promise
N
ineteen years after Levering Jordan died, and nine years after his own release from prison, Socrates was bagging groceries when he remembered the promise he'd made.
Longarm Levering Jordan had been Socrates' back for five years in the Indiana slam. He was in for fifty-six years but prison had a way of killing some men early. It didn't matter that Levering was tall and powerful. Strength was an asset in the penitentiary but that didn't mean you'd survive.
Brawn, brains, nor beggin' could keep you alive in here if you was born to be free, old man Cap Richmond had always said. Cap had gone down for assault on a white woman in an armed robbery in 'forty-nine. He got seventy-four years for his crime. By 1988, when Socrates was let free, Cap had seen a thousand murderers come, serve their terms and leave.
Seventy-four years for a slap, Cap would say. Din't even knock out no tooth.
Levering never got used to being locked down. Any night that Socrates awoke in his own tight cell he knew that he could look out of the metal grid and see Longarm across the way, his fingers laced with the steel cage, his eyes willing the walls to break open.
Maybe it was five years without sleep that finally took the toll on Levering. In the last months he was skinny and weak. One of the big rats that came out at night could have knocked him over. But the rats didn't bother and the predators among the convict population knew better than to mess with a friend of Socrates Fortlow.
Socrates'll kill ya, was the phrase most often used to explain to new cons how they should deal with him. Even the guards came in threes when Socrates had to be disciplined or
managed.
When Levering was dying, the chaplain, a woman named Patricia James, had three guards bring Socrates to that special room in the infirmary where they brought prisoners to die.
It was a nice room for a prison. Gray nylon carpet and a picture of flowers on the wall. The window had bars but they were widely spaced and the sun, they said, came in almost all afternoon on a clear day.
Even if you dyin', the bookmaker B. B. Moffat once said, they got ya. Put you in a room to let you see what you ain't never gonna have again. Give you a carpet an' then bring you to the grave.
Socrates sat on a stool next to the dying man's cot. The gaunt-faced Levering smiled once and then gestured for Socrates to lean close.
Hold it, one of the white guards said.
Leave him alone, Chaplain James commanded with a whisper. Have respect for a man when he's dying.
Socrates bent forward and looked into Death's eyes.
I want you to plant me a tree, Levering wheezed.
What kinda tree? Socrates asked.
A African tree if it grow where you live. But any tree that can get tall. Maybe one with flowers.
You got it.
An' another thing, man.
Yeah?
Right after you plant it I want you to fuck me a girl.
Socrates smiled for the first time in a long time.
No lie, man, Levering said. She got to be pretty, she got to be black, an' she got to be young. All right? You gonna do that for me?
I will if I can, man. But you know by the time I get outta here my thing might not get out no mo'. Socrates laughed for real and Levering shared his joke.
They kill ya every way they can, the dying man said. But even if you can just slap up against it that's okay. I just wanna tree an' some love for me somewhere. You know I been sittin' here lookin' at the sun an' thinkin' on it.
It was the sunlight flowing through the windows at Bounty supermarket that jogged Socrates' memory. He had spent ten more years in prison after Levering died. They gave him parole even though they didn't have to. Unlike Cap, Socrates' victims were black and the Indiana Department of Corrections decided that twenty-seven years four months and sixteen days was the price for that crime.
He'd been free for nine years but that didn't mean a thing. Socrates had cut off everything from his old life. He had no old friends or debts. He was through with Indiana, prison, family and friends. His pledge to Levering got swept away with everything else.
Also, Socrates never thought that he'd be able to honor that pledge. It was just a friendly laugh at the end of a good man's life.
But standing there putting spicy Italian sausages and Lysol disinfectant in a white plastic bag, Socrates realized that he had a debt to pay.
Can I help you? the small white man asked, emphasizing each word.
That's why I'm here.
The job we have has already been taken, the flabby-faced man said.
Ain't this a nursery? Socrates asked.
The man squinted behind his thick rectangular lenses as if he was being addressed in a foreign language that he could not even identify.
You sell these here plants, right? Socrates asked, gesturing at the potted plants around the outside lot.
Yes?
Well I come here to buy one, or order one.
Ooooooh. The word made the white man's lips pucker. That combined with his eyes, magnified by the lenses, made him look like some sort of albino bottom fish. Something for your yard?
Ebony tree, Socrates said. He decided to keep the talk to a minimum, do his business and get out of there before something made him mad.
Very rare, tropical. The nursery man became excited. He took off his glasses and wiped them on the dirty green apron. Not indigenous. From India and Africa and Ceylon. Can't grow here at all. It's the heartwood you know. The heartwood's what they want. He shook his head. No we don't have that. Can't grow it.
Ain't there some kinda American ebony trees? Socrates splayed out his fingers to inhibit his fist-forming reflex.
Again the lumpy faced fish stare. Why yes. Not true ebony but almost the same thing. Comes from somewhere in the Caribbean I believe. Trinidad
Jamaica, Socrates said. I called you yesterday evening an' you said that there's ebony in Jamaica that might could grow here in L.A.
The fish smiled at Socrates.
I want a Jamaican ebony tree, the ex-con said.
The smile remained but no words or gestures accompanied it.
I want to buy a Jamaican ebony tree.
We don't have any.
I thought that you could get any plant from anywhere in the world. Ain't that what your ad say?
It's very difficult to find a plant like that and it can be very expensive. Maybe a shrub palm or a rosebush
I got a rosebush already. I want what I said.
The fish slowly became a man. Lips relaxed, eyes narrowing down to some kind of reasonable size. As the gardener became human so, it seemed, did Socrates in the gardener's eyes.
My name is Antoine, he said.
Socrates. Socrates Fortlow. I don't wanna cause no problem, Antoine. I just want what I want. You know I live on the other side of town but this was the only place seem to know how to get it.
You probably talked to Joseph, Antoine said. He knows about exotic plants. I can have him look up this Jamaican ebony of yours and call you.