Socrates wondered what those children would think if he stood up and busted out of his box, if he broke out on them and yelled boo.
But no. That's not why he was there. He took a sip of brandy and listened to the footsteps of the sneak lovers recede.
Beety beety dwa dwaaaa! Dwa dwaaaa! the horn said. Just that fast sleeping Socrates was awake and sober and so excited he began to sweat.
He put his eye up next to the hole and looked. At first he couldn't see anything because his eye was still asleep. But the horn kept playing and he kept looking until finally he saw a foot, a toe-tapping foot that beat out a fast tempo for the slow sweet tune.
Socrates ripped the box apart and was on the small wide-eyed horn-player, a lion on a lamb.
What who you want? the little colored man cried. What?
He was more gray than brown, more boy than man. He was old and tiny and slender like a child.
Socrates raised the small man by the shoulder and cried, What the fuck you doin' out here playin' that gotdamned horn in the middle'a the mothahfuckin' night like a fool?
He didn't mean to say all that. He didn't care why the man was there.
Lemme go, brother, the man said. I ain't got nuthin' but this beat-up horn an' it ain't worth two dollars.
Socrates sucked down a deep breath and tried not to squeeze too hard. His grip was a bone breaker, a skull buster. His hands were weapons trained from childhood for war.
I don't want your horn, man, Socrates said after a few breaths. It's just your music woke me up. I'ont know why, I mean why I'm out here. What's your name?
Hoagland. Hoagland Mars.
My name is Socrates, Socrates Fortlow.
Hoagland Mars nodded and eyed his attacker with concern.
You wanna drink, Hoagland Mars?
Socrates took the second pint of Myrtle's brand from his army jacket, cracked the seal and passed it over. The musician smacked his lips over his first sip and took another before passing it back.
That's the right stuff right there, he said.
They went back to Socrates' small home after a few sips. Hoagland sat at the kitchen table playing his two-dollar horn and tasting the cheap brandy. Socrates glowered and plodded toward drunk but Mr. Mars didn't seem worried at what his host might do.
Yeah, man, Hoagland opined, I played behind T-Bone Walker and right besides Lips McGee. I played the Dark Room in Chi and all through Motown records. You know I figure you could hear my horn a hunnert times every day on the oldies radio station. Shit.
Socrates was surprised that Hoagland had such thin lips. A black man, a horn player, he told Stony Wile a few weeks later. And he had lips like a white girl ain't never been kissed.
Near dawn Myrtle and Hoagland's horn both ran dry. The little man was flagging, head dipping halfway to his knees.
What you do with all that money? Socrates asked.
Spent it, the musician said. Spent every dime. Real brandy and real blondes. Stayed in hotels where the ashtrays cost more than my whole Mississippi cotton-pickin' family could pull down in a year. Huh. Shit. I'd drop a hundred dollars on a handkerchief or tie. You know I done lived.
So why you out in a alley in Watts tonight? Socrates asked. What brought you down here?
Black man cain't keep nuthin', brother. All we could do is borrah an' you know the white man wan' it all backwit' interest.
Socrates didn't wake up until ten thirty-five. His pocket change was missing from the kitchen counter. Twenty dollars he kept in a sock in a shoe under the sofa bed was gone. He didn't remember pulling down the bed or falling in it. He hadn't heard Hoagland Mars stealing and neither did he care.
Socrates got to work at twelve fifteen. The first thing he saw was Jason Fulbright headed straight for him down the center aisle. But before Jason reached Socrates Marty Gonzalez grabbed the assistant manager by the arm and talked to him, told a joke, it seemed, and then sent him on his way.
The stocky manager greeted Socrates and smiled. You look a little better, Marty said.
Say what?
I told Jason that you told me yesterday that you were sick and had to see the doctor. You know I'd forget my head if it wasn't for my neck.
I'll make it up, Marty. I'll stay late and help the twins with their inventory.
Socrates skipped lunch and both his breaks. He worked straight until eight forty-five and then hurried out of the sliding doors.
Socco! Marty called at the big man's back. Hey, Socrates.
I gotta run, Marty. I got to catch the eight fifty bus. The next one is over a hour from now.
Hold up, Marty said. I'll give you a ride down to Venice and you can catch the two eighty-three.
He slapped Socrates hard on the back and walked him out to his Ford Explorer. In the high driver's seat Socrates rode with no seat belt looking out at the dark streets of Beverly Hills.
Car's nicer than my place, Socrates said. Bet you pay more on insurance than I pay rent.
What's your rent? Marty asked.
Nuthin'. I used to pay this dude but he musta died or sumpin'. But you know the place ain't worth much, it's just a space between two empty stores.
Yeah, well, Marty said as he swerved past a red Bonneville that had loud bass music playing out of its open trunk. I guess you can't beat that.
Yeah, Socrates said, not really agreeing.
So, Socco, Marty said. What about that produce job?
I got a job. I mean I know it's a low hourly wage but I get tips for deliveries and I know if I get sick that somebody can take my place.
I looked up your record. Today's the first time you were ever even late as far as I can see. You've only been sick twice.
Man, I was four hours late today, I'm almost sixty, and you don't know me. How you know that you could trust me with that kinda responsibility?
I want you to be one of my men, Socco, Marty said. I need people who I can rely on to roll up their sleeves, people who work.
Marty took a left on Olympic heading east. The wide street was lined with low apartment buildings and nice single-family homes. Not many streetlights and not much traffic to speak of. They made good speed down toward Fairfax.
The car, Socrates thought, was as quiet as a tomb.
No, he said as they turned south of Fairfax. You let Benny have it, Marty. And just call on me for anything extra you need.
You sure?
Sure as sin on Sunday.
There was silence past Pico and Saturn and Pickford. Silence across Airdome and Eighteenth and all the way down to Venice. But when they pulled up to the bus stop and Socrates opened the door Marty said, Gibbs isn't leaving for six weeks. I won't make my decision until the day he's gone.
Socrates swung one leg out of the door and then turned back to his boss.
Why you want me, man?
I like working with you, Mr. Fortlow. I trust you.
You don't know nuthin' about me.
I don't know anything about anybody down at the store. We work together, that's all. It's none of my business what you do some place else.
I'll think about it, Socrates said. But I don't know. I mean if you give the job away before I get back to ya it'll be okay by me.
Six weeks, the store manager repeated. You got till then.
The bus ride took over two hours. He had to transfer twice. The connections were slow but Socrates didn't care. He was used to wasting time. All convicts were.
When he got to his place he had the feeling of coming home. Home to his illegal gap. Home to a place that had no street address, a jury-rigged electrical system, plumbing that turned off every once in a while, sometimes for weeks. It was a hard place. Sometimes when he was hungry, before he had a job, he had thought that jail might be better than starving freedom; jail or death. It was a place he slept in, a place to read or drink or almost cry. But it had never been home. It had never been hearth or asylum but now it was both of these things. For the first time he was thankful for what little he had. He was safe at least for one night more.