Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned (Socrates Fortlow 1) by Walter Mosley Page A

fine. Sometimes you got to go to war. But most the times you should be helpin’. You should be laughin’ an’ eatin’ good an’ you should go to bed knowin’ that they ain’t nobody hungry on yo’ street.”
    Darryl was looking deeply into Socrates’ eyes. He heard the word hungry . Socrates knew that he would.
    “So it’s only that lady hate you doin’ right on Marvane,” Darryl said.
    “Uh-huh. The only one gonna make black people feel good. The only one got a right to go to war.”
    Darryl and Socrates started walking again. Neither one said anything until they reached Socrates’ back door. They went inside and took turns going to the bathroom.
    When they were sitting again Socrates asked, “So what you gonna do now?”
    “I gotta get home.”
    “I mean what you gonna do , boy?”
    Darryl stared at his mentor but there were no words in his mouth, no thoughts behind his eyes. Socrates was reminded of hours and years spent behind bars with nothing in his head. He remembered thinking that the only thing to life was feeling pain—or not feeling it.
    “What should I do?” Darryl asked.
    “I don’t know, Darryl. Maybe, maybe you should dream.”
    “Huh?”
    “You still have bad dreams at night?”
    “Not too much. If I do, an’ I wake up, then I think that I’m gonna do sumpin’ an’ I go back to sleep.”
    “That’s good,” Socrates said. “’Cause a boy needs sleep, you know. How he gonna go to school and answer hard questions like the ones you got if he don’t get his rest?”
    “What questions?”
    “Marvane Street.”
    Darryl cocked his round head to the side and nodded. He blinked and then nodded again.
    Socrates put his hand on Darryl’s shoulder. “You know there’s only two things that a poor boy like you gotta do, Darryl.”
    “What’s that?” Darryl put his hands up and touched Socrates’ arm. It was a light touch, and brief.
    It didn’t hurt at all.
    “First you got to survive,” Socrates said. “Then you got to think; think and dream.”
    Darryl nodded. He said, “But I prob’ly get killed.”
    “No you won’t, boy. I won’t allow that.”
    “But how could you stop it?”
    “I don’t know,” Socrates said. “But I ain’t alone. If they start shootin’ on your block, then you come here to me. If I cain’t help ya we go to Right and Luvia. She got a whole church wit’ her.
    “You see, Darryl, a boy like you might have to go underground.”
    “Like in a hole?”
    “Not a real hole. But you might have to hide from people. You be there but they won’t know it.”
    “But what if they wanna get me at school?”
    “Then you get outta school an’ learn someplace else.”
    “I could do that?”
    “You can do anything, boy. Just as long as you alive—you could do anything.”
    {4.}
    That night Socrates had a dream:
    He dreamt that he was sleeping in a tiny room, no larger than a closet. He was dreaming about the rain when there came a violent knock on the door. He jumped up and crouched down at the end of his canvas cot, scared of the powerful blows that had awakened him.
    “Socrates!” a bass voice boomed. “Socrates!”
    And then Socrates woke up.
    But when he went back to sleep that big voice called out his name again. This time it was even louder and Socrates lurched awake.
    Five times the voice called to him and five times he woke up panting. He decided on that last awakening that he wouldn’t run from the voice again.
    He fell asleep and the voice called.
    “What you want?” Socrates yelled, ashamed of himself for shivering.
    “Come on out here!” the voice commanded.
    Socrates opened the door. He found himself standing before a towering, jet-black man. A man with a broad broad nose and sensual big lips. The man’s eyes were stern and his shoulders were wide as a sail.
    “Come on!” the big man said. And they were walking outside in the driving rain.
    The weather was strange to Socrates because even though it was night and cloudy and