Bob led the way through a short hallway that was so cramped that Socrates' shoulders rubbed against the walls as he went. This hallway opened into an extremely large room full of appliances that would have never fit into the slender sales room. Washing machines, generators, TVs, there was even a giant strobe light in a far-off corner.
The room was organized according to appliance type. There was a whole row of full-sized refrigerators. Beyond that was a little cul-de-sac of small ones.
Westinghouse is your best bet, Bob was saying. He patted the top of a two-foot-square drab green unit. They built these suckers to last.
How much? Socrates asked. He felt oppressed in that dank atmosphere. The smell reminded him of his days in prison.
Twenty bucks for this one, Bob said.
That's all?
I took this one in for scrap and it worked. I opened her up but there wasn't anything wrong. Bob squatted down and rubbed his hand over the metal door. You see they had these deep scratches in the paint. I figure that it was an eyesore and the owners just chucked it. That's America for ya. Nobody believes in utility. One day they'll start scrappin' kids for havin' crossed eyes or fat butts.
Bob looked up at Socrates and winked.
Most the things I get in here still work, the fixer continued. It's just that they went outta style in some way or they got marred.
Socrates looked around the vast workroom again. It reminded him more than ever of prison.
How much it weigh? Socrates asked.
Twenty-five, thirty. Big fella like you could carry it easy. I got some rope over there. You could make a shoulder hoist and get it to your car.
Socrates nodded.
Bob helped him tie up the ugly green refrigerator. Socrates used the nylon rope to carry it over his right shoulder. It was a tight fit through the hallway to the front but Socrates made it. He paid his twenty dollars and then thought of a question.
You got one'a them caller-ID gizmos?
Uhhhh, hm. Yeah I think I got one up on the shelf over there next to Julio. Bob was frowning. Why?
You just connect it to your phone?
Naw, Bob said. You gotta pay the phone company to let the information in. But there's a better way to do it.
What's that?
Pick up the phone and ask who's there.
Socrates spent his Saturday bringing in a double outlet for his refrigerator and caller-ID display. Michael Porter came over on Sunday to check the connections. Porter was a tan-skinned Negro who was small and round. His lips were thin and his nose was turned up like a bulldog's snout.
She perfect, Socco, the little electrician said. You don't need my help.
They played dominoes after that.
When Porter left it was after nine thirty. Socrates realized that the phone had not rung for three days.
That Monday he called the phone company and had his caller-ID turned on. When the phone rang that night the name Howard Shakur shimmered in green across the small screen.
Darryl? Socrates said. Where you been, boy?
How you know it was me? the startled boy asked.
Who else gonna be callin' me this time'a night? The glee of a secret was in Socrates' tone.
I don't know, the boy answered uncertainly. But anyway Howard and Corina and them havin' a picnic next weekend and they wanna know if you comin'.
What day?
Uh, hold on. Darryl put his hand over the receiver and shouted something then he said, On Sunday afternoon.
I'll be there, Socrates said. How you doin', boy?
I got a A on my math test.
You did?
Uh-huh. I like to divide an' stuff.
I always knew you were smart, Darryl.
So how did you know it was me on the phone?
But you not that smart.
At about eleven P.M. the small glass screen shimmered, then the phone rang and the name Moorland Kinear appeared with a number beside it. Socrates had a pencil and a pad of paper ready to jot down the information. In case of a blackout he didn't want to lose the memory in his first computer device.
He didn't answer the phone. Instead he studied the name for clues to the caller's purpose.
It might have been a white man's name except that Socrates felt something familiar when he mouthed it. And there weren't that many white men who knew his name, not to mention his number. In his nine years in L.A., from Dumpster-diving for cans and bottles to working at Bounty Supermarket, he couldn't think of anyone named Moorland.
Thinking back over twenty-seven years in an Indiana prison didn't reveal the name either. But it was there.
A man in prison wouldn't have used a name like that.
Moorland
would get some of the uneducated cons, and guards, upset. They'd think that just having a name like that would be putting on airs. He'd have to have a nickname, a handle. But that could be anything. It could be his size or color or the shape of his ears. A nickname could be based on the kind of crimes you committed or the thing you were the most proud of in the outside world. Loverboy, Big Daddy, Longarm and Loose Lips were all handles that might have hidden a name like Poindexter, Archibald or Moorland.
If he's just a salesman,
Socrates thought.
Then why didn't he say something when I answered the line last week?
But maybe this was the first time that Moorland Kinear ever called. Maybe the call last week was somebody else.
But why is that name so familiar?
Because they callin' you, fool. It's somebody who knows you and wants to talk.
If Socrates had had that conversation with another man it might have come to blows. In turns he decided to answer when the phone rang again, to tear the phone out of the wall and discontinue the service, and to get an answering machine and never respond to a call unless the caller stated his business clearly.
He wished he'd never gotten that phone in the first place. He never had a phone as a child or as a convict. It was just another way that people could reach at you, could cause you trouble.
The best kind of life to live was with no contacts and no way for people to find you, Socrates believed. At least that's what part of him believed. But ever since he'd met that boy, that Darryl, he'd been pulled out of his shell. Trying to help Darryl out of trouble, he'd got himself all tangled up with people and confused. He'd gotten the phone so that Darryl could call if he had to.
Socrates lay in his bed thinking that he should disappear, that he should take the money he had buried in a jar in the yard, and leave L.A. He could go to Oakland and start over.
He went to sleep in turmoil, twisting and grunting to the rhythm of his dreams. He saw himself in prison fights and in the
dungeon,
the place where they sent you if you had discipline problems. He remembered wardens and assistant wardens, head guards and new recruits. And then suddenly, in the middle of all that dreaming and worry, Socrates woke up and spoke. Mookie. It's Mookie Kid the first-floor man.
Mookie, sometimes known as Mookie Kid and sometimes as the first-floor man, that was Moorland Kinear. He bunked down the row from Socrates for five years. Mookie was a burly man, not very strong but imposing. He liked to find businesses that kept their money and valuables in locked rooms instead of a safe.
You could always cut through the flo' on a locked room, Mookie would say. He was christened the first-floor man because, unlike the cat burglar, the second-story man, Mookie usually cut a hole up from the cellar to the first floor.