He paid first and last month's rent, Your Honor. No one ever tried to evict. All of her brash tone was gone. Socrates thought that maybe Brenda Marsh had learned something even if James had not.
Okay. Judge Radell smiled and put up his hands. Why no eviction procedure, Mr. Brantley?
We have no legal relationship with Mr. Fortlow. I don't know whether that document is real or not but Price Landers died almost ten years ago. He owed back taxes and Cherry Hill bought the estate. The fact that the property went through government hands absolves us from any responsibility.
Absolution? The judge's eyebrows rose and the question seemed more like an accusation. You throw a man's bed into the street and call that absolution?
It was our property, Your Honor. Mr. Fortlow had to know
Where was he going to sleep that night? the judge asked. And before Brantley could reply, Why couldn't you just knock on the door and say that he needed to move? Was your company going to lose money? Were you planning to build something next week?
There is no law compelling us to take such an action. Brantley, Socrates could see, was used to better treatment by the law. Mr. Fortlow was trespassing.
Oh. Huh, Judge Radell said. And here I thought it was the court's job to make those kinds of decisions.
Kenneth Brantley's left eye closed of its own accord. There was no apology or courtroom wisdom there.
And this court says that Mr. Fortlow is the rightful tenant of the property in question, that he will be exonerated from paying the past rent because it is an unreasonable expectation for the current landlords to expect remuneration. And I further stipulate that no development can be made upon any section of that property until Mr. Fortlow has vacated his residence. As far as assault charges are concerned I am willing to hear Mr. Fortlow's charges against Burris, Trapps, Lomax, and Cherry Hill. That will be all.
The last four words silenced Brantley.
Socrates remembered to keep his smile to himself.
Thank you, Ms. Marsh, Socrates said to his lawyer outside of the downtown courthouse.
You shouldn't thank me, Mr. Fortlow. If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have spent forty-eight hours in jail.
Don't you worry about that, Socrates said with real warmth. I seen a lotta jail in my life. Two more days ain't nuthin'.
What do you want to do now? Brenda asked.
What is it you wanna do?
Cherry Hill isn't going to let this drop. Radell put a hold on a multimillion project. They aren't going to let that alone for long.
Yeah, I know.
We can take Cherry Hill back to court and seek a settlement, the young lawyer said. I think that they'd be happy to see you in court. That way they'd have an opportunity to settle, to pay you.
To pay me off, you mean.
Yes.
To anyone looking, Socrates might have been staring off into space. But really he was appreciating the swell of Ms. Marsh's buttocks and breasts. They seemed to him in perfect balance. Not large but firm.
Mr. Fortlow? Brenda Marsh said. What do you want to do?
I think I'ma go see Iula down at her diner and have a home-cooked meal, he replied. Yeah. Some home cookin'.
But what about Cherry Hill.
I'll call ya on Friday, Ms. Marsh. Socrates touched her forearm with two big fingers and inhaled deeply the scent of her perfume.
Four hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, Mr. Fortlow, King Malone said in a rumbling bass voice. That includes utilities.
It was a small garden house in the middle of a green lawn. Killer hopped up and down on his forepaws. Socrates held up the dog's legless hindquarters with a harness attached to a bright yellow nylon rope.
The dog likes it, Socrates said. What you think, boy?
Cool, Darryl crooned. It's bad.
There was a large lemon bush in the center of the lawn. Five feet high and wider still. Golden bees buzzed around the tiny white flowers. A snow white cat flitted in among the leaves of the roses that lined the high redwood fence circling the yard. The sun was hot on Socrates' bald head. He did his best to suppress a grin.
All I ask is that you keep the lawn mowed and that you rake up after your dog, King said.
The air was sweet with lemon blossoms. Socrates feared that the image in his eyes would somehow disappear if he blinked or sneezed.
Topper says that you'd be a good tenant. He said I wouldn't have to worry 'bout you messin' up or havin' them wild parties, King said.
Don't party. No, Socrates said. And I put all my trash in a big plastic bag.
They pick up on Tuesday afternoons, King said.
Say what?
The trash. They come pick it up in front of the house at about four but you'd do best to have it out there by noon. I got the new rubber cans that the dogs can't knock over.
Socrates stared at the small crippled man before him. He was trying to decipher the words he just heard. He remembered the smell of the trash fires when he was a boy living outside Indianapolis. He remembered the brown paper bags they gave him for trash in his prison cell. It would take two months to fill that bag.
Inside, the house had real oak floors made from wide planks of cured and stained wood. The walls were painted white with a deep green trim and the windowpanes were so old that they presented a mild distortion of the outside yard. There was a kitchen with a gas stove and a built-in sink. The bedroom was large and surrounded by windows. And the living room was big enough to contain three single cells.
Whyn't you take it? Darryl asked later that day when they returned to Socrates' home.
I'm thinkin' 'bout it, Darryl. You know four hundred and twenty-five dollars is a whole lotta money for a man ain't paid a dime in nine years.
You get paid. They pay you at Bounty.
Socrates loved Darryl and he trusted the boy above anyone else. But he didn't know how to express the fear he had of moving on to some place as beautiful as King Malone's garden home. He'd never lived anywhere that he couldn't leave without a backward look. Home is where I hang my hat, he used to say.
or where they hang your neck, Joe Benz, a fellow inmate, would always add.
Lemme think about it a couple'a days.
But s'pose Mr. Malone rent it before you make up your mind?
Then I guess I just have to stay here.
But I thought you said that Ms. Marsh said that they gonna kick you out?
Yeah. Socrates had no desire to stifle his grin. Yeah, I'd like to see 'em try.
The Cherry Hill Development Company was on the twelfth floor of the Astor building on Crenshaw. It had glass doors and a beautiful black receptionist who wore African cloths cut in a western style. When she looked up at Socrates to ask his business, his heart skipped once and he forgot everything that he had come there to say.
Yes? the child asked.
Has anybody told you how beautiful you are yet today, uh, Malva? Socrates asked looking at the nameplate on her desk.
Her smile was a gift that only a man who'd spent half of his life in prison could appreciate.
Not yet, she said. Who are you?
Socrates Fortlow.
The frown that came across Malva's face brought back the business at hand.
Oh, Malva said. Please sit down. I'll call Mr. Lomax.
Come in, Fortlow, Ira Lomax said. His office had a glass wall that looked out over the Hollywood Hills. His desk, which was shaped like the body of a guitar, was made from white ash.