Socrates had seen the man's white overalls when he'd scanned the street but dismissed them as being no threat.
?Hey, Lydell. What's happenin'??
?Hey, Socco,? the slender carpenter repeated. His dark face was long and his features were fine. Again Socrates noticed the grief in that face.
?What's wrong, man?? the ex-convict asked.
?Nuthin'. Nuthin' at all. I just seen you. Thought I'd say hey.?
?Hey,? Socrates said.
?Hey.? Lydell smiled and winced at the same time.
The men stood in the street surrounded by children and old men. Standing still, Socrates became momentarily aware of laughter. It struck him as odd but he didn't think any more about it.
?Well,? he said. ?I better be goin'. See ya, Lydell.?
?See ya, Socco,? Lydell said but he kept a steady gaze in Socrates' eye.
?Well, okay,? Socrates said. ?I better be goin'.?
?You was up in prison, right, Socrates?? Lydell asked.
Socrates gave the carpenter a hard look but it was wasted on the deep sadness of the man.
?Yeah,? Socrates answered. ?Yeah I was up there. Way up in there.?
?Me too,? Lydell said. ?I killed a man an' they send me up there. Send me up there. Yeah, you know. For manslaughter.?
The street was full of people but there were no witnesses to Lydell's confession. No one but Socrates was listening to the anguished carpenter.
?You wanna go get a drink?? Socrates asked his newfound friend.
Bebe's bar was run by a black Chicano named Paolo Herrera who everybody called Chico. He got that name because of the hat he wore, which was reminiscent of the Marx brother's. Bebe's was one of the few places where the Latino and Negro races mingled around Socrates' neighborhood. That was because of Chico's appearance which he inherited from his mother, a descendent of a Brazilian woman from BahIa.
Socrates went into Bebe's place now and then because it reminded him of prison. Only men patronized the bar. They played chess but there was no jukebox. They talked in low voices keeping secrets that no one cared about. And everyone was always watching, on the lookout for any trouble. Socrates felt safe among the denizens of Bebe's bar because he could relax a little surrounded, as he was, by sentries who he could trust to sound the alarm.
Socrates knew from the minute they went into Bebe's that Lydell had told the truth when he said that he was an ex-con. The carpenter shot glances in all directions, sizing up men and groups with immediate certainty. He looked around for a table against a wall but they were all taken.
?We could sit at that table over there,? Socrates told his companion. ?Bebe's is cool.?
He pointed to a spindly legged wooden table that was almost black from cigarette burns and stains.
?Two beers, Chico,? Socrates said to the owner who stood behind the oak-stained pine bar.
?It's just beer and whiskey,? Socrates said to Lydell. ?Scotch and gin. No brand names or special drinks. Chico got soda water but no tonic. And if you wanna sandwich you gotta bring it in yourself.?
The room was well lit. The pale linoleum floor was clean and swept. Lydell swiveled his head from side to side taking in the corners, but there were no hiding places at Bebe's.
?Where'd you do your time?? Socrates asked.
?Soledad. You??
?Back east.? This wasn't Socrates' confession. He didn't feel the need to unburden himself.
