Socrates felt big and angry. He was like an animal who just caught a whiff of something. Like Killer, his two-legged dog, who for no reason sometimes in the middle of the night sat back on his legless haunches and cried for all he was worth.
All of that was clear to the ex-con. But what he wondered was where was he before Willie called him to life? What was he thinking? Was he just like a dog? Waiting for food or foe or sex to wake him from slumber?
He wanted to say something about all that but didn't know how.
Socco, Young Tito Young said. Maybe he'd said it more than once.
What?
You okay, man?
I gotta go, Young T, Socrates said. He fished three dollars out of his jeans pocket and handed them to the potbellied man. Pay me up at the end an' gimme my change next week.
Socrates left the unfinished game asking himself the same questions, questions that he could ask only himself.
Three days later Socrates had forgotten the game, the arguments, and the questions he had about himself. If anyone was privy to his inner thoughts and questioned why he had forgotten, he would have answered, Man, I got a job, a dog who needs care, a boy I look after, and streets where you got to watch where you're steppin' elsewise you might just walk off a cliff.
Socrates had learned how to survive in prison and you couldn't make many missteps among the convict population. He carried prison around in his pockets like a passport or a small Bible. Sometimes at night he'd wake realizing that even in his sleep he'd been listening to the noises, and silences, on the street just beyond the thin plasterboard wall.
His days were spent watching out of the corner of his eye while working or having conversation. He didn't remember faces so much as hand movements and body size. If two or more big men were walking down the street behind him, even a block away, he'd turn off into an alley or store and watch to see what they did when they passed by.
Socrates didn't have time to think about how his mind worked or how lonely his thoughts were for company. He didn't have much time to think at all.
It's like in a fight, Peter David, a heist man serving five years, once said to Socrates in the Indiana state penitentiary. If you hesitate you're dead. If you think or wonder or ask why you might as well just put the gun to your head. Because there's no time for thinking on the job and a poor man is on the job twenty-four hours a day.
Socrates was coming home from Bounty Supermarket. He'd been staring out of the bus window only barely aware of how the sights slowly changed from the west side to Watts, from lush green streets that sometimes seemed more like botanical gardens than neighborhoods, to hard cracked sidewalks where a choked palm tree could be found every quarter mile or so. From bustling shops, catering to women who had worked on their outfits and makeup for hours before leaving the house, to burnt out and abandoned businesses standing like barricades against gangs of laughing children watched over by tired mothers, sisters and friends.
Socrates got off the bus twelve blocks from his house. There was a closer stop but he wanted to walk down the street he'd been observing.
Hey, Socco, a man called.
Socrates had seen the man's white overalls when he'd scanned the street but dismissed them as being no threat.
Hey, Lydell. What's happenin'?
Hey, Socco, the slender carpenter repeated. His dark face was long and his features were fine. Again Socrates noticed the grief in that face.
What's wrong, man? the ex-convict asked.
Nuthin'. Nuthin' at all. I just seen you. Thought I'd say hey.
Hey, Socrates said.
Hey. Lydell smiled and winced at the same time.
The men stood in the street surrounded by children and old men. Standing still, Socrates became momentarily aware of laughter. It struck him as odd but he didn't think any more about it.
Well, he said. I better be goin'. See ya, Lydell.
See ya, Socco, Lydell said but he kept a steady gaze in Socrates' eye.
Well, okay, Socrates said. I better be goin'.
You was up in prison, right, Socrates? Lydell asked.
Socrates gave the carpenter a hard look but it was wasted on the deep sadness of the man.
Yeah, Socrates answered. Yeah I was up there. Way up in there.
Me too, Lydell said. I killed a man an' they send me up there. Send me up there. Yeah, you know. For manslaughter.
The street was full of people but there were no witnesses to Lydell's confession. No one but Socrates was listening to the anguished carpenter.
You wanna go get a drink? Socrates asked his newfound friend.
Bebe's bar was run by a black Chicano named Paolo Herrera who everybody called Chico. He got that name because of the hat he wore, which was reminiscent of the Marx brother's. Bebe's was one of the few places where the Latino and Negro races mingled around Socrates' neighborhood. That was because of Chico's appearance which he inherited from his mother, a descendent of a Brazilian woman from BahÍa.
Socrates went into Bebe's place now and then because it reminded him of prison. Only men patronized the bar. They played chess but there was no jukebox. They talked in low voices keeping secrets that no one cared about. And everyone was always watching, on the lookout for any trouble. Socrates felt safe among the denizens of Bebe's bar because he could relax a little surrounded, as he was, by sentries who he could trust to sound the alarm.
Socrates knew from the minute they went into Bebe's that Lydell had told the truth when he said that he was an ex-con. The carpenter shot glances in all directions, sizing up men and groups with immediate certainty. He looked around for a table against a wall but they were all taken.
We could sit at that table over there, Socrates told his companion. Bebe's is cool.
He pointed to a spindly legged wooden table that was almost black from cigarette burns and stains.
Two beers, Chico, Socrates said to the owner who stood behind the oak-stained pine bar.
It's just beer and whiskey, Socrates said to Lydell. Scotch and gin. No brand names or special drinks. Chico got soda water but no tonic. And if you wanna sandwich you gotta bring it in yourself.
The room was well lit. The pale linoleum floor was clean and swept. Lydell swiveled his head from side to side taking in the corners, but there were no hiding places at Bebe's.
Where'd you do your time? Socrates asked.
Soledad. You?
Back east. This wasn't Socrates' confession. He didn't feel the need to unburden himself.
The beers came with Chico, who sat down for a little while to say hello to Socrates and to check out the new man. Lydell passed the test because all he said was Hello.
A man with no questions, Socrates said to Lydell when Chico went away, is a man you could almost trust.
It was the first friendly smile to cross Lydell's lips that Socrates could remember. But the grin was followed by that pained grimace. Socrates could remember when happiness brought him pain. He was considering asking the carpenter what had he done but Lydell beat him to it.
I killed my friend. My wife's boyfriend. Henry Wentworth. Lydell looked at Socrates who held up his empty glass for Chico to see. He was with my wife. In the bed. In my own damn bed. An' I killed him with a knife. Stabbed the motherfucker. Forty-two times they said.
You got your crazies, your criminals, your slackards and your good men,
Cap Richmond, the seventy-year-old lifer, used to say.
Good man kill ya 'cause he just couldn't live knowin' you did him like that an' didn't pay for it.