What's that?
I ain't scared'a bein' scared, Socrates said with a grin. If I was I couldn't even sleep at night. But I'll take a ride I guess. You know I'd rather be scared than have my feet hurtin' like they do sometimes.
I like what you had to say, Chip Lowe said to Socrates once they were on the way. He drove a 1959 pink and turquoise Chevy pickup. It looked as good as the day it was new.
The ex-con had no reply.
I mean, the watch captain continued, we got to settle this shit about men and women to get on with the problems we got down here. Don't you think so?
I don't know.
But that's why we get together, Lowe said. This was the first time he'd been talkative with Socrates. Before that night he had been cold, even suspicious. So we can talk all this stuff out. You know, everyday people talking. Not no Jesse Jackson or soul brother number one. Just folks. Right?
Socrates looked over at Chip, who was looking back.
I'ont know, man, Socrates said. Talk is cheap. He was thinking about a man, J. T. Helms, who they said was having a conversation about the upcoming presidential election all the way to the electric chair. He talked until he died.
But why would you wanna come to Nelson's if you don't think it matters?
I like chicken and wine, Socrates offered. An' anyway, cheap is all a poor man can afford.
But what you said back there to Leon came from your heart, Chip said with conviction.
Maybe, Socrates admitted. Maybe I felt it but feelin' don't make the difference. If all you leave wit' is a good feelin' you coulda stayed home.
Chip frowned and turned his eyes to traffic. Then he glanced at Socrates and looked away again. After he'd done this a few times Socrates realized that the man had something to say.
You know there's been some talk about you, brother, Chip Lowe said.
Oh yeah?
Yeah. I mean I'm not the sort to get in a man's business but some people out here just ain't happy 'less they can run somebody else down.
Socrates' window was open. There was a scent in the breeze, the odor of human waste.
I just wanted to tell you that people been talkin', Chip said. Then he paused giving Socrates a chance to say something.
Okay, the ex-con answered.
Okay what?
Okay I hear ya. People been talkin'. I know, people talk.
The odor was picking up strength. Socrates tried to pierce the night darkness and see where the smell came from.
It's just that I thought you should know about it, Chip said. A man should know when he's bein' bad-mouthed.
And now I know. When the odor began to lose strength Socrates gave up his surveillance.
But you don't know what they said.
I ain't askin' you about gossip, Chip Lowe. If you got somethin' t'say then just get on wit' it.
It's the police, Chip said in a heavy tone.
Yeah?
They said that they suspect you of killin' that girl, that Minnie Lee that they found four months ago near your place. They told the watch to be careful around you because you were in prison for murder and they think you still at it.
How long ago they tell you this? Socrates asked.
I don't know.
Yesterday?
No.
Last week then?
Well
How about last month? They tell you about me last month?
Maybe, maybe it was then. Chip looked up to see what cross street they were at.
But you waited till now to tell me.
When Socrates rubbed his hand over his head Chip stiffened a little.
For the rest of the ride, only a few minutes, both men were silent. When Chip pulled up to the front gate in the back alley, Socrates waited before he opened the door.
I don't hold it against you, Mr. Lowe. You got to wait before you can know if a man is trustworthy. But I cain't help ya either. I am who I am, you know what I mean?
Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.
With that Socrates climbed out of the truck and went in to pet and feed his dog.
The next day he was at work again, bagging groceries and making deliveries around the Beverly Glen district. It was a hot day but overcast and gloomy. Socrates did his work without thinking much except every once in a while that odor came back to him. The smell of a man or woman who had lost control and was sending out a scent that would bring predators and death.
Socrates, can I talk to you? Marty Gonzalez came upon him in the back room among the other older employees of the store.
Ben Rickman, Larry Cross, and Hal Crown all stood up to leave. They were white men, lifetime supermarket employees. Socrates was the only one of the group who hovered around minimum wage but he was accepted among them because of his age and maturity.
What, Marty? Socrates asked his boss.
I can't hold that job open too much longer, the small bronze man said. There was no trace of a Spanish or Mexican accent in his words. You know I've been without a produce man for six weeks now.
Socrates wanted to say that Marty should give that job to somebody else. He wanted to be left alone but somehow he couldn't get the words out. He thought about Leon and Nelson and especially about Cynthia and how she dismissed men. The smell from the street seemed to follow Marty's question.
Well, Socco? Marty asked. What's it going to be? Gimme one day, Marty. One day and I'll let you know for sure.
Yeah I think you should do it, Darryl told his self-appointed guardian. You could do that job wit' no problem.
I guess so, Socrates said. And Marty's behind me, that's for sure.
They were having donuts and hot chocolate at the House of Donuts in a mini-mall eight blocks down from Bounty Supermarket. They watched five young white boys practicing on their skateboards in the parking lot of the mall.
Then you gonna take it?
But what if in order to get this new job they got to look in my record again? Socrates asked. He didn't expect an answer but Darryl had one anyway.
They ain't checked yet. And so what if they do? You could get another job. But at least this way you got a chance t'get a better check.
I don't know if it's worth all that bother.
But if you get paid better, Darryl reasoned, you could get a phone and maybe you could move.
I don't need to move.
But if you did I could come stay wit' you. If you lived in a place where nobody knew me, then I could stay at your house and you wouldn't have to think that the old gang might get me.
Socrates got off the bus early on his way home, giving himself twelve blocks or so to walk and think. He meant to make a decision about Marty's offer to promote him to produce manager. It was a good job and he deserved it; at least he had done well at work.
But when he got off the bus Socrates caught a whiff of that same odor he smelled out the window of Chip Lowe's car. The smell of someone without a home or hope. The smell of someone dying.
For two blocks the scent gained potency. Socrates passed two liquor stores, a beauty shop, a travel agency and three times that in closed storefronts. He realized that the smell was coming from behind the block and so he went down a side street to an alley behind the stores.
Halfway down the alley he came upon a small wooden structure that was once meant to house trash cans for the weekly dump truck. The graying pine cube now contained the life of a man.
He wore white tennis shoes that had been blackened from the street. His jeans would have fit a child, and the pink shirt was unbuttoned, revealing parchment-like brown skin over brittle bones. The smell was heralded by flies that buzzed everywhere. Socrates recognized the trumpet player.