Um. Well you know my phone line is out. Phone company said that the lines is all busted up and they'd have to give me a new number. But I could come back in a couple'a days. When's this Joseph gonna be in?
On Friday. The nursery man's face had changed again. This time he was trying to read the story behind Socrates' eyes.
I'll see ya then, Socrates said. Tell'im I'll come on Friday.
It was Tuesday, meat loaf day at Iula's diner on Slauson.
Socrates got there late, about nine. He climbed the rickety aluminum stairs to the restaurant, which was constructed from two old-time yellow school buses welded together side by side and hoisted above Tony's Mechanical Repair Yard.
Socrates liked to eat his meat loaf alone, but after seven Iula's was always full of people. She cooked soul food like in the old days. Collard greens and fried fish, corn bread and hog maws. She made black-eyed peas and blue crab gumbo every Friday. And there were always three kinds of homemade pie: lemon, apple and mince; sweet potato, pecan and pineapple. She had pumpkin pie and strawberry-rhubarb, even green tomato pie sometimes in the summer.
Iula could cook.
She had broad hips and smiling lips, freckles and orange-brown skin. Gold on her teeth and no rings on her fingers. She was Socrates' girlfriendsometimes. And sometimes just his friend.
Hey, Socco, Bernard Williams hailed.
Bernie, a liquor store salesman, sat next to Stony Wile and Stony's woman-on-the side, Charlene. Bernie was older than Socrates, tall and dark. Stony was much lighter, brawny and closer to the ground. Charlene was all that beauty could be in a black woman, at least that's what Socrates thought. She was long like Bernie but not tall or awkward. She had dark skin and sculptured lips, a high forehead and eyes that looked right down into your heart.
Charlene was born to be a high-society woman but her parents were down-home Baptists who believed in hell and God with only human beings to separate them. So she paid dearly for every stick of lipstick and glimpse in the mirror. Beauty was wanton in her mother's eyes and the love of beauty was a sin. Charlene learned to hate her natural elegance and to find men who treated her like trash.
Now in her forties, when Charlene's wild oats should have been cultivated by some minister or well-to-do businessman, she was still in the streets trading a slapper for a shouter, turning in good men for tramps.
Hey, Bernie, Stony, Socrates said. He looked at Charlene and she made the slightest kiss with her lips. The ex-con looked away, momentarily shy. When he looked back, she was smiling at the discomfort she had caused.
Mr. Fortlow, she said sweetly.
How you tonight, Charlene?
Stony wanna stop me from drinkin'. You think I need to change, Mr. Fortlow?
Socrates didn't want to insult Stony by flirting with Charlene so he just shook his head to say that she was fine the way she was. But there was something too strong, even in that little head movement, and Stony stared down angrily at his meat loaf and greens.
Come on an' sit down with us here, Bernie offered. They were at a booth by the window.
Socrates sat next to the liquor salesman and took in the bus.
Iula sat behind the long counter that ran the space where the buses were joined. All seven stools were occupied. He recognized Veronica Ashanti and Topper, one of the last black undertakers on Central Avenue. There were a few others whose names he knew, the rest were familiar but no more. Many people were standing around waiting for takeout or seats. But Iula was taking her time talking to Tony LaPort, her landlord and ex-husband, at the end of the counter. She could afford to take it easy because she had hired Charles Rinnet to work in the back bus, which served as the kitchen, during the heavy hours between seven and eleven.
She had once offered Socrates that job but he was still afraid of his hands back then. The hands of a killer had to be careful of what they did.
What you doin', Socrates? Bernie asked. You still workin' at that supermarket?
Yeah, yeah. Still packin' them bags. How's Harold?
Cheap as a motherfucker, Bernie complained. You know I asked him for a two-dollar raise after nuthin' for three years an' he told me I could leave.
Yeah? Socrates was interested.
Uh-huh.
So what you do?
I worked out my week and quit. You know they said that when black men owned businesses it was gonna be better but I went over to Zimmerman on Sixtieth and he hired me like that. Bernie snapped his long fingers.
But I thought you was still with Harold? Socrates asked.
I am, Bernie replied. Harold came to me,
to me
. Because you know nobody like him. The only reason they come to that store is 'cause I know how to respect peoples. An' here he is worse than a white man.
You got your two dollars?
Bernie nodded his head like a bass man on a groove. Motherfucker gimme three.
Socrates laughed deeply. Charlene leaned toward him over the table, drawn to his powerful pleasure. She was wearing a blue sweater that was tight and V-necked.
Socrates turned to Stony and asked, So, Stony, what's happenin' with you?
Nuthin', the ex-ship welder said petulantly.
Socrates shook his head and stood up.
I got to go talk to I, he said.
You gonna come back, Socrates? Charlene wanted to know.
Maybe in a little while. But first I got to see what I can see.
Iula noticed Socrates' approach. Tony turned around following her gaze. The look in his eye reminded Socrates of Stony's.
Stony and Tony
he thought. The rhyme didn't make him smile.
Hey, Tony, Socrates said. I.
Tony was of medium height and had dusky skin. His features were half the way between Negro and white. His most noticeable features were his eyes, which were both small and flat. Instead of responding he rose, kissing Iula on the cheek before walking off.
Socrates had never known Tony to be rude. He'd never seen him kiss Iula either. But he took the empty stool and slapped his hands together a couple of times to indicate that he had something to say.
Meat loaf plate? Iula asked.
This was also new. Iula always asked how he was doing before plying her trade.
I wanted to ask you sumpin', the big man grumbled.
Well you know I'm pretty busy. This here is rush hour for the restaurant business.
Okay. Socrates moved to leave but Iula put out her hand. She touched his hard forearm with three fingers. His muscles bunched together and bulged under the gentle pressure.
Tony want me to get back together wit' him, she said in a flat, accusing tone.
He wanna get married again?
That's what he said.
The noise in the room became an irritating buzz in Socrates' ears. He flicked his powerful fingers at the side of his head and grimaced.
You want that? he asked.
Ain't nobody else askin' me nuthin', Iula said.
That what you want? You want somebody t'ask you sumpin'?
What I want don't matter.
Looking at those hard lips Socrates knew he wasn't going to get kissed. He knew that she wasn't going to come over and help him plant Levering's tree.
Well? Iula's question was a concession to the passion she felt for the ex-con. He knew that. He knew what she wanted. He knew what he should say.
You know how they say some folks ain't got a pot to piss in? Socrates asked.
Uh-huh.