Denise Hamilton - Los Angeles Noir 2

“I’m hungry. When we gonna eat?” Darryl asked. “I mean I hope you plan t’eat this here after all this cookin’.”

“Naw, man,” Socrates said. “I thought we could go out an’ sell it t’some ole lady like t’eat chicken.”

“Huh?” Darryl said.

The kitchen was filling up with the aroma of chicken and sauce. Darryl’s stomach growled loudly.

“You hungry?” Socrates asked him.

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. That’s good.”

“Shit. Ain’t good ’less I get sumpin’ t’eat.”

“Boy should be hungry. Yeah. Boys is always hungry. That’s how they get to be men.”

“What the fuck you mean, man? You just crazy. That’s all.”

“If you know you hungry then you know you need sumpin’. Sumpin’ missin’ an’ hungry tell you what it is.”

“That’s some kinda friend to you too?” Darryl sneered. “Hungry yo’ friend?”

Socrates smiled then. His broad black face shone with delight. He wasn’t a very old man, somewhere in his fifties. His teeth were all his own and healthy, though darkly stained. The top of his head was completely bald; tufts of wiry white hovered behind his ears.

“Hungry, horny, hello, and how come. They all my friends, my best friends.”

Darryl sniffed the air and his stomach growled again.

“Uh-huh,” Socrates hummed. “That’s right. They all my friends. All of ’em. You got to have good friends you wanna make it through the penitentiary.”

“You up in jail?” Darryl asked.

“Yup.”

“My old man’s up in jail,” Darryl said. “Least he was. He died though.”

“Oh. Sorry t’hear it, li’l brother. I’m sorry.”

“What you in jail for?”

Socrates didn’t seem to hear the question. He was looking at the picture of the painting above the sink. The right side of the scene was an open field of yellow grasses under a light blue sky. The windows of the house were shuttered and dark but the sun shone hard on the woman in red.

“You still hungry?” Socrates asked.

Darryl’s stomach growled again and Socrates laughed.

3

Socrates made Darryl sit in the chair while he turned over the trash can for his seat. He read the paper for half an hour or more while the rooster simmered on the hot plate. Darryl knew to keep quiet. When it was done, Socrates served the meal on three plates—one for each dish. The man and boy shoveled down dirty rice, green beans, and tough rooster like they were starving men; eating off the same plates, neither one uttered a word. The only drink they had was water—their glasses were mayonnaise jars. Their breathing was loud and slobbery. Hands moved in syncopation; tearing and scooping.

Anyone witnessing the orgy would have said that they hailed from the same land; prayed to the same gods.

When the plates were clean they sat back bringing hands across bellies. They both sighed and shook their heads.

“That was some good shit,” Darryl said. “Mm!”

“Bet you didn’t know you could cook, huh?” Socrates asked.

“Shit no!” the boy said.

“Keep your mouth clean, li’l brother. You keep it clean an’ then they know you mean business when you say sumpin’ strong.”

Darryl was about to say something but decided against it. He looked over at the door, and then back at Socrates.

“Could I go now?” he asked, a boy talking to his elder at last.

“Not yet.”

“How come?” There was an edge of fear in the boy’s voice. Socrates remembered many times reveling in the fear he brought to young men in their cells. Back then he enjoyed the company of fear.

“Not till I hear it. You cain’t go till then.”

“Hear what?”

“You know what. So don’t be playin’ stupid. Don’t be playin’ stupid an’ you just et my friend.”

Darryl made to push himself up but abandoned that idea when he saw those hands rise from the table.

“You should be afraid, Darryl,” Socrates said, reading the boy’s eyes. “I kilt men with these hands. Choked an’ broke ’em. I could crush yo’ head wit’ one hand.” Socrates held out his left palm.

“I ain’t afraid’a you,” Darryl said.

“Yes you are. I know you are ’cause you ain’t no fool. You seen some bad things out there but I’m the worst. I’m the worst you ever seen.”

Darryl looked at the door again.

“Ain’t nobody gonna come save you, li’l brother. Ain’t nobody gonna come. If you wanna make it outta here then you better give me what I want.”

Socrates knew just when the tears would come. He had seen it a hundred times. In prison it made him want to laugh; but now he was sad. He wanted to reach out to the blubbering child and tell him that it was okay; that everything was all right. But it wasn’t all right, might not ever be.

“Stop cryin’ now, son. Stop cryin’ an’ tell me about it.”

“’Bout what?” Darryl said, his words vibrating like a hummingbird’s wings.

“’Bout who you killed, that’s what.”

“I ain’t killed nobody,” Darryl said in a monotone.

“Yes you did. Either that or you saw sumpin’. I heard it in your deny when you didn’t know I was talkin’ ’bout Billy. I know when a man is guilty, Darryl. I know that down in my soul.”

Darryl looked away and set his mouth shut.

“I ain’t a cop, li’l brother. I ain’t gonna turn you in. But you kilt my friend out there an’ we just et him down. I owe t’Billy an’ to you too. So tell me about it. You tell me an’ then you could go.”

They stared at each other for a long time. Socrates grinned to put the boy at ease but he didn’t look benevolent. He looked hungry.

Darryl felt like the meal.

4

He didn’t want to say it but he didn’t feel bad either. Why should he feel bad? It wasn’t even his idea. Wasn’t anybody’s plan. It was just him and Jamal and Norris out in the oil fields above Baldwin Hills. Sometimes dudes went there with their old ladies. And if you were fast enough you could see some pussy and then get away with their pants.

They also said that the army was once up there and that there were old bullets and even hand grenades just lying around to be found.

But then this retarded boy showed up. He said he was with his brother but that his brother left him and now he wanted to be friends with Darryl and his boys.

“At first we was just playin’,” Darryl told Socrates. “You know—pushin’ ’im an’ stuff.”

But when he kept on following them—when he squealed every time they saw somebody—they hit him and pushed him down. Norris even threw a rock at his head. But the retard kept on coming. He was running after them and crying that they had hurt him. He cried louder and louder. And when they hit him, to shut him up, he yelled so loud that it made them scared right inside their chests.

“You know I always practice with my knife,” Darryl said. “You know you got to be able to get it out quick if somebody on you.”

Socrates nodded. He still practiced himself.

“I’ont know how it got in my hand. I swear I didn’t mean t’cut ’im.”

“You kill’im?” Socrates asked.

Darryl couldn’t talk but he opened his mouth and nodded.

They all swore never to tell anybody. They would kill the one who told about it—they swore on blood and went home.

“Anybody find ’im?” Socrates asked.

“I’ont know.”

The red spider danced while the woman in red kept her arms folded and stared her disapproval of all men—especially those two men. Darryl had to go to the bathroom. He had the runs after that big meal—and, Socrates thought, from telling his tale.

When he came out he looked ashy, his lips were ashen.