Lomax was tall and well dressed, black and a little greasy. He stood taller than Socrates but lacked the bulk to reinforce his height.
Sit down, why don't you?
Socrates took a seat. Lomax remained standing.
I'm surprised to see you, Fortlow. But I'm glad that you're here. Maybe we can get a few problems ironed out without any more difficulty. Lomax was a crook. Socrates knew that from the moment he walked into the room. A man who was too smart to rob a Stop n' Save but too stupid to fly right.
You see, Lomax said when Socrates stayed quiet, you're costing this company money. You attacked my employees. And just because some foolish judge doesn't know the law that doesn't mean you can hold us up.
The silence that followed Lomax's declaration didn't bother Socrates. He looked the sleek land developer up and down and sucked on a tooth.
Heavy fists won't stand up to my kind of power, Fortlow. All I have to do is make a quick phone call and your apartment will disappear. If I stay on the line a minute more you could be gone too.
When James came into his mind Socrates knew that he was experiencing fear. James, he thought, was afraid of getting beaten or raped or killed. Socrates wondered if the boy had used his saltshaker on Lex.
With that thought Socrates stood straight up from his chair. Ira Lomax stumbled backward and took in a gasp of air.
Listen to me, Ira, Socrates said. I know that you know people. I probably even know some'a the people you do. I been to Blackbird's bar an' I'm sure you have too. But I'm not like they are. I don't do it for money, brother. I ain't a thief or a leg-breaker, I ain't a robber or con man. I'm a killer plain and simple. A killer.
Socrates paused to allow his words to have their meaning then he continued, I lived in that place for nine years. If you added up the money I owed it's probably ten, twelve thousand dollars. So if I turn that around then it would be you owe me instead'a I owe you. I'm sure your banker bosses would think that was a good price.
I ain't payin' you shit, niggah. Lomax's voice was harsh but his eyes were like James's.
Then you better not miss, Socrates said before he turned and walked out of the door.
For a week or so there was talk about Lomax around the hood. Iula heard a few things in the diner and Chip Lowe got the word through members of the watch. There were men willing to inflict pain for money but Socrates was nowhere to be found. He rarely showed up at his alley home. Killer moved across the street to stay with Mrs. Melendez for a while.
One evening Socrates showed up at Blackbird's bar. He took the new owner, Craig Hatter, to the side for a powwow.
Late the next morning Socrates showed up at Lomax's big home in View Park. He wasn't admitted by the housekeeper and so he merely left the expensive box of chocolates he brought as a gift. The box was big, red and velvet, in the form of a Valentine's heart.
In the next week Socrates spoke to Brenda Marsh three times. Lomax had called her, the police did too. The cops wanted to know if her client had delivered a box of chocolates to Lomax's address. Brenda asked them if delivering chocolates was a crime.
Craig Hatter met with Socrates at Bebe's bar and said, Lomax is a pussy, man. He asked me who I could get to kick your ass.
What you tell'im? Socrates asked.
Last I heard Mike Tyson was in jail.
The money exchanged hands in Brenda Marsh's office on Pico and Rimpau at the end of that week. Lomax looked scared and tired.He handed over the cash and Socrates signed the letter Brenda had drafted that said he no longer contested the apartment between the furniture store walls.
The only things Socrates took from his home of nine years were a suitcase full of clothes, a few cooking utensils and the photograph of a painting of a disapproving woman dressed in red.
He bought a king-sized bed, and twelve folding chairs that he put in his closet with a fancy folding table. He also bought a folding cot that he kept in a corner for when Darryl stayed with him. He had a phone installed. Other than that his house was bare and pristine.
He walked around the rooms smiling. He had a home that he loved but still he could disappear leaving nothing behind.
rascals in the cane
W
hat I wanna know is if you think that black people have a right to be mad at white folks or are we all just fulla shit an' don't have no excuse for the misery down here an' everywhere else? The speaker, Socrates Fortlow, sat back in his folding chair. It creaked loudly under his brawny weight.
Nelson Saint-Paul, the undertaker known as Topper, cleared his throat and looked to his right. There sat the skinny and bespectacled Leon Spellman. The youth was taking off his glasses to wipe his irritated eyes. The irritation came from Veronica Ashanti's sweet-smelling cigar.
Is that why you had us come to your new house this week? Veronica asked.
It sure is a pretty house, Mr. Fortlow, Cynthia Lott cried in shrill tones.
Chip Lowe sat back in his chair glowering, his light gray mustache glowing like a nightlight against the ebony skin of his upper lip. His hands were clasped before him. They had turned almost completely white with the creeping vitiligo skin disease that was slowly turning the skin of his hands and the right side of his face to white.
How long you been here? Leon asked.
'Bout two months. Socrates took a deep breath to keep down the nervous passion that had built up before he asked his question.
You need somebody to help you pick out some more furniture, Veronica Ashanti said. Her eyelids lowered and her hand moved to cover her small bosom. Almost everything Veronica said seemed to contain a romantic suggestion.
But she was right. Socrates' living room was empty except for six folding chairs and a folding table, all of which had been stored in a closet before the Wednesday night discussion group had arrived.
I like it spare, Ronnie, Socrates said. I like it clean.
But you need some kinda sofa, Cynthia Lott screeched, her stubby legs dangling from the sharp-angled wooden chair. Some place soft for a woman to sit comfortably.
I use these same kind of chairs at the funeral home, Nelson Saint-Paul said. We meet there all the time and you never complained.
But that's not a house, Topper, Veronica explained. You expect more comfort in a house. Here Mr. Fortlow got this nice new place and a yard with flowers and fruit. He should have a nice big sofa and a chair and maybe some kinda rug. That's what you expect to see in a house.
I like the yard, man, Leon said. It's fat.
And if you had some lawn chairs , Veronica began to say.
What kinda shit you mean by that, man? Chip Lowe, head of the local neighborhood watch, blurted out.
Excuse me? Veronica did not like the interruption.
I said what the hell does he mean by that question? Do black people have the right? Do I have the right? Who is he to question me? The anger rolling off Lowe's voice was like a gentle breeze across Socrates' face.
I was talking about lawn furniture, Veronica said icily.
I don't care 'bout no damn furniture, Chip said. What I wanna know is what he mean questioning me?
He didn't say nobody in particular, Mr. Lowe, Leon quailed. He just said black people.
And what the hell you think I am? Lowe said.
That's why I asked you, brother, Socrates said. I asked you 'cause you the one know. If you don't know then who does? I mean you read the paper an' you got white people writin' about it. You got white people on the TV talkin', on the radio, they vote on it too. You got white people askin' black people but then they wanna argue wit' what those black people say. Everybody act like what we feel got to go to a white vote or TV or newspaper. I say fuck that. Fuck it. All that matters is what you'n me think. That's all. I don't care what Mr. Newscaster wanna report. All I wanna know is what we think right here in this room. Right here. Us. Just talkin'. It ain't goin' on the midnight report or the early edition or no shit like that.