All right! Socrates yelled from the ground. You could have the money.
With that Socrates Fortlow, who had never lost a fight because in the world he came from there was no rematch, picked himself up and produced the drab green envelope that contained two hundred nineteen dollars and eighty-six cents.
The mugger took his prize.
Turn out your pockets, old man.
That's all I got, Socrates said.
Empty out yo' pockets, niggah, else I'm'onna hafta hurt you. The mugger slapped Socrates across the face with the back of his right hand. It was too fast to block but Socrates didn't even try. The mugger was so smug that he didn't see the palm-sized stone that Socrates had picked up with his left hand. And once the slap was delivered the mugger had no limb with which to block the hard rock from crashing into the side of his head.
Socrates felt the bone crunching. He heard the high-pitched wheeze of the boy's last breath.
The killer child fell to his knees and then genuflected, pressing his meaty shoulder against Socrates' feet.
Socrates put the bloody stone in his pocket, reached down to retrieve his envelope, and walked the few back alley blocks to his home.
He washed the stone and threw it away. He cut his pants into strips and flushed them down the toilet because of the blood in the pocket. Then he sat in a chair and waited for the police to come.
The police always came. They came when a grocery store was robbed or a child was mugged. They came for every dead body, with questions and insinuations. Sometimes they took him off to jail. They had searched his house and given him a ticket for not having a license for his two-legged dog. They dropped by on a whim at times just in case he had done something that even they couldn't suspect.
Because Socrates was guilty, guilty all the way around. He was big and he was black, he was an ex-convict and he was poor. He was unrepentant in the eyes of the law and you could see by looking at him that he wasn't afraid of any consequences no matter how harsh.
The police were coming so he sat in his chair waiting and wondering if there was some other man like that mugger waiting for him in jail. He wasn't afraid but it was a new thing in his life to be kicked around and beaten by a single man. When he was younger no one could have done that to him.
Socrates went through it over and over, the whole ninety seconds, in his mind. The slap that floored him. The humiliation and the threat. The fear he felt when he realized that he could not hurt the mugger. But when he remembered the stone in his hand and the crush of bone, that's when Socrates paused.
He could feel the police coming after him; could almost hear his name along with the word murder.
Most people don't kill, he said to himself. They don't have to go out and murder. But what else could I do?
He wondered if there was a court somewhere back in the old days of Africa where a man could lay out what had happened and decide, among his peers, if there had been a crime. If there was a world where a man had a say and was concerned about his own guilt. He didn't want to plead but to understand.
He thought about the boy hunched down over his knees paying final homage to the violence he lived by. In some ways there didn't seem to be anything wrong. It was all natural. The man made into a wild thing going against his ancestor who was now half tame.
It was after midnight when Socrates decided to go to bed. The police hadn't made it yet and he was tired, very tired and sore.
They didn't show up at Bounty the next day either. Socrates was happy about that. He didn't want to embarrass his boss or to be humiliated in front of the people who saw him as a friend.
That evening he went to Iula's diner and ordered the fried chicken. It was the best-tasting meal he'd had in many years.
This chicken's good, I, Socrates told her. You doin' somethin' different?
It's just the same old chicken, Iula said. An' it's just the same old me.
You look as good as it taste
was what Socrates wanted to say but he didn't because he was a murderer again and a murderer had no right to flirt.
What's wrong with you, Socrates? Iula asked.
How you'n Tony doin'? Socrates asked back.
He's okay I guess. He moved back out last Friday.
Moved out? I thought you two was gonna get married again?
Iula rubbed the back of her neck, raising her elbow as she did so. Socrates remembered that gesture when she was relaxed at his house late in the evening.
I should'a known that he wasn't no different. Naggin' me about why I couldn't close the restaurant down and spend the day with him. You know a business cain't run itself. Iula looked directly into Socrates' eyes.
I'm sorry about that, honey, Socrates said. You need a good man. And you deserve the best.
I don't know about all that, Iula said. But I sure could use some company.
Socrates knew that in a few hours or a few days at most he was likely to lose his freedom, forever this time.
Could I walk you home after? he asked.
If you want.
I'll just wait for ya then.
You will?
Yeah. Sumpin' wrong with that?
No. Nuthin' wrong but maybe just weird. I mean you don't come in on chicken night. An' you ain't been in at all in weeks. An' I thought you give up on walkin' me home, that you was with that Charlene Willert.
An' I thought you chose Tony, Socrates replied.
Iula's nostrils flared. Socrates could see that she wanted to say more but didn't know how. She
had
decided on Tony. What Socrates did was none of her business.
What night Topper come in? Socrates asked hoping that he didn't sound desperate.
Why?
Iula, can you get up off me an' be civil? I'm sorry if you mad. I thought you wanted to marry Tony. I stopped comin' 'cause I don't have no right to want you like I do if I cain't put up my nickel.
Iula's orangish skin brightened and her lips quivered with words that she held in.
He be in in about a hour, she said finally.
When Socrates touched her arm she sighed.
Hey, hey, Mr. Fortlow, Nelson Saint-Paul, more commonly known as Topper, said. How you doin'?
Not so bad I guess. Socrates took a seat next to the pudgy undertaker who was named for the top hat he wore at services in his funeral home. I mean I'm still breathin' and I'm still free.
Would you like something to eat? graciously asked the undertaker.
Take some coffee if you offerin'.
Done, Topper said. Mrs. LaPort, please bring my friend some coffee and a slice of coffee cake.
Iula nodded but didn't move. There were a lot of customers in the diner that evening. Socrates didn't mind waiting. It was a little after eight o'clock and Iula wasn't off until eleven at the earliest.
He sat and discussed the day's events with Topper, who was one of the few men Socrates knew who read the newspapers each day. In prison there was a limited amount of news allowed to get out among the general population. Among a certain crowd talk about the news was like real cream in your coffee or a glimpse of the sea.
Sometimes Socrates sought Topper out to discuss the news but this day he had another purpose in mind.
After Topper and Socrates had dispatched with international and national events they discussed local comings and goings.
I heard somebody got killed down near me, Socrates said almost incidentally.
You mean that Logan child? Topper asked.
Socrates shook his head. Was that his name?