Killer howled in reply.
Socrates woke up half expecting Killer to be there. The house was still empty and he went right out the door. He wandered the narrow and steep pathways of the canyon, walking in the street mainly because there were few sidewalks up there. After some time he made it down to Sunset Boulevard. There he found a bus that got him to work by two fifteen.
Nobody complained about his absence. Socrates was a hard worker and respected among his peers.
When he got home that evening, Killer barked and stamped his forepaws to show how hungry he was.
?I learned a lot from that dog,? he told Iula later that night as they lay together in each other's arms.
?What could you learn from a dog?? Iula asked playfully.
?That you can be hungry but you don't have to be mad.? A wave of emotion choked off the end of his sentence. He stayed quiet for a few moments. ?That bravery ain't no big thing. Bravery is just doin' what you do wit' what you got an' where you find yourself. But it's, but it's love that gives life. It's that that calls out for you.?
?You don't need a dog to teach you about love. Everybody knows about love.? Iula sounded angry.
?Not me,? Socrates replied. ?I never bled for nobody didn't bleed for me.?
?What's blood got to do with it??
?I wish I knew. I mean it seem like every time somethin' gets serious or important you got to put up blood and freedom just to stay in the game.?
?What?? Iula said, exasperation filling her voice, ?what are you talking about??
?I'ont know what it means, honey. Just know that that's what I know.?
mookie kid
T
he phone rang at 6:25 on Wednesday evening, just as Socrates got to the door. He took his time with the padlock and put the groceries down carefully before going to answer the phone. It was on the eleventh ring that Socrates picked up the receiver. Whoever it was had just lost heart and cut off the connection.
The big man put away his cans of tuna and bag of white rice. He had stripped down to his boxer shorts and was busy washing himself at the kitchen sink when the phone rang again. It only rang eight times before Socrates answered.
?Hello.?
Nothing.
?Hello. Who is this??
No response.
?Shit,? Socrates said. Just as he took the phone from his ear he thought he heard something: a quick breath or hiss, maybe the beginning of a word, maybe the start of his name. But he was angry and slammed the phone down before he could be sure.
The ex-convict finished his toilet and then brought a saucepan half full of water to a boil on his butane stove. When the rice was cooked he added a can of tuna with onions, hot sauce, and soy sauce.He let that simmer for a while. He intended to blend in half a can of peas that had been keeping in his large Styrofoam cooler, but the ice had melted and the peas gone sour.
Lately he'd been thinking about getting another small refrigerator. The last one he had burned out because of a bad electrical connection. He could splice in another outlet off the 220 line and modify it for a 110 appliance. He'd learned how to do that from Michael Porter, an out-of-work electrician who liked to play dominoes in the park.
Socrates pulled away a section of wall shared with the vacant furniture store next door. With a flashlight he located the box he needed to use. There was one hot box left in the furniture store. Whether it was a mistake or not, Socrates had used the free electricity for nine years. His old landlord, Price Landers, said that the electricity came with the rent. But Landers had died years before and Michael Porter pointed out that the connection Socrates had was illegal.
Socrates was studying the fuse box, trying to remember what he had to do when the phone rang again. This time it rang over thirty times before the caller gave up.
Somewhere around midnight Socrates fell asleep speculating on how heavy the refrigerator would be. He also wondered if Stony Wile was still mad at him for going out with his woman-on-the-side, Charlene, for a couple of days. Stony had a pickup truck.
