Walkin The Dog

“It wasn't my fault,” the skinny boy said. He had shot up in the last year. Almost as tall as Socrates, the boy slouched under the angry glare.

“Then whose fault is it?”

“It was Cassandra. If she wasn't always messin' wit' me everythin' woulda been okay. But she always wanna be makin' fun.”

“So you hit her?”

Darryl's head bowed even lower.

“You hit a girl on the school yard but it wasn't your fault? Somebody threw your fist for you?” Socrates brought his knuckle underneath Darryl's chin and pulled him up straight. “Huh?”

“I didn't hit her wit' no fists. I just pushed her an' she fell. I'idn't mean it.”

What Darryl saw in Socrates' eyes had meant death for some unlucky men in the past. Darryl knew all those men's names and the exact time of each death. He was the closest living being on earth to the ex-convict/murderer turned boxboy. Darryl had also killed once and confessed to Socrates. There were no secrets between man and boy.

“Ain't you learned nuthin', Darryl? Ain't you listened t'me at all?”

“She was makin' fun'a my clothes. I asked her to go out wit' me an' she run to her friends an' started talkin' to them 'bout how I was dirty an' dressed bad.” Darryl was shaking with rage even while he cowered under Socrates' stare.

“What the MacDaniels said about this?” Socrates asked.

“Nuthin'.”

“You told 'em?”

“Yeah,” Darryl complained. “They just said not to do that no more and that I better just go to Bounty for the day I was suspended so I don't get in no trouble while they at work.”

“They didn't make you do nuthin' else?”

“No.”

Darryl slumped away from the big hand. The ex-convict could see by the way the boy held his shoulders that he expected to get hit. He'd been standing in that posture ever since Socrates came up and asked him why he was at work when it was a school day.

“I'm not gonna hit you, li'l brother,” the man said. “Somethin's wrong here but hittin' ain't gonna make it right.”

“What then?” Darryl asked.

Before Socrates could answer, Killer started barking in the yard. Then a hard knock came on the door.

Socrates hesitated a moment. Maybe, if Darryl wasn't there, he would have fished his .38 from behind the loose board in his kitchen wall.

Instead he called out, “Who's out there bangin' like that?”

“Police!”

There were three white men standing at Socrates' only door. Two of them were in uniform and one sported a well-worn brown suit. Socrates cursed himself silently for never putting in the escape door he'd always thought about.

“Socrates Fortlow?” the man in the suit asked.

“You got a badge, man?” Socrates said in a voice that didn't give away his fast-pumping heart.

“Don't fuck with me, jailbird,” the man in the brown suit said.

He was short and well built for a middle-aged man. His face was flat and oval. He had squinty eyes and tight skin but he was still a white man, confident with the tall and athletic-looking cops at his back.

Confident but no fool. He made sure that Socrates' hands were in sight. They were big hands. A giant's hands really.

“Inspector Beryl,” the plainclothes cop said as he displayed a badge and identity card in a leather fold. “Homicide.”

The spasm that went through Socrates' neck and shoulders was one tick away from attempted murder.

“Are you Socrates Fortlow?” Inspector Beryl asked again.

“Yeah. What you want?”

“Put your hands against the wall behind you and spread your legs.”

Again Socrates' mind went to violence. The policemen were standing close to each other. None of the three had weapon drawn. Socrates was almost sixty and they weren't afraid of him. He could have easily bowled them over. There was a spade propped up against the outside wall that he could grab after bringing them down with his weight. The chances were good that he'd get away. But almost definitely somebody would die.

A second had elapsed.

“Put your hands on the wall … ,” Beryl began the command anew.

It would have to be then that Socrates moved. Those men were all younger than him. He'd have to use surprise to the hilt.

He turned his head, pretending that he was going to comply. Darryl was standing there trying not to look scared. Socrates felt Beryl's hand against his shoulder.

The moment for escape passed. Maybe if he had been alone. Socrates chuckled.

“What you say?” the plainclothes cop asked.

“I said, you're welcome, officer.”

At the station they took his green army belt, folding knife and shoelaces. Then he was led to an interrogation room and made to sit down on a metal chair that was bolted to the floor. They attached his handcuffs to two thick metal rings screwed into the floor and then left him alone.

The only thing that showed how fast Socrates' heart was working was the sweat that glistened on his bald black head. Otherwise the ex-con could have been a dark statue placed in the center of that small room by some sculptor who knew that the truth could only be told in secret.

After some time the door to the room opened again and Beryl appeared with two other men in suits. One was white and the other a milky brown. The colored man had a thick mustache. The white one had a big belly hanging down. They were about the same height, not over six feet.

“Socrates Fortlow?” the big-bellied cop said.

“You gonna charge me or what?”

“My name is Kirkshaw,” the big white cop continued. “Captain Kirkshaw. Tell us what you know about Minnie Dawn Lee.”

There was a mechanical hum somewhere in the wall. Socrates wondered where it came from.

“Do you understand me?” the policeman asked.

“Do I get a lawyer?”

“Do you need a lawyer?” the milky brown cop asked.

Socrates turned toward his fellow black man but he didn't say anything.

“The key to those chains is the truth.” Inspector Beryl spoke for the first time.

He almost cursed them but Socrates knew that any show of feeling would bring on some sort of assault. They'd wait until he opened up a crack and then they'd concentrate on that chink until he was either dead or guilty.

But Socrates could outwait any man who had a home to go to. From the moment those policemen showed up at his door he was a convict again. And a convict could wait his whole life without cracking a smile or shedding a tear.

“You killed a woman in Indiana,” Biggers, the Negro cop, said. “Did you shoot her too?”

Socrates' nose itched but he wouldn't have scratched it even if his hands were free. Just that small gesture would have given up too much to the thugs who called themselves law.

It had already been over two hours. All Socrates had asked for was a lawyer or some kind of charge. He was thirsty and thinking about the woman he'd murdered thirty-six years before, Muriel. He could feel the husky gust of her last breath against his face. He didn't remember the night of the murder at first but this last gasp had returned to him in a dream he had in prison many years later.

“Tell us about it, Fortlow,” Kirkshaw said. “What happened with Minnie? You wanted a blow job for free? Is that it?”

The easiest time in a black man's life is when he cain't fight at all.

The words were from his aunt Bellandra after the first time Socrates had been brought home for fighting in the street.

He don't care about winnin'. No. He know he ain't never gonna win. But as long as he can swing his fists he thinks at least he could hurt somebody else. But once he caint fight at all, even if that mean he gonna die, the black man don't have to worry. He give it his one shot an' now he can take his medicine.