Uh-huh, Darryl grunted. Socrates hadn't slept that night. He'd called the Shakurs' house at seven A.M. and gotten Corina to get Darryl out of bed. Darryl was the only human being that Socrates trusted completely. You mean like when it's almost three but the teacher talkin' 'bout the Civil War but you thinkin' 'bout basketball?
Yeah like that, like that. But I was gonna murder that man. I was gonna kill him. But I was thinkin' that I had never felt nuthin' like that deep breath I just took. An' even though I was gettin' ready to kill I had to take just one second to think about how I felt. You know?
I guess I do, Darryl said. But how did you feel?
I felt free, Socrates said in a soft voice. All my life I ain't never felt like that. I was ready to die along with that man. My life for his you cain't get more free than that.
Did you kill him? Darryl whispered the question so that Howard and Corina wouldn't hear if they were close at hand.
I meant to. The guns was out and he passed not three feet from me. But I just stood theresmiling, thinkin' 'bout how good it felt to be in my own skin.
Socrates took his newfound freedom to work that day. He smiled at people and asked after their health. He told gentle jokes and paid more attention to the details of the produce department than he ever had before. He was tired from two weeks with little sleep and suffered from a slight cold from all those nights spent in the alley. He detected a whiff of staleness about his person like the smell of old clothes taken out of the bottom drawer after many years.
It was the finest day of Socrates Fortlow's life. Death held no dominion that day. And if his aunt Bellandra's blue god was in his heaven Socrates had no quarrel with his remoteness.
The elation lasted deep into the night. Socrates turned off all the lights in his small garden home and walked around in bare feet touching the wood and metal and glass of his house with wonder and joy. He lay down on the new sofa in the living room unaware that he would fall asleep. He just sat down for a moment and then stretched out with a silly glee. Sleep came upon him like a highwayman who had been lying in wait.
The dream was a variation on an old theme. A small room with a single cot on which the ex-convict slept. The pounding on the door that roused him was like artillery fire in a war film.
Socrates simply opened the door for the ebony giant who was stripped to the waist and powerful in a way that only wildness can breed. The big man towered over Socrates but there was no more fear in the bald ex-con. Their gazes met and somewhere Socrates knew that he was dreaming. He also knew that he had to go along until the end.
What you want from me? Socrates asked.
I only wanna know what you gonna do now. You done the first job. You done dug up all the dead an' set 'em free. Now what you gonna do with all that power?
Freedom was old hat in twenty-four hours.
You know I couldn't believe it, Darryl, he told the son of his heart that weekend. Here I been lookin' to be free for my whole life. Whole life. An' when I get it it's just like a pocket fulla change somebody done give to me 'cause I looked wretched an' poor. Now that change is just jinglin' in my pockets but there ain't nuthin' I got to buy. Uh-uh. I could just pass it on to somebody else now. Yeah, pass it on to somebody like you.
Darryl looked a little stunned into his friend's eyes, his skinny boy's body moving with the rhythm of his breath.
I need a favor, Lavant, Socrates told the self-styled anarchist. They were sitting in the garage where Lavant slept and created the bright yellow broadsides that he hoped would be the clarion call to revolution for the working men and women of L.A.
What's that, Socco? the black zealot asked.
I need to know everything I can about somebody and then I need your printin' skills.
Two weeks later Socrates took the first paid vacation of his life. He gave short notice and Marty Gonzalez was hard pressed to explain to the main office that it was worth it to give their new produce manager a week off after only six months on a job that had benefits.
You know they don't like it, Socco, his boss said.
I don't like it either, Marty. But you know I got to take the time, got to.
Saturday he spent with Iula. He went to work with her early in the morning and helped her get ready for the day. He managed the big pots and did some of the little jobs that she never got around to. When he wasn't working he sat at the counter drinking tea with lemon, something he'd always pined for in prison but never drank once he was on the outside.
That night they made love, speaking hardly at all. Iula could tell that there was something wrong but she kept silent.
Sunday he went down to Venice Beach to see Darryl with Corina and Howard Shakur. They all went down the beach with the children, Winnie and little Howard.
That's a good job you got down at Bounty now. Howard's statement seemed to contain a question.
I guess. Socrates was distracted by the sound of the waves and the wind. The ocean's power always made his heart race.
How you think I'd do in a grocery store? Howard asked.
Better'n me that's for sure.
Why you say that?
You young, Howard. Strong too. Bounty got stores all over the West Coast. You could work all the way up the top ranks if you tried. Add that to the computers you know and you could make it big.
You think so? Howard puffed up with pride.
Socrates looked at Howard. He really couldn't call the man his friend. All Howard did was brag and gloat over others who had less than him. He was jealous of his own children where Corina's affections were concerned. But Socrates felt generous that day on the beach.
Yeah, Howard. But you got to remember, man.
Remember what?
All that money don't mean a thing if you want to see your momma smile but your momma's dead.
Howard frowned and almost said something but instead he raised his bulk out of the aluminum strap chair and walked over to his wife.
Socrates set his alarm for five A.M. but he didn't get out of bed until seven fifteen. He made tea with lemon and had wheat toast with eggs. He ate standing at the kitchen sink, looking out of his window at his landlord's backyard. Fuzzy bees hovered around the lemon bush, eyed by the white cat that sometimes came from next door. The ear of the teacup was too small for Socrates' finger to fit through. He pinched the small handle though and that worked all right.
He hadn't yet bought a radio or television. Now he thought that he never would. He liked the idea of a radio, voices that he could spy on and then turn off when he got bored or annoyed. But that morning all he had was sunlight and that lemon bush, bees and a white cat.
Against the front door lay two stiff yellow boards connected by purple straps spaced for a head to fit between them. Each board was filled with red lettering and illustrated by laminated photographs.
But Socrates wasn't looking at the board right then. He was savoring his hot tea and breathing the still air and silence.
At ten thirty he showed up across the street from the rogue cop's police precinct. He stood there in his camouflage army surplus coveralls wearing the sandwich board that detailed the crimes of Matthew G. Cardwell Jr.,
POLICE OFFICER and KILLER,
the homemade poster board read.
A five-by-seven photograph of Cardwell, seen laughing and smoking a cigarette, was at the center of each board. Below that was a copy of the list of allegations of police brutality brought against the cop. This list was an enlarged photocopy of the public record. Above his photo and to each side were the names and photographs of his victims. Reggie Wile was there, his face battered and swollen. A picture of Inger Lowe was accompanied by the question