He never had a pet as a child. His father was a drunk and his mother worked too hard even to love Socrates most of the time. His aunt Bellandra loved him but she was crazy; she was too worried about her visions to have some furry creature mewling around begging for food.
The white Christians call Him the Shepherd, Bellandra would tell Socrates, who was old enough to remember but not of an age to comprehend. That makes them sheep. They made us pray like that, like we was sheep too. And you know what happens to sheep, don't ya? They cut off their woolly hair to humiliate 'em. They put the dogs on 'em. They slaughter 'em too. Now why would God want man to be lined up with sheep?
Children were playing softball in the alley four blocks down. Socrates noticed that there were little Mexican children sprinkled in among the blacks. Too young to hate yet. Too young to separate and draw lines; to play a different game with guns and knives.
The children stopped and gawked at the big man and his deformed dog.
Hey, mister, one black child shouted. What happent to his legs?
Front part run so fast, Socrates responded, that he left the back part behind.
Huh? the boy grunted, his friends mouthing the same wordless question.
But before they could say more Socrates was moving away, Killer barking joyously at the boys and their big white softball.
Socrates made a left on the next block. It was a street full of music and barbecue smoke, makeshift lawn chairs and people wandering back and forth. Down the middle of the street a gang of boys rode their bicycles in a swarm. Two or three old women sat on painted concrete porches fanning themselves and watching.
A few people motioned toward the dog, pointing out his deformity. If Socrates noticed them the gesture turned into a wave.
Killer tried hard to pull his master toward the smell of burnt flesh, but even if he had four legs he couldn't have budged the muscle built by so many years of prison life.
There wasn't a day that Socrates forgot the single cell, the smell of rust and sweat, the sounds of metal on stone that surrounded and imprisoned him. He was like a guerrilla soldier back then, secreted underground, waiting for the moment to rise and strike; waiting for freedom that he knew would probably come only in the form of a coffin.
But now, after twenty-seven years in storage and after nine years out, Socrates walked his crippled dog in the bright sun, unarmed and at an uneasy truce with his enemies.
The policeman, the salesman in the store, the newspaperman or TV anchor, Socrates didn't trust any one of them. He knew that their jobs were to hold him down and rob him, and then afterward to tell him lies about what had really gone down. It was a crazy thought, he told himself, but then he'd say, But not as crazy as this world, and then he'd laugh.
He was laughing right then on the way to the park.
From behind a sickly pine bush sprang a feathery red-haired dog. The animal, one-sixth the size of Killer, bared its sharp teeth and snarled. Killer saw no harm in the dog and danced on his front paws begging for a smell.
Johnny, where are you? a man called in a clear soprano. He appeared from behind the shedding, dying pine. He was tall and thin with a processed hairdo wrapped up in a nylon do-rag. He also wore a long-sleeved purple shirt, with fresh sweat stains in the armpits, and matching purple pants.
Even from a distance of a few feet Socrates was assailed by the thick sweet scent of the man's cologne.
Oh my, the younger man said. He held his hands in front of him in a cautious, almost feminine gesture.
Yo' dog wanna fight and mine wanna make friends, Socrates said to help the purple man settle down.
Johnny B. Goode, sit! the younger man ordered.
The fluffy red dog obeyed instantly.
His master had a pencil-thin mustache and was older than Socrates had at first thought. Forty, maybe even forty-five. He had a slender scar down his left cheek and one eye was a light walnut, the other a deep mahogany brown.
He like to growl but that's about all, the man said, still eyeing Socrates cautiously.
Killer'd lick a razor blade if you'd let 'im. I don't think they taught survival in his brood.
Yeah, I know what you mean. Sometimes Johnny be wagging his tail, snarlin', and takin' a piss all at the same time. The purple man smiled then he stuck out his hand and said, Lavant Hall.
Socrates grabbed Lavant's right hand with his left because he was holding on to Killer's rope.
Socrates Fortlow.
What happened to your dog's legs?
Run over by a car, Socrates said, shrugging slightly.
How come you call him Killer if he so friendly? Lavant Hall asked.
I figger that if somebody hear me callin' him that they might stay offa my property on account'a the name.
Lavant Hall laughed and took a pack of no-name brand cigarettes from his oversized shirt pocket. He shook the pack at Socrates and a single tan filter appeared. Socrates took the cigarette. That was etiquette on the prison yard and a habit Socrates kept even though he rarely smoked after moving to L.A.
When Socrates leaned forward to take a light from the skinny man Killer got a chance to sniff the shiny red dog. Johnny B. Goode snarled but he didn't back away or snap. He was sniffing too.
That's a fancy-assed dog, Socrates said with the familiarity of an old friend.
Grand Long-Haired Red Terrier they call the breed, Lavant said. It's a valuable dog but I ain't got the papers.
How come you don't?
'Cause I stole him off the street up in the Pacific Palisades.
Socrates took a deep drag on his cigarette and held the smoke for a few seconds before exhaling.
Why you steal him? Socrates asked. You gonna sell him?
No.
Hold him for ransom then? Socrates was remembering Ahmed Jones, who used to say, on the recreation yard, that kidnapping favorite pets of rich people was just as lucrative as kidnapping their children but that the law didn't get that crazy over a missing cat or a dog.
I ride a bicycle, Lavant Hall said, smiling. I ride it everywheres just so they don't think that they could keep me down here. I don't need to be white or rich or nuthin' to go up in the canyons or down to the beach. Not as long as I got my legs and my bike .
Johnny B. Goode jumped on Killer's head but the larger dog shrugged him off and barked. Somehow the motion started the two men walking on a zigzag path through Will Rogers Park.
they cain't stop me from usin' the streets, Lavant continued. Anyway I was up there at the Canyon Mall lookin' for a liquor store or someplace to get a soda pop 'cause it was hot an' I rode up all the way from down here .
There was a young couple lying near a bush in the lawn. They were kissing each other passionately, rubbing their hands all over each other's body. Socrates could see the big man's erection pressing urgently against his loose pants. The woman was holding on to it as if they were in a private room with the doors shut and locked.
You see that, Lavant Hall said, nodding toward the lovers. That's love right there on the ground. Ain't nuthin' t'be shamed about. An' if somebody don't like it then they don't have to look.
They passed the lovers and Socrates asked, What about the dog?
Yeah, Lavant said. His smile flashed against a dark background of skin. I saw this woman wearing a fur coat that was probably chinchilla. I say that 'cause the fur was like feathers, like Johnny look. That's not mink or nuthin'. Mink's heavy. But you know that white woman made me mad. There she had that cute dog and she was wearin' ten or twelve other animals on'er back that looked just like him, at least their hair did.