Hoagland Mars, Socrates said loudly enough to rouse the man from his doze.
I ain't, the small man whispered, I ain't got it no mo'.
Ain't got what?
I spent it on wine, man. Yo' money is gone, brother. Gone. Hoagland's eyes closed and then slowly opened again. You still here?
The odor intensified the longer Socrates stood there. He already felt that he should go home and wash away the horn-player's stench.
Get up, Socrates ordered. Get up. He caught the soiled man by his shoulder, lifting him to his feet.
Ow! Damn, man, what's wrong wit' you? Hoagland was suddenly wide awake. He tried to pull away but Socrates held on to the boy-sized man. He held him at arm's length to keep from suffocating on the fumes released by lifting the wino.
Lemme go, brother. I ain't got nuthin'. You cain't take nuthin'. Just lemme go or hit me an' leave. Hoagland was unsure on his feet but Socrates kept him upright, then he began to walk.
Where you goin'? the wino protested.
But Socrates didn't answer. He dragged Hoagland Mars to a phone booth on Ninety-second and made a call to a man named after a poet.
and bring a tarp or sumpin' that we could put'im on, Milton, Socrates said into the mouthpiece, 'cause he smell more'n a outhouse and he might vomit any minute.
The twenty-five-year-old gold Lincoln Continental pulled up twenty minutes later. Hoagland was sleeping on the sidewalk.
Damn, man, Milton Langonier, semiretired gypsy cab driver, said. That smell might get inta the seats.
Just to Luvia's, Socrates said. You can keep the windows open an' I'll pay ya ten bucks.
Socrates laid the unconscious jazz man on the painter's tarp that Milton used to cover his backseat. Milton drove with all the windows and vents open. He also turned on the air conditioner and waved one free hand under his nose.
Socrates carried the man like a boy in his arms. He let the legs swing down and supported Hoagland with his right arm while he rapped on the door with his other hand.
He didn't know what to expect when Luvia saw the mess he'd brought to her doorstep. They had been at a partial truce ever since Socrates had started to pay for her monthly visits to Right Burke's grave. Socrates accompanied her, driven by Milton Langonier. He spoke very little and respected her few moments alone with the old man she'd taken care of and loved in silence.
Rail thin, and mean in a way that only some Christians seemed to master, Luvia opened the door and scowled at Socrates. She looked at Hoagland Mars dangling off the side of the ex-convict like a Siamese twin who had died and withered, leaving his brother the task of carrying him until the day that he too passed away.
Luvia didn't wrinkle up her nose or fan her face.
This here is Socrates began.
Bring him out back to the garage, Luvia interrupted. I got a tub out there we could use. I usually use it for old clothes we get in but it'll do.
She turned and walked down the narrow hallway that went through the house and out a door into a small cement yard. Across the yard was a double door that led to a garage. Therein stood two washing machines, an industrial-sized sink, and a huge iron tub lined with cracked porcelain.
Luvia connected a small red rubber hose to the spigot and tested the water between hot and cold as if she were preparing to bathe an infant.
Socrates didn't need directions to undress Hoagland. It was impossible to tell if the man, who was semiconscious at best, had any objections. Socrates stood Hoagland up in the tub and then he took the hose from Luvia and formed a weak spray by applying pressure against the spout with his huge bone-breaking thumb.
Hoagland began to laugh. He giggled and assumed modest poses like a young girl walked in upon while dressing. He squealed and turned, using his hands to cover his genitals. Finally he sat down in the tub and allowed Luvia to scrub him with an oversized sponge.
Socrates gave her the hose. She just laid it down in the unplugged basin, using it to rinse off the places that needed it. Hoagland Mars lay back in a languorous euphoria allowing Luvia to wash him and move him with ease.
When it was all over the wino had fallen into a deep sleep. Socrates carried him to an attic room on the fourth floor of the house. He laid Hoagland out on a cot. Luvia covered the man and brushed his forehead with her hand. A smile came across the hard woman's face.
If you gimme a hunnert dollars a mont', Luvia said in clipped words. I could get that much again from the city an' then my church will come in with any extra if it's needed.
That's what everybody stay wit' you has to pay?
Somebody got to pay it. I cain't make water into wine or pull bread out from a hat.
They were sitting in a small room on the bottom floor. Socrates sat on the sofa because no chair in the room looked like it would support him. Annie Rodgers, the feeble-minded woman whose mother had died when Annie was forty-two, stood in the hall watching Luvia.
Who paid for Right? Socrates asked.
Right Burke was a guest in my house, Luvia said proudly.
She was still angry at Socrates. She would always blame him for Right's death. He accepted the burden. Guilt seemed to be the proper change for the kind of love he could give.
My daddy was like that, Socrates said.
Like what?
A drunk. Died on the street just like Mars was gonna do. They brought us to the hospital when they found him. He smelled just like that, just like Hoagland did.
I don't have no sense'a smell, Luvia said as she batted the fingers of her left hand against her nose. Smell don't bother me. I don't have to worry about it.
You don't smell nuthin'?
Luvia almost snarled as she shook her head.
I'll come up with the money for at least three months, he said. After that I'll put a clothespin on my own nose and mind my own business if he goes back on the street.
How much a produce manager get? Socrates asked Marty Gonzalez the next morning at eight fifteen.
It's a level twelve, the short man said.
How's that in dollars?
Eleven forty-five an hour based on a forty-hour week, Marty replied. But we expect a man in that position to work until he gets the job done. You only get paid for overtime if you have to come in special or stay overnight.
That's near about five hundred a week. Socrates had always been good with numbers. He just thought about the equation and had a general notion of the result.
Four fifty-eight, Marty said nodding. A lot more than you get now.
They might look at my record, Socrates said.
Not if I don't check that box, Marty countered.
I'll be sixty next year.
Newman worked till he was sixty-nine down on Sepulveda. He only retired because his wife got sick. The way it works now is that a man's not old till he proves it. And you're stronger than any other man in the store right now.
Marty was smiling at the glower on his employee.
You got three people workin' in produce right now, Socrates said. What about what they say when you promote me over them?
Do you care what Kelly or Billings thinks?
Fuck no but you might.
If I cared about a white man's opinion about me I'd be in a grave in East L.A. right this minute.
It was the first time that Marty had ever said anything about race or prejudice. Socrates had begun to think that Marty was one of those men who pretended to themselves that they were white. He wore a white shirt and tie, he spoke like a white man and married a white wife. But there it washim and the white man,