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

raining, in the far-off distance he could see the moon illuminating a small hill. The light from the moon lit the field through which he and his big companion traveled.
    They walked for a long time, until Socrates’ legs began to ache. They came at last to a giant stone arch that had the words SOULS END chiseled into its crown. Beyond the arch, bathed in rain and lit by a golden moon, stretched a graveyard that went on for hundreds of miles. The graveyard went so far that at its farthest limit it reached into daylight.
    It was the graveyard for all the black people that had died from grief. Each grave was marked by a small granite stone, hardly larger than a silver dollar.
    “Here!” the big man said. He handed Socrates a spade. “We got to dig all’a them up now. It’s time.”
    “All that!” Socrates yelled over the squall.
    “Every one,” the big man said.
    “I cain’t do it!”
    “But you could try!”
    “It’d kill me!”
    The giant gestured toward the graves with a hand even larger than Socrates’. “We all die!”
    Socrates came awake again. He sat up and laughed so hard that he had to get up out of the bed. He laughed so hard that his side hurt and he sank to his knees. After laughing he ran to the toilet and threw up the beef and mushroom gravy he’d had for dinner the night before.
    “It was like …” he said to Right Burke a few weeks later. “It was like I was a child seein’ lightnin’ for the first time. The light show made me all giddy but the thunder scared me down to my boots.”

M AN G ONE
    {1.}
    It was five thirty-six p.m. by Socrates’ new digital watch when Corina Shakur came calling. He knew it was her knocking but he went to the door anyway. She stood a few feet back, showing no intention of coming any closer.
    “Have you seen’im?” the tall young woman asked, her lips and nose curling into disgust.
    “Hi, Corina,” Socrates answered, smiling. “What you doin’ here? You lookin’ for Howard?”
    Corina was too angry to answer his polite question. She moved her head from one side to the other and clutched her shoulders, clenching them tightly as if trying to make her body into a fist.
    “Come in,” he said. “Come on in.”
    Before she could decline, Socrates turned around and went back into his small apartment. He took the two and a half steps across his kitchen and went through the doorless doorway into his sleeping room.
    “I’ll get you a chair from in here, Corrie,” he called over his shoulder. “I fount me some old kitchen chairs an’ patched’em up.”
    Socrates picked up the yellow vinyl-and-chrome chairs and carried them back to the kitchen. Corina was standing in the doorway, the sun silhouetting her long curving figure.
    “Come on in, Corrie,” Socrates said. He was squinting and smiling and feeling spry.
    “I ain’t got time to be wastin’ ’round here, Socrates Fortlow.” Corina held back, speaking to him as if she were calling across a river.
    “Okay,” Socrates said. He positioned a chair to face her, then sat himself down. “But you don’t mind if I take a load off, now do ya?”
    “Do what you want.”
    “You lookin’ for Howard?” Socrates asked.
    “You seen’im?”
    “Why’ont you come on in, Corina?” he asked in mild frustration. “Don’t you want some coffee? You know I don’t get that many young lady guests. It be nice for me just t’see you sittin’ in my chair.”
    Corina sighed and then said, “I cain’t stay long. The kids is wit’ my sister.”
    Socrates jumped up and turned sideways to hide the glee he felt when Corina came in. He moved the chairs to his folding card table and then struck a match to light the butane stove that sat on the sink.
    “Where’s Howard?” Socrates asked as he ran tap water into a saucepan.
    “You ain’t seen’im? Really?” Corina asked. There were no tears but her voice was small, making her sound like a sad girl.
    “No.” Socrates put the pan on the stove. He sat down