In the next week Socrates spoke to Brenda Marsh three times. Lomax had called her, the police did too. The cops wanted to know if her client had delivered a box of chocolates to Lomax's address. Brenda asked them if delivering chocolates was a crime.
Craig Hatter met with Socrates at Bebe's bar and said, ?Lomax is a pussy, man. He asked me who I could get to kick your ass.?
?What you tell'im?? Socrates asked.
?Last I heard Mike Tyson was in jail.?
The money exchanged hands in Brenda Marsh's office on Pico and Rimpau at the end of that week. Lomax looked scared and tired.He handed over the cash and Socrates signed the letter Brenda had drafted that said he no longer contested the apartment between the furniture store walls.
The only things Socrates took from his home of nine years were a suitcase full of clothes, a few cooking utensils and the photograph of a painting of a disapproving woman dressed in red.
He bought a king-sized bed, and twelve folding chairs that he put in his closet with a fancy folding table. He also bought a folding cot that he kept in a corner for when Darryl stayed with him. He had a phone installed. Other than that his house was bare and pristine.
He walked around the rooms smiling. He had a home that he loved but still he could disappear leaving nothing behind.
rascals in the cane
W
hat I wanna know is if you think that black people have a right to be mad at white folks or are we all just fulla shit an' don't have no excuse for the misery down here an' everywhere else?? The speaker, Socrates Fortlow, sat back in his folding chair. It creaked loudly under his brawny weight.
Nelson Saint-Paul, the undertaker known as Topper, cleared his throat and looked to his right. There sat the skinny and bespectacled Leon Spellman. The youth was taking off his glasses to wipe his irritated eyes. The irritation came from Veronica Ashanti's sweet-smelling cigar.
?Is that why you had us come to your new house this week?? Veronica asked.
?It sure is a pretty house, Mr. Fortlow,? Cynthia Lott cried in shrill tones.
Chip Lowe sat back in his chair glowering, his light gray mustache glowing like a nightlight against the ebony skin of his upper lip. His hands were clasped before him. They had turned almost completely white with the creeping vitiligo skin disease that was slowly turning the skin of his hands and the right side of his face to white.
?How long you been here?? Leon asked.
? 'Bout two months.? Socrates took a deep breath to keep down the nervous passion that had built up before he asked his question.
?You need somebody to help you pick out some more furniture,? Veronica Ashanti said. Her eyelids lowered and her hand moved to cover her small bosom. Almost everything Veronica said seemed to contain a romantic suggestion.
But she was right. Socrates' living room was empty except for six folding chairs and a folding table, all of which had been stored in a closet before the Wednesday night discussion group had arrived.
?I like it spare, Ronnie,? Socrates said. ?I like it clean.?
?But you need some kinda sofa,? Cynthia Lott screeched, her stubby legs dangling from the sharp-angled wooden chair. ?Some place soft for a woman to sit comfortably.?
?I use these same kind of chairs at the funeral home,? Nelson Saint-Paul said. ?We meet there all the time and you never complained.?
?But that's not a house, Topper,? Veronica explained. ?You expect more comfort in a house. Here Mr. Fortlow got this nice new place and a yard with flowers and fruit. He should have a nice big sofa and a chair and maybe some kinda rug. That's what you expect to see in a house.?
?I like the yard, man,? Leon said. ?It's fat.?
?And if you had some lawn chairs ? ,? Veronica began to say.
?What kinda shit you mean by that, man?? Chip Lowe, head of the local neighborhood watch, blurted out.
?Excuse me?? Veronica did not like the interruption.
