Walkin The Dog

“Ronald Logan. He was raised not five blocks from your house. Fell in with gangsters. Went to jail and came out wrong. It's amazing to me how they take these children and turn 'em into something that isn't even human any more. That boy was a terror on the street for the whole time he was out of jail. Ten days. No. No I'm a liar. It was nine days. Nine days and then they found him dead in the alley right up the street here.”

“Somebody shoot'im?”

“Crushed his skull. That's what his mother told me. And you know I believe that she was relieved. Relieved that the evil she released on this world was gone.” Topper had a Bible group that met on Friday evenings at his funeral home, business permitting. He sounded like a minister but Socrates liked him anyway.

“You doin' the funeral?” Socrates asked as if just making conversation.

“When the coroner gets through with the body. When there's a murder the coroner has to take a look. He don't do much.” Nelson Saint-Paul sneered in professional disdain. “Just take a look and then release the body. Only it usually take him a whole week to get to it because of the backlog they got. Backlog of death. You know that's a shame.”

Socrates winced but remained quiet.

He was thinking about the bodies he had seen in his life. The dead men and women, almost all of them dead before they should have been. He considered Ronald Logan, who had just been a corpse until Nelson named him. Now he had a mother and a history.

“Socrates,” Nelson was saying.

“Huh?”

“Where are you, man? Here I am offerin' you employment and there you are examining your feet.”

“Sorry.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You wanna try doin' a little work for me?”

“What you want? Some kinda janitor?”

“Naw. Janitor's easy to find. I need somebody to help with the embalming and the preparation for service. You know that's a real profession ain't gonna fall outta style.”

Socrates put both of his hands on the table to keep his balance. He felt as if he might fall right out of his chair. Dumb luck, that's what they called it in stir. Dumb luck.

In prison,

Cap Richmond used to say,

every day is April Fool's day. After 'while you begin to think that life is just one big gag.

“Lemme see 'bout that,” Socrates said. “You know I might have to go outta town a little while. But if I don't I'll be by.”

He stayed at Iula's house that night. They got there at about midnight. Four bright red numbers burned

03:39

when Iula finally said, “Baby, I cain't take no mo' right now. Not right now.”

Socrates rolled back on his side and reached for her in the darkness. She took his hand in hers.

“I'm sore all over, honey,” she said. “But that's not complainin'. I just ain't that young anymore.” She chuckled for a moment and then added, “Maybe I wasn't ever that young. You was goin' at it like you just got outta jail yesterday.”

Socrates woke up at five. He sat around the big living room thumbing through old

Jet

magazines and waiting for the sun. Every now and then he'd wonder if the police had been to his house, if they issued a warrant once they found him missing.

“Mornin',” Iula said, breaking Socrates' trance.

“Hey, baby.”

“What you thinkin' 'bout?”

“That it ain't true that a white man think we all look alike. That if there was a white man out there lookin' for me he'd know just who to look for.”

“Why a white man be lookin' for you?” Iula's question was pointed but Socrates didn't care. Iula was a sharp woman.

“Any reason. I owe him money, kissed his daughter, forgot to take off my hat.”

“Where you been wearin' that hat?”

“You ever?” Socrates said as the beginning of a question. But the question never came.

“I ever what?”

“You ever think that you the only one out here who cares? I mean that if the right thing gonna get done it's you got to do it 'cause nobody else even know?”

Iula frowned. She looked at the man who had worn her ragged with love. She shook her head and then turned to leave the room. A while later Socrates smelled coffee brewing. When Iula returned with her tarnished, silver-plated tray she was still frowning.

Socrates raised his head as she handed him a white diner mug.

“You a good man, Socrates Fortlow,” Iula declared. “Now drink your coffee and come on back down to earth.”

Killer was whimpering when Socrates got home. The ex-con thought his pet was hungry but the dog refused to eat and cried even louder.

That night Socrates let Killer's cries into his dreams. They were a perfect fit for his thoughts. Ronald Logan died over and over again against the screen of pain. And every time the boy fell Socrates sank lower. There were policemen eating ice cream cones, arresting old ladies and driving fast for fun. There were blind men walking past the murder scene ignorant of the criminal and the crime. Behind it all there was a trumpet playing. It was a jazz man playing but he was an angel too.

All angels ain't from heaven,

his skinny aunt Bellandra whispered.

But you cain't choose your angels so you better not mind.

In the morning Socrates realized that the police were not going to come, that he had gotten away with murder, that there was no price he had to pay.

He carried his freedom out the front door, past the whimpering dog, and on the bus to work. His freedom wasn't light or happy or proud. People spoke to him but he didn't understand and had to ask them to repeat what they'd said. They'd oblige but still Socrates didn't get it. Finally he'd just nod his head as if he knew what they meant.

“Sumpin' wrong wit' you?” young Darryl asked him on their one forty-five lunch break.

“I don't know if it's me or everybody else, Darryl. Damn.”

“What is it?”

Socrates looked at the boy. They were both killers. But Darryl still had a chance to be better.

“How you feelin', Darryl?” Socrates asked.

“Okay.”

“How is it out there with Howard and Corina?”

“Okay I guess. I mean Howard always talkin' 'bout how good he is. 'Bout his job an' how him an' Corina wanna buy that house they rentin'. It's like he braggin' all the time but he okay.”

“But you could talk to 'im, right?” Socrates wanted to know. “I mean if you got a problem you could talk to Howard.”

“If I got a problem I could talk to you,” Darryl said simply.

“But if you was home and you wasn't gonna come in to work,” Socrates argued. “If you couldn't see me for a few days you could talk to Howard and Corina, right?”

“I guess,” Darryl said, sounding no happier than Socrates felt.

It was sixteen miles from work to Socrates' home. He decided to walk part way, telling himself that it wasn't much longer than waiting for the bus to come.

On the way he had a talk with himself. A talk about what if.

“What if the cops drove up beside me right now?” he asked himself as he neared Robertson and Olympic. “What if they stopped me and said, ‘Hey, niggah, what you doin' walkin' on the street up here? You live around here?’”

Socrates thought he might say, “I live in this city. I pay the tax pay your salary and fix these here streets. I guess I could walk if I want to.” And then, in his daydream, he walked away from them.

But the cops followed him down the streets of his imagination. They stopped him on Fairfax and made him stand up against the wall. When they couldn't find anything in his pockets Socrates demanded their badge numbers because, he said, “Now you gone through my pockets and that's illegal 'less you got reason to 'spect me of a crime.”