Walkin The Dog

Darryl rubbed his hand over the top of his head and stared at Howard the mountain, as Socrates' friend Right Burke used to call Howard Shakur.

“Well?” Howard asked Socrates.

Socrates was still reeling, looking for a reason to get mad. He wanted Howard to go away. He wanted Darryl to go away too, but then he didn't. He never felt like an old man before he walked out of that jail. But now just standing up seemed like a heavy chore.

“What you want, Howard, a medal?”

“At least a thank you.”

“An' if I was so sick that I was laid up in a hospital an' a nurse had to wipe my ass would I have to say thank you to her too?” Socrates watched Howard's back get straight. Howard was strong,and tough too. But for all his weight and youth he wouldn't have been able to prevail over twenty-seven years of studied violence.

Socrates could feel the fight gathering in his shoulders. The tick down along his spine that had almost set him against the police was throbbing again. There was no dizziness or weakness now. All Socrates had to do was straighten up like Howard had and there wouldn't be any question anymore about who was right or who was in charge.

“Hey, man,” the ex-con said instead of altering his posture. “I'm sorry. It's just that I don't know how to act when people get all in my business.”

“We were tryin' t'help.”

“I know. I know. An' I appreciate it. But you know when the shit come down I only know one way to be.”

It wasn't much of a thank you but it was enough to smooth out Howard's feathers. The fat man nodded, considered the ex-con's words and then shrugged his acceptance.

“Leave Darryl wit' me, Howard. I'll bring him out over to there tomorrow.”

The big man nodded and rose to leave. He rubbed the boy's head and walked out through the kitchen. Socrates followed him to the threshhold and watched him walk to his old Impala. At the last moment Socrates went out to his gate and waved as the Impala drove off.

“Why you wanna be tellin' my business all over the place, Darryl?”

“Huh?”

“Howard. Marty. Why you wanna tell them I was in jail?”

“I told the MacDaniels too but they said that they couldn't stand in the way of the law,” the boy said. “That's why I asked Howard if I could go live wit' them.”

“But why you wanna go tell Marty, man?” Socrates asked.

“They killed my daddy up in jail,” Darryl said. “I didn't try an' get him out. I didn't know.”

Cassandra Tuthill and her family lived at Stanley and Airdrome. Darryl and Socrates left home early and got to her house at just a little after seven in the morning.

“Yes?” Mr. Tuthill, a grayish looking Negro, asked at the door.

Socrates, his big hands on Darryl's shoulders, said, “Mr. Tuthill? My name is Socrates Fortlow. I'm Darryl's, um, Darryl's uncle.”

“I don't know Darryl.” Mr. Tuthill was small with sloped shoulders. He was wearing a brown suit with a vest and tie. He'd missed a small patch of hair in his morning shave and he was squinting.

“Darryl pushed your daughter at school,” Socrates said. “He got punished but I brought him over here to apologize. Because you got to answer for what you did wrong. That's what I know.”

Tuthill blinked twice and then took a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. He looked closer at the skinny boy and closer still at the man with the philosopher's name.

“Cassandra,” the gray father called without taking his eyes off of the man and boy standing at the front door.

The girl was a study in round and brown. She wasn't at all heavy but her dark eyes were like big marbles and her head was a pretty ball. The blue dress and yellow sweater set off her dark skin. Her cheeks were apples. Socrates couldn't help but smile.

“Yes, Daddy?” she said. Her eyes turned sullen when she caught sight of Darryl.

“This boy has something to say to you, honey.”

“I'm sorry, Cassandra,” the boy said immediately. “I'm sorry I pushed you. I didn't mean to hurt you or nuthin' an' it won't happen no mo'.”

“Uh-huh,” the girl said. She was just about to turn away when her father stopped her.

“Cassie,” he said.

“What?”

“This boy just came all the way to your house in the morning to say he was sorry.”

“I said all right.”

“You shake his hand and tell him that you accept his apology.”

The girl did as she was told. Both children were somber while the men smiled on them.

“Have you had breakfast, Mr. Fortlow?”

“We got to go,” the ex-convict said.

Officer Biggers was waiting for Socrates that evening when he got home. He was standing at the back gate smoking a cigarette and staring off into the distance.

“Officer,” Socrates said.

“Socrates,” Biggers replied.

“Am I under arrest again?”

“Not this time.”

“You got a question I ain't answered?”

It was time for the policeman to laugh.

“Sumpin' funny?” Socrates wanted to know.

“I don't think that you'd ever answer a question of mine straight.”

“So what you want?”

“I read the police reports from Indiana,” Biggers said. “What you said was true. Even the arresting officer said that you were more in shock than unrepentant.”

Socrates had never heard that. He wanted to know more but didn't ask.

“So as far Minnie Lee is concerned, well, it don't mean you did an' it don't mean you didn't. I wouldn't bet one way or the other on that.”

“So you gonna let up on me?”

Biggers shook his head. Maybe he was even sorry.

“No,” he said. “Beryl and the captain got a hard-on for you now. They gonna be down on you every time there's a crime within six blocks of here.”

“Shit. That's every other day.”

“Maybe you should move. You know if you leave the district they'll forget about you.”

Socrates felt a moment of dizziness but that passed quickly.

“Naw, man,” he said. “They know where they can come get me. I'll be right here they need to play around.”

what would you do?

W

hat would you do if you seen a dude stand up at that park bench over there an' then you see that his wallet done falled to the ground behind?” Little Willie Ryan asked.

“Gimme fifteen,” Socrates Fortlow commanded. He slapped down a four/six domino, placing it off of a double four branch in the long line of

bones.

“Was it a fat, brown, real leather wallet?” big-boned Brad Godine asked as if the event had actually occurred. “Or just one'a them paper jobs made up to look like it was leather?”

Young Tito Young, a man in his fifties, wrote down Socrates' score on his yellow legal pad, three vertical lines to start a new batch of twenty-five points. The five men were sitting at a picnic table in South Park playing dominoes for a penny a point. Lydell Samuels was searching his tiles for a good play.

“Man,” Little Willie complained. “It's a wallet. Don't matter if it cost a lotta money. What matters is if they's any money in it.”

“Yeah,” Young T Young said. “A man got a good wallet might be too smart to be carryin' a lotta money in it. It's a fool an' his cheap wallet more likely to have a fifty-dollar bill up in there.”