?Even if you dyin',? the bookmaker B. B. Moffat once said, ?they got ya. Put you in a room to let you see what you ain't never gonna have again. Give you a carpet an' then bring you to the grave.?
Socrates sat on a stool next to the dying man's cot. The gaunt-faced Levering smiled once and then gestured for Socrates to lean close.
?Hold it,? one of the white guards said.
?Leave him alone,? Chaplain James commanded with a whisper. ?Have respect for a man when he's dying.?
Socrates bent forward and looked into Death's eyes.
?I want you to plant me a tree,? Levering wheezed.
?What kinda tree?? Socrates asked.
?A African tree if it grow where you live. But any tree that can get tall. Maybe one with flowers.?
?You got it.?
?An' another thing, man.?
?Yeah??
?Right after you plant it I want you to fuck me a girl.?
Socrates smiled for the first time in a long time.
?No lie, man,? Levering said. ?She got to be pretty, she got to be black, an' she got to be young. All right? You gonna do that for me??
?I will if I can, man. But you know by the time I get outta here my thing might not get out no mo'.? Socrates laughed for real and Levering shared his joke.
?They kill ya every way they can,? the dying man said. ?But even if you can just slap up against it that's okay. I just wanna tree an' some love for me somewhere. You know I been sittin' here lookin' at the sun an' thinkin' on it.?
It was the sunlight flowing through the windows at Bounty supermarket that jogged Socrates' memory. He had spent ten more years in prison after Levering died. They gave him parole even though they didn't have to. Unlike Cap, Socrates' victims were black and the Indiana Department of Corrections decided that twenty-seven years four months and sixteen days was the price for that crime.
He'd been free for nine years but that didn't mean a thing. Socrates had cut off everything from his old life. He had no old friends or debts. He was through with Indiana, prison, family and friends. His pledge to Levering got swept away with everything else.
Also, Socrates never thought that he'd be able to honor that pledge. It was just a friendly laugh at the end of a good man's life.
But standing there putting spicy Italian sausages and Lysol disinfectant in a white plastic bag, Socrates realized that he had a debt to pay.
?Can I help you?? the small white man asked, emphasizing each word.
?That's why I'm here.?
?The job we have has already been taken,? the flabby-faced man said.
?Ain't this a nursery?? Socrates asked.
The man squinted behind his thick rectangular lenses as if he was being addressed in a foreign language that he could not even identify.
?You sell these here plants, right?? Socrates asked, gesturing at the potted plants around the outside lot.
?Yes??
?Well I come here to buy one, or order one.?
