?That ain't why people s'posed to do things,? Socrates said to Stony at Stony's house one day.
The bronze-skinned welder lit a cigarette and nodded.
When Socrates put his glass down it broke on the red Formica.
That was the first night he stalked Denther's. He saw Cardwell leaving to go home at one A.M. The rat-faced beanpole wasn't even being charged. The police investigation proved that Torrence wasn't armed but another boy, Aldo Reams, was. They discovered the gun in young Mr. Reams's pocket after Torrence was already dead. There was no evidence. No tattoos or gang colors. Somebody broke a window and the boys made some kind of hand signs. The cops came. The boys ran. Cardwell shot but he wasn't answering fire. The unfired and unseen gun was taken from a scared Aldo Reams, who fell to the ground with his hands outstretched when Torrence was hit. The puzzle pieces did not fit the story. Socrates saw that a boy was slaughtered over a broken window and the finger. All he did was run.
Socrates was drawn to Denther's every night for two weeks. He learned Cardwell's pattern with no intention except to nurse a feeling of hatred that was so familiar he sometimes wondered if the hate was older than him.
For hours every night in cold wet weather he stood at absolute attention. He didn't go through the problems at work in his mind. He didn't think about Darryl or Iula. All that existed was Cardwell and his movements. Socrates had become a predator, a hunter. He was a wild thing with a too fast heart.
?The chains on a black man,? his old aunt Bellandra had said, ?go down through the centuries. They once made us slaves to the plantation but now they make us slaves to the slaves we was.?
?Huh?? the small boy Socrates asked.
?A good word and a gentle touch is like a cloud that passes on a nice day, Socrates,? she replied. ?But pain, real pain last forever. It hurt your son and his son and his. The slave is still cryin' even though his chains ain't nuthin' but rust, even though he's long gone and forgotten.?
There had been guards who he thought about every day and every night for months, even years. Their names were still in his mind even though sometimes he couldn't remember his mother's face. Craig Kimball was one. Warden Joseph Simon was another one. They were just as much murderers as Socrates. They tortured and broke simple men for no reason. Socrates was sure that he'd hunt both of them down if he ever had the chance. But he never did. Kimball had beaten three men to death in their cells. Simon ordered sick men into the dungeon when any fool could have seen it would kill them.
But Socrates didn't try to find Simon or Kimball after his release. Now the hatred welled up again. Socrates was still in prison. Cardwell was the new evil screw assigned to his block. Bellandra's words came back to him again.
An angry old woman, long dead and forgotten by everyone except one frightened nephew, pronounced Cardwell's death sentence.
Socrates bought guns and ammunition at Blackbird's bar. You could get anything at Blackbird's if you were brave enough to go there. Fourteen clips of 9mm shells was like an extra-generous baker's dozen from a friendly grocer.
Cardwell came out of Denther's. If Socrates had looked at his watch he would have known that it was two fifteen. But the wrist-watch was in his pocket with the hand on the gun. The murder in the air came in through his lungs and from there to his blood. Socrates, who knew that he had been prepared for centuries, was finally ready to answer a destiny older than the oldest man in the world.
Cardwell obliged and walked toward the dark alley. He was smoking a cigarette, moving at an unhurried pace. He was thinking about something. Socrates breathed deeply and tasted the air. It filled him with a sweetness of anticipation that he had not felt since the first time a woman, Netalie Brian, had helped him find his manhood.
?It was the air, no, no, no, the breath of air,? Socrates told Darryl the next morning on the phone. ?It was so good. I mean good, man.You know I almost called out loud. I saw Cardwell walkin' my way an' my hands was tight on them guns. You know he was a dead man an' didn't know it. I pulled them pistols outta my pockets. I was thinking about him dyin' but at the same time I was wonderin' what was goin' on in my mind. You know what I mean, Darryl? How you could think about somethin' an' still be thinkin' 'bout somethin' else??
?Uh-huh,? Darryl grunted. Socrates hadn't slept that night. He'd called the Shakurs' house at seven A.M. and gotten Corina to get Darryl out of bed. Darryl was the only human being that Socrates trusted completely. ?You mean like when it's almost three but the teacher talkin' 'bout the Civil War but you thinkin' 'bout basketball??
?Yeah like that, like that. But I was gonna murder that man. I was gonna kill him. But I was thinkin' that I had never felt nuthin' like that deep breath I just took. An' even though I was gettin' ready to kill I had to take just one second to think about how I felt. You know??
?I guess I do,? Darryl said. ?But how did you feel??
?I felt free,? Socrates said in a soft voice. ?All my life I ain't never felt like that. I was ready to die along with that man. My life for his? you cain't get more free than that.?
