Bernie, a liquor store salesman, sat next to Stony Wile and Stony's woman-on-the side, Charlene. Bernie was older than Socrates, tall and dark. Stony was much lighter, brawny and closer to the ground. Charlene was all that beauty could be in a black woman, at least that's what Socrates thought. She was long like Bernie but not tall or awkward. She had dark skin and sculptured lips, a high forehead and eyes that looked right down into your heart.
Charlene was born to be a high-society woman but her parents were down-home Baptists who believed in hell and God with only human beings to separate them. So she paid dearly for every stick of lipstick and glimpse in the mirror. Beauty was wanton in her mother's eyes and the love of beauty was a sin. Charlene learned to hate her natural elegance and to find men who treated her like trash.
Now in her forties, when Charlene's wild oats should have been cultivated by some minister or well-to-do businessman, she was still in the streets trading a slapper for a shouter, turning in good men for tramps.
?Hey, Bernie, Stony,? Socrates said. He looked at Charlene and she made the slightest kiss with her lips. The ex- con looked away, momentarily shy. When he looked back, she was smiling at the discomfort she had caused.
?Mr. Fortlow,? she said sweetly.
?How you tonight, Charlene??
?Stony wanna stop me from drinkin'. You think I need to change, Mr. Fortlow??
Socrates didn't want to insult Stony by flirting with Charlene so he just shook his head to say that she was fine the way she was. But there was something too strong, even in that little head movement, and Stony stared down angrily at his meat loaf and greens.
?Come on an' sit down with us here,? Bernie offered. They were at a booth by the window.
Socrates sat next to the liquor salesman and took in the bus.
Iula sat behind the long counter that ran the space where the buses were joined. All seven stools were occupied. He recognized Veronica Ashanti and Topper, one of the last black undertakers on Central Avenue. There were a few others whose names he knew, the rest were familiar but no more. Many people were standing around waiting for takeout or seats. But Iula was taking her time talking to Tony LaPort, her landlord and ex-husband, at the end of the counter. She could afford to take it easy because she had hired Charles Rinnet to work in the back bus, which served as the kitchen, during the heavy hours between seven and eleven.
She had once offered Socrates that job but he was still afraid of his hands back then. The hands of a killer had to be careful of what they did.
?What you doin', Socrates?? Bernie asked. ?You still workin' at that supermarket??
?Yeah, yeah. Still packin' them bags. How's Harold??
?Cheap as a motherfucker,? Bernie complained. ?You know I asked him for a two-dollar raise after nuthin' for three years an' he told me I could leave.?
?Yeah?? Socrates was interested.
?Uh-huh.?
?So what you do??
?I worked out my week and quit. You know they said that when black men owned businesses it was gonna be better but I went over to Zimmerman on Sixtieth and he hired me like that.? Bernie snapped his long fingers.
?But I thought you was still with Harold?? Socrates asked.
?I am,? Bernie replied. ?Harold came to me,
. Because you know nobody like him. The only reason they come to that store is 'cause I know how to respect peoples. An' here he is worse than a white man.?
?You got your two dollars??
Bernie nodded his head like a bass man on a groove. ?Motherfucker gimme three.?
Socrates laughed deeply. Charlene leaned toward him over the table, drawn to his powerful pleasure. She was wearing a blue sweater that was tight and V-necked.
Socrates turned to Stony and asked, ?So, Stony, what's happenin' with you??
