Read Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned (Socrates Fortlow 1) for Free Online

enraged. “Think about it? Here I am offerin’ you a way outta that hole you in. Here I am offerin’ you a life. An’ you got to think about it? Look out here in the streets around you, Mr. Fortlow. Ain’t no choice out there. Ain’t nuthin’ t’think about out there.”
    Socrates didn’t have to look around to see the boarded-up businesses and stores; the poor black faces and brown faces of the men and women who didn’t have a thing. Iulas diner and Tony’s garage were the only working businesses on that block.
    And he hated bringing bottles and cans to the Ralph’s supermarket on Crenshaw. To get there he had to walk for miles pulling as many as three grocery carts linked by twisted wire coat hangers. And when he got there they always made him wait; made him stand outside while they told jokes and had coffee breaks. And then they checked every can. They didn’t have to do that. He knew what they took and what they didn’t. He came in twice a week with his cans and bottles and nobody ever found one Kessler’s Root Beer or Bubble-Up in the lot. But they checked every one just the same. And they never bothered to learn his name. They called him “Pop” or “old man.” They made him wait and checked after him like he was some kind of stupid animal.
    But he took it. He took it because of that young girl’s neck; because of her boyfriend’s dead eyes. Those young people in Ralph’s were stupid and arrogant and mean—but he was evil. That’s what Socrates thought.
    That’s what he believed.
    “Well?” Iula asked.
    “I’d … I’d like some meat loaf, Iula. Some meat loaf with mashed potatoes and greens.”
    From the back of her throat Iula hissed, “Damn you!”
    {3.}
    Socrates felt low but that didn’t affect his appetite. He’d learned when he was a boy that the next meal was never a promise; only a fool didn’t eat when he could.
    He laced his mashed potatoes and meat loaf with pepper sauce and downed the mustard greens in big noisy mouthfuls. When he was finished he looked behind the counter hoping to catch Iula’s eye. Iula would usually give Socrates seconds while smiling and complimenting him on the good appetite he had.
    “You eat good but you don’t let it turn to fat,” she’d say, admiring his big muscles.
    But now she was mad at him for insulting her offer. Why should she feed the kitty when there wasn’t a chance to win the pot?
    “I,” Socrates said.
    “What you want?” It was more a dare than a question.
    “Just some coffee, babe,” he said.
    Iula slammed the mug down and flung the Pyrex coffeepot so recklessly that she spilled half of what she poured. But Socrates didn’t mind. He was still hungry and so finished filling the mug with milk from two small serving pitchers on the counter.
    He had eleven quarters in his right-hand jacket pocket. Two dollars and fifty cents for the dinner and twenty-five cents more for Iula’s tip. That was a lot of money when all you had to your name was sixty-eight quarters, four dimes, three nickels, and eight pennies. It was a lot of money but Socrates was still hungry—and that meat loaf smelled better than ever.
    Iula used sage in her meat loaf. He couldn’t make it himself because all he had at home was a hot plate and you can’t make meat loaf on a hot plate.
    “ I ula!”
    Socrates turned to see the slim young man come up into the bus. He was wearing an electric-blue exercise suit, zipped up to the neck, and a bright yellow headband.
    “Wilfred.” There were still no seconds in Iula’s voice.
    “How things goin’?” the young man asked.
    “Pretty good if you don’t count for half of it.”
    “Uh-huh,” he answered, not having heard. “An’ where’s Tony today?”
    “It’s Tuesday, ain’t it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Then Tony’s down at Christ Congregational settin’ up for bingo.”
    Wilfred sat himself at the end of the counter, five stools away from Socrates. He caught the older man’s eye and nodded—as black