stood up to Socrates, not in the mood he was in, not if he was eighty.

“We're gonna take you down on this one, Fortlow. You'll be back in prison soon enough. And this time there won't be any parole for you.”

Socrates went in to work. He was only half an hour late. He avoided Marty most of the day. Even when they had to talk, Socrates kept it short and gave away nothing of what was going on.

“How's it going?” Marty asked after the lunch break.

“Fine.”

“The police come to see you any more?”

“Naw. They just want somebody t'pin it on. I woulda been the one if you hadn't put your cousin on the case. Thanks, Marty. I owe you.”

“Have you—” the manager began.

“I got to get to work, Marty,” Socrates said. “Talk to you later.”

Socrates was sure that the knock on the door at six thirty that evening was the police again. He looked forward to their visit more than any friends. Enemies brought out his strength. Somebody to go up against where you knew the trouble and were ready for war. That's what Socrates knew best.

He put away his evil grin before pulling the door open but the men standing there were not official.

“Darryl. Howard. How you boys doin'?”

“You gonna stand outta the way an' let us in?” Howard asked.

“I'm tired, man. Been workin' all day. What you want?”

“We done drove all the way out here,” Howard said. “You know I picked up Darryl 'cause he was worried about you.”

“Well I'm fine. Just fine. You don't have to worry 'bout me.” Socrates shifted from one foot to the other as if he wanted to close the door but didn't want to be rude. Howard put three hundred and some odd pounds across the threshold to make sure that the door stayed open.

“What's wrong with you, Howard?” Socrates said. “You wanna get hurt?”

“What's wrong wit'

you,

man? Here we come on down to the jail wit' our piggy banks and lawyers an' all you got to say is you tired and please step out the way.”

Socrates looked hard at his friend. Howard was one of the few men that Socrates was jealous of. He had a beautiful wife who had a job, he had kids that were just like butter and brown sugar. He had a job working with computers and lived in Venice down near the beach. Howard had more than Socrates could ever hope for but he didn't seem thankful or even proud.

“Let us in, Socco,” the big man said. “We got stuff to talk about.”

“… so I went over to the MacDaniels' an' told 'em that me an' Corina would be happy to take Darryl in,” Howard was saying. He and Darryl were sitting on folding chairs in Socrates' sleeping room. Socrates only had two rooms. One was the kitchen, where he ate, and one was for sleeping and talking to his guests.

Darryl was quiet and so was Socrates. Howard explained how when he drove Darryl to school they talked about how he had been suspended for hitting a girl.

“I told 'em that maybe Darryl needed a little more supervision from somebody who come from down where he was from,” Howard said. “'Cause you know old Mr. MacDaniels is okay but he don't know how to thump a boy upside his head when he get fresh or sullen.”

Howard playfully flicked a finger at Darryl's ear. Socrates saw the pain on the boy's face but Darryl didn't complain.

“When they took him in they thought he'd be just like their son that died, like he'd know all the rules. But I told'em that Darryl's a hardheaded boy from the hood an' he needed somebody like me t'keep him straight.”

“What they say?” Socrates asked Howard.

“They were scared, man. Scared 'cause 'a how their son died in that drive-by. You know they worried that Darryl be arguin' 'bout goin' t'bed at night. They think that might lead to crack.” Howard laughed at his own joke while Socrates and Darryl watched. “Naw, man, they want somebody t'take Darryl.”

“They said that?”

“I'ma bring the papers down to social welfare next week.”

Dizziness assailed Socrates again. He felt like a boxer sucker-punched after the bell.

“ 'Cause you know, Socco,” Howard said, not yet tired of his own voice. “You done me some good turns. You helped me out an' ain't never axed me for nuthin'. Corina said that I owed you, man. An' I know that you an' the MacDaniels don't get along so good. But you know Darryl could come down here wit' you whenever you want. I mean me an' Corina'll have custody through the foster service but you could be like his uncle.”