not?”
The police spy was at a loss for words. He simply stared at his host.
“You want somethin’ to drink, Socco?” asked a small black man in a white sailor’s cap.
“You got limeade, Salty?”
“Made it fresh this mornin’,” the waiter and cook said with a smile.
As Salty moved away Socrates repeated his question.
“Why you not comin’ back to the Big Nickel?”
“Because I’m a cop and you found me out.”
“So? Ain’t nobody among us turn you away for that. And we’d like to talk to you. You the man we need to know. I mean here you are a brother and still you come in an’ report us to the people standin’ in our way and on our heads at the same time.”
“It’s not white people standin’ in your way,” Truman said.
“I didn’t say nuthin’ ’bout white people. I just said people . . .”
“Here you go, Socco,” the middle-aged restaurateur said. He placed a tall frosty glass of the too-green beverage on the table.
“I called you a brother,” Socrates continued when Salty had gone again, “and the ones who stand in our way people. ”
“You meant white people,” Truman said. “You mean that I’m some kinda Tom workin’ for white people.”
“Wan Tai is a brother,” Socrates said, “so is Chaim and Antonio. You don’t have to be black to be a brother an’ you don’t have to be white to be standin’ in the way.”
“What you want from me, Socrates?”
“I wanna know three things.”
“What?”
“Why did you come to our meetin’ in the first place?” “That’s my job. I’m s’posed to get inside organizations, criminal organizations, and find out what they’re doin’.”
“And how’m I a criminal organization?”
“Ron Zeal,” Truman said as if the name alone were proof.
“And if Ron started goin’ to Holy Baptist or Alcoholics Anonymous tomorrow would you go spy on them?”
Officer Truman worked his way to the edge of the seat and stood. He took out a five dollar bill and placed it next to his coffee mug.
“Fuck this,” he said. “I’m outta here.”
Socrates said nothing to this. He just pushed out his lower lip and nodded. The cop looked down on him, expecting something but obviously not getting it.
“What do you want?” Truman asked again.
“For you to answer my three questions.”
“And then we’re through?”
“That’s up to you.”
“What the fuck is that s’posed to mean?”
“Sit down, Maxie. Sit down and talk to me.”
Officer Martin Truman, responding to his alias, sat back upon the bench, across the table from the self-proclaimed thinker of the Big Table.
“I answered the first question.”
“Not completely,” Socrates said. “I asked would you spy on the Catholic Church if Ronnie started takin’ mass.”
“We would infiltrate any group that poses a threat to our city,” the policeman said.
“The city council?”
“Of course not.”
“And so because Ron Zeal comes to our meetin’s they put you on us like some kinda dog on a thief?”
“You have gang meetings in that house,” Truman said. “There are communists, anarchists, prostitutes in there and then you have daycare for children. It is the responsibility of the city government to protect children.”
“Even the children of prostitutes?” Socrates asked, “and of gang members, communists, and anarchists?”
“Drug dealers have been seen in your Big Nickel.”
“If they sold one stick in my place it would be the last thing they ever did,” Socrates vowed.
“That’s not the point. Police intelligence sees your place as a potential breeding ground of criminal activity and so they got me infiltrating your group.”
“That brings me to my second question,” Socrates said.
“You know I don’t have to talk to you, Mr. Fortlow,” Truman said. “I could get a group of men down at your place and beat you until you told us where that letter was.”
“I doubt that, Maxie. I mean I don’t doubt that you could get the manpower. I’m sure that they’d put the hurt to
The police spy was at a loss for words. He simply stared at his host.
“You want somethin’ to drink, Socco?” asked a small black man in a white sailor’s cap.
“You got limeade, Salty?”
“Made it fresh this mornin’,” the waiter and cook said with a smile.
As Salty moved away Socrates repeated his question.
“Why you not comin’ back to the Big Nickel?”
“Because I’m a cop and you found me out.”
“So? Ain’t nobody among us turn you away for that. And we’d like to talk to you. You the man we need to know. I mean here you are a brother and still you come in an’ report us to the people standin’ in our way and on our heads at the same time.”
“It’s not white people standin’ in your way,” Truman said.
“I didn’t say nuthin’ ’bout white people. I just said people . . .”
“Here you go, Socco,” the middle-aged restaurateur said. He placed a tall frosty glass of the too-green beverage on the table.
“I called you a brother,” Socrates continued when Salty had gone again, “and the ones who stand in our way people. ”
“You meant white people,” Truman said. “You mean that I’m some kinda Tom workin’ for white people.”
“Wan Tai is a brother,” Socrates said, “so is Chaim and Antonio. You don’t have to be black to be a brother an’ you don’t have to be white to be standin’ in the way.”
“What you want from me, Socrates?”
“I wanna know three things.”
“What?”
“Why did you come to our meetin’ in the first place?” “That’s my job. I’m s’posed to get inside organizations, criminal organizations, and find out what they’re doin’.”
“And how’m I a criminal organization?”
“Ron Zeal,” Truman said as if the name alone were proof.
“And if Ron started goin’ to Holy Baptist or Alcoholics Anonymous tomorrow would you go spy on them?”
Officer Truman worked his way to the edge of the seat and stood. He took out a five dollar bill and placed it next to his coffee mug.
“Fuck this,” he said. “I’m outta here.”
Socrates said nothing to this. He just pushed out his lower lip and nodded. The cop looked down on him, expecting something but obviously not getting it.
“What do you want?” Truman asked again.
“For you to answer my three questions.”
“And then we’re through?”
“That’s up to you.”
“What the fuck is that s’posed to mean?”
“Sit down, Maxie. Sit down and talk to me.”
Officer Martin Truman, responding to his alias, sat back upon the bench, across the table from the self-proclaimed thinker of the Big Table.
“I answered the first question.”
“Not completely,” Socrates said. “I asked would you spy on the Catholic Church if Ronnie started takin’ mass.”
“We would infiltrate any group that poses a threat to our city,” the policeman said.
“The city council?”
“Of course not.”
“And so because Ron Zeal comes to our meetin’s they put you on us like some kinda dog on a thief?”
“You have gang meetings in that house,” Truman said. “There are communists, anarchists, prostitutes in there and then you have daycare for children. It is the responsibility of the city government to protect children.”
“Even the children of prostitutes?” Socrates asked, “and of gang members, communists, and anarchists?”
“Drug dealers have been seen in your Big Nickel.”
“If they sold one stick in my place it would be the last thing they ever did,” Socrates vowed.
“That’s not the point. Police intelligence sees your place as a potential breeding ground of criminal activity and so they got me infiltrating your group.”
“That brings me to my second question,” Socrates said.
“You know I don’t have to talk to you, Mr. Fortlow,” Truman said. “I could get a group of men down at your place and beat you until you told us where that letter was.”
“I doubt that, Maxie. I mean I don’t doubt that you could get the manpower. I’m sure that they’d put the hurt to
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