Walkin The Dog

Dumpster-diving for cans and bottles to working at Bounty Supermarket, he couldn't think of anyone named Moorland.

Thinking back over twenty-seven years in an Indiana prison didn't reveal the name either. But it was there.

A man in prison wouldn't have used a name like that.

Moorland

would get some of the uneducated cons, and guards, upset. They'd think that just having a name like that would be putting on airs. He'd have to have a nickname, a handle. But that could be anything. It could be his size or color or the shape of his ears. A nickname could be based on the kind of crimes you committed or the thing you were the most proud of in the outside world. Loverboy, Big Daddy, Longarm and Loose Lips were all handles that might have hidden a name like Poindexter, Archibald or Moorland.

If he's just a salesman,

Socrates thought.

Then why didn't he say something when I answered the line last week?

But maybe this was the first time that Moorland Kinear ever called. Maybe the call last week was somebody else.

But why is that name so familiar?

Because they callin' you, fool. It's somebody who knows you and wants to talk.

If Socrates had had that conversation with another man it might have come to blows. In turns he decided to answer when the phone rang again, to tear the phone out of the wall and discontinue the service, and to get an answering machine and never respond to a call unless the caller stated his business clearly.

He wished he'd never gotten that phone in the first place. He never had a phone as a child or as a convict. It was just another way that people could reach at you, could cause you trouble.

The best kind of life to live was with no contacts and no way for people to find you, Socrates believed. At least that's what part of him believed. But ever since he'd met that boy, that Darryl, he'd been pulled out of his shell. Trying to help Darryl out of trouble, he'd got himself all tangled up with people and confused. He'd gotten the phone so that Darryl could call if he had to.

Socrates lay in his bed thinking that he should disappear, that he should take the money he had buried in a jar in the yard, and leave L.A. He could go to Oakland and start over.

He went to sleep in turmoil, twisting and grunting to the rhythm of his dreams. He saw himself in prison fights and in the

dungeon,

the place where they sent you if you had discipline problems. He remembered wardens and assistant wardens, head guards and new recruits. And then suddenly, in the middle of all that dreaming and worry, Socrates woke up and spoke. ?Mookie. It's Mookie Kid the first-floor man.?

Mookie, sometimes known as Mookie Kid and sometimes as the first-floor man, that was Moorland Kinear. He bunked down the row from Socrates for five years. Mookie was a burly man, not very strong but imposing. He liked to find businesses that kept their money and valuables in locked rooms instead of a safe.

?You could always cut through the flo' on a locked room,? Mookie would say. He was christened the first-floor man because, unlike the cat burglar, the second-story man, Mookie usually cut a hole up from the cellar to the first floor.

Mookie was a career criminal. He had never held a job that didn't lead to a crime. Most of his life had been spent eating off tin plates at long tables alongside of rough men.

Socrates issued a harsh syllable that stood for a laugh and then went back to sleep.

It was a sound sleep. No rolling around or dreams that had words or faces or names.

He went to work the next day without fear of being seen or sought out. He got a citrus delivery from Florida Inc. and a shipment of berries from the Central California Farmer's Union. Socrates handled much of the purchasing for his store even though the purchasing office for Bounty would have been glad to handle it for him. Socrates liked his job.

It wasn't until that afternoon that Mookie Kid came back into his thoughts.

Should he call Mookie and see what the ex-con wanted? He already knew what Mookie was up to. Why ask? It was some grocery store or five-and-dime that kept their receipts in a storage room over a poorly guarded basement. Maybe it was some upscale place that wasn't used to criminals with pickaxes and sledgehammers.

Whatever it was Mookie was up to, it had to do with getting caught. Mookie's lifetime of prison food attested to that. Socrates decided not to call. He wouldn't answer any calls from Mookie either.