Denise Hamilton - Los Angeles Noir 2

He slumped back in Socrates’ cheap chair—drowsy but not tired. He was sick and forlorn.

For a long time they just sat there. The minutes went by but there was no clock to measure them. Socrates learned how to do without a timepiece in prison.

He counted the time while Darryl sat hopelessly by.

5

“What you gonna do, li’l brother?”

“What?”

“How you gonna make it right?”

“Make what right? He dead. I cain’t raise him back here.”

When Socrates stared at the boy there was no telling what he thought. But what he was thinking didn’t matter. Darryl looked away and back again. He shifted in his chair. Licked his dry lips.

“What?” he asked at last.

“You murdered a poor boy couldn’t stand up to you. You killed your little brother an’ he wasn’t no threat; an’ he didn’t have no money that you couldn’t take wit’out killin’ ’im. You did wrong, Darryl. You did wrong.”

“How the fuck you know?” Darryl yelled. He would have said more but Socrates raised his hand, not in violence but to point out the truth to his dinner guest.

Darryl went quiet and listened.

“I ain’t your warden, li’l brother. I ain’t gonna show you to no jail. I’m just talkin’ to ya—one black man to another one. If you don’t hear me there ain’t nuthin’ I could do.”

“So I could go now?”

“Yeah, you could go. I ain’t yo’ warden. I just ask you to tell me how you didn’t do wrong. Tell me how a healthy boy ain’t wrong when he kills his black brother who sick.”

Darryl stared at Socrates, at his eyes now—not his hands.

“You ain’t gonna do nuthin’?”

“Boy is dead now. Rooster’s dead too. We cain’t change that. But you got to figure out where you stand.”

“I ain’t goin’ t’no fuckin’ jail if that’s what you mean.”

Socrates smiled. “Shoo’. I don’t blame you for that. Jail ain’t gonna help a damn thing. Better shoot yo’self than go to jail.”

“I ain’t gonna shoot myself neither. Uh-uh.”

“If you learn you wrong then maybe you get to be a man.”

“What’s that s’posed t’mean?”

“Ain’t nobody here, Darryl. Just you’n me. I’m sayin’ that I think you was wrong for killin’ that boy. I know you killed’im. I know you couldn’t help it. But you was wrong anyway. An’ if that’s the truth, an’ if you could say it, then maybe you’ll learn sumpin’. Maybe you’ll laugh in the morning sometimes again.”

Darryl stared at the red spider. She was still now. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move at all.

“We all got to be our own judge, li’l brother. ’Cause if you don’t know when you wrong then yo’ life ain’t worf a damn.”

Darryl waited as long as he could. And then he asked, “I could go?”

“You done et Billy. So I guess that much is through.”

“So it ain’t wrong that I killed’im ’cause I et him?”

“It’s still wrong. It’s always gonna be wrong. But you know more now. You ain’t gonna kill no more chickens,” Socrates said. Then he grunted out a harsh laugh. “At least not around here.”

Darryl stood up. He watched Socrates to see what he’d do.

“Yo’ momma cook at home, Darryl?”

“Sometimes. Not too much.”

“You come over here anytime an’ I teach ya how t’cook. We eat pretty good too.”

“Uh-huh,” Darryl answered. He took a step away from his chair.

Socrates stayed seated on his trash can.

Darryl made it all the way to the door. He grabbed the wire handle that took the place of a long-ago knob.

“What they put you in jail for?” Darryl asked.

“I killed a man an’ raped his woman.”

“White man?”

“No.”

“Well … bye.”

“See ya, li’l brother.”

“I’m sorry … ’bout yo’ chicken.”

“Billy wasn’t none’a mine. He belonged to a old lady ’cross the alley.”

“Well … bye.”

“Darryl.”

“Yeah.”

“If you get inta trouble you could come here. It don’t matter what it is—you could come here to me.”

6

Socrates stared at the door a long time after the boy was gone; for hours. The night came on and the cool desert air of Los Angeles came in under the door and through the cracks in his small shack of an apartment.

A cricket was calling out for love from somewhere in the wall.

Socrates looked at the woman, sun shining on her head. Her red sun hat threw a hot crimson shadow across her face. There was no respite for her but she still stood defiant. He tried to remember what Theresa looked like but it had been too long now. All he had left was the picture of a painting—and that wasn’t even her. All he had left from her were the words she never said. You are dead to me, Socrates. Dead as that poor boy and that poor girl you killed .

He wondered if Darryl would ever come back.

He hoped so.

Socrates went through the doorless doorway into his other room. He lay down on the couch and just before he was asleep he thought of how he’d wake up alone. The rooster was hoarse in his old age, his crow no more than a whisper.

But at least that motherfucker tried .

RIKA

BY JERVEY TERVALON

Baldwin Hills

(Originally published in 1994)

Look at this. Wondered how many people would show up considering the kind of fool you were but you’ve got a crowd to bury you. I can’t join them, you know. See how beautiful that casket is and the flowers. Picked them out didn’t I. Because you knew what happened was going to happen and you didn’t want some low-rent funeral. You wanted to look good going down. I have taste. I took care of it. You just didn’t think that I’d be the one. It’s fine down here at the foot of Forest Lawn. I don’t need to join the crowd. I know what everything looks like; the yellow and white roses and tulips, the gold and pearl casket. Not your colors as much as mine. You were always too much into purple. Couldn’t leave the gaudy behind. I know your mother’s crying, Ollie’s cursing me out. I know your associate’s looking my way, checking the car out, trying to see if it’s really me. Wonder what he thinks. I’m not a fool. I can come back anytime—you’re not going anywhere.

It’s night now. Sitting in the car above the lights. Bet you wonder how I make it. How you used to talk to me, “Can’t do a damn thing for yourself cept spend money.” But it’s not like that. I know what I’m doing. Look at the roaches walking by. The jungle is buzzing tonight. Roaches after crumbs. I’m tired of watching, see what you’ve done to me. They look just like me. Noses open, sprung. Looking for a blast. Drive further up the hill, not like I’m living down in the jungle or anything. I might not be staying on the Westside but Baldwin Hills isn’t the projects.

Oh yes, my uncle has a beeper for a reason. He’s an architect, blueprints cover the kitchen table. See, they have a marble foyer with a coat rack. Now, if I can sneak to the bedroom everything will be right with the world. The TV’s on in the living room. Sounds like Wheel of Fortune .

“She’s back.”

It’s my uncle’s voice.

“Rika, could you come here?”

Oh no.

“What?”

Gotta get to the third door on the left. Lock myself in, wait them out. Here they come. Uncle Jack, gray-haired but quick, pushes me aside and blocks the way. Must have been playing tennis at Dorsey, still in his sweat-stained whites. Mother looks shocked as usual. My fat auntie leads us into the living room, nice view of the Hollywood Hills but the setting sun is still too bright. I need my shades.