?Not so bad I guess.? Socrates took a seat next to the pudgy undertaker who was named for the top hat he wore at services in his funeral home. ?I mean I'm still breathin' and I'm still free.?
?Would you like something to eat?? graciously asked the undertaker.
?Take some coffee if you offerin'.?
?Done,? Topper said. ?Mrs. LaPort, please bring my friend some coffee and a slice of coffee cake.?
Iula nodded but didn't move. There were a lot of customers in the diner that evening. Socrates didn't mind waiting. It was a little after eight o'clock and Iula wasn't off until eleven at the earliest.
He sat and discussed the day's events with Topper, who was one of the few men Socrates knew who read the newspapers each day. In prison there was a limited amount of news allowed to get out among the general population. Among a certain crowd talk about the news was like real cream in your coffee or a glimpse of the sea.
Sometimes Socrates sought Topper out to discuss the news but this day he had another purpose in mind.
After Topper and Socrates had dispatched with international and national events they discussed local comings and goings.
?I heard somebody got killed down near me,? Socrates said almost incidentally.
?You mean that Logan child?? Topper asked.
Socrates shook his head. ?Was that his name??
?Ronald Logan. He was raised not five blocks from your house. Fell in with gangsters. Went to jail and came out wrong. It's amazing to me how they take these children and turn 'em into something that isn't even human any more. That boy was a terror on the street for the whole time he was out of jail. Ten days. No. No I'm a liar. It was nine days. Nine days and then they found him dead in the alley right up the street here.?
?Somebody shoot'im??
?Crushed his skull. That's what his mother told me. And you know I believe that she was relieved. Relieved that the evil she released on this world was gone.? Topper had a Bible group that met on Friday evenings at his funeral home, business permitting. He sounded like a minister but Socrates liked him anyway.
?You doin' the funeral?? Socrates asked as if just making conversation.
?When the coroner gets through with the body. When there's a murder the coroner has to take a look. He don't do much.? Nelson Saint-Paul sneered in professional disdain. ?Just take a look and then release the body. Only it usually take him a whole week to get to it because of the backlog they got. Backlog of death. You know that's a shame.?
Socrates winced but remained quiet.
He was thinking about the bodies he had seen in his life. The dead men and women, almost all of them dead before they should have been. He considered Ronald Logan, who had just been a corpse until Nelson named him. Now he had a mother and a history.
?Socrates,? Nelson was saying.
?Huh??
?Where are you, man? Here I am offerin' you employment and there you are examining your feet.?
?Sorry.?
?Well??
?Well what??
?You wanna try doin' a little work for me??
?What you want? Some kinda janitor??
?Naw. Janitor's easy to find. I need somebody to help with the embalming and the preparation for service. You know that's a real profession ain't gonna fall outta style.?
Socrates put both of his hands on the table to keep his balance. He felt as if he might fall right out of his chair.
