?You wanna a ride home before I take Darryl?? Howard wanted to know.
?Just lea'me alone, all right??
They left him standing on the street in front of the police station. Again he was like a statue; a slightly larger than life-size image of a black man against white stone. His khaki pants and black T-shirt were tight over arms and legs that bulged with angry strength. His head tilted up slightly.
The assistant manager Jason Fulbright looked at the clock when he saw Socrates coming through the sliding glass doors of Bounty. Socrates followed his immediate boss's eyes to see that it was two fifteen.
Socrates stifled the urge to go up to the younger black man and say, ?I have a good excuse, boss man. I had to wipe the prints offa my thirty-eight and go hide it under a wreck in the empty lot down the alley from my place. 'Cause you know a ex-con been down for double murder and rape cain't own no pistol to protect himself in this country. In this country they got to protect niggahs like you.?
Socrates realized that he was speaking under his breath, saying what he was thinking and building into a fury. So he turned away and went to the back of the store where he could find some hard work for his hands to do.
?The police came to see me today before you got here,? Marty Gonzalez, the store manager, told Socrates.
It was ten fifteen that night and the last customer had been let out of the front door with a key by Sarah Shulberg and her best friend, the black girl Robyn Craig.
?Oh yeah??
?They said that you killed two people, that you raped the woman, and that you were labeled incorrigible at a prison in the Midwest.?
They were standing next to a bin of pink grapefruits that were piled in a pyramid.
?Oh yeah? What you say??
?I said that to begin with I knew about your record and that Bounty had a policy of giving people a chance to reform. And then I told them that midwestern prisons must be pretty strange to release incorrigibles and let them move out of state.?
?I ain't told you 'bout my record,? Socrates said.
?It's not any of my business and those cops were wrong to tell me.?
Socrates wanted to hit Marty. He wanted to pick up a grapefruit and squeeze it until all of the bitter juice was wasted on the floor. His distress was physical. His head ached and his stomach was ready to roll over. Socrates' mouth was filling up with saliva when he said, ?I got to get outta here, Marty.?
The shorter supervisor put his hand on Socrates' right biceps.
?I still want you for my produce man, Socco.?
?I gotta go? was the only answer he could give.
Weakness was the convict's worst enemy. Soft muscles, bad eyesight, poor mental faculties or just plain tired?all of these were life threatening conditions in the state pen.
Socrates couldn't rise out of bed for twenty minutes after he woke up the next morning. The room was spinning. He hadn't eaten since the afternoon of the day before. In the slam the guards would have beaten him to his feet, or to the floor.
Because of the dizziness he had to sit down to urinate. He was still on the toilet when the knocking started.
They knocked for a long time. Long enough for Socrates to drag himself to the door.
Beryl and Biggers stood side by side.
?Can we come in?? the milk chocolate man asked.
Socrates slumped in his good chair while the two cops leaned up against the wall.
?You know we got a quota down at the station, Fortlow,? Beryl was explaining. ?They expect us to solve one out of three murders and they expect one out of five of the perps to be put in jail. It's not as bad as it sounds. Because you see if you killed once you probably will again. I mean it's like a habit with you people.?
