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

an’ really it’s you the one playin’ the niggah on yo’ own wife an’ kids. Here you are, out here pushin’ up against some teenage girl, an’ you got a perfectly good woman up at home.”
    If a black man coulda turnt white you know Ralphie woulda been able to run for president right then . That’s what Socrates said to Right Burke two weeks later.
    Ralphie’s eyes bulged and he seemed to lose his balance for a moment. He put out a hand to steady himself against the shelter, but the glass wall had been busted out long ago and the big man stumbled sideways.
    Socrates grabbed him and helped him upright.
    “What you talkin’ ’bout, man?” Ralphie said, pushing the powerful hands away.
    Socrates smiled again. “You know what I’m sayin’. You Ralphie McPhee, right? Yes you are.”
    “Who the fuck are you?” Ralphie demanded.
    “What difference that make? Just before you wouldn’t even say boo to me. Now you wanna be my friend?”
    “Don’t mess wit’ me, old man. I might have to fuck you up.”
    “Fuck wit’ me an’ you ain’t never gonna fuck that li’l girl again,” Socrates said. He tried not to use foul language too much after prison but he knew that he had to get the point across to Ralphie before Ralphie made the mistake of trying to fight.
    It worked.
    Ralphie took a closer look at Socrates and saw something. Something that poor men living on the edge of mayhem can recognize without naming.
    Socrates knew what he saw; the look of hard resolve. Socrates was ready for anything and he and Ralphie both knew it.
    “Fuck you, man.” Ralphie took a step back from danger. “Fuck you.”
    “Uh-huh. Yeah. Tell me sumpin’, Ralphie.” When no reply came, Socrates went on, “How come you out here actin’ like a niggah an’ you cain’t even see me?”
    Ralphie wasn’t listening. His eyes were roving over the possibilities of the problems he could have over being seen. “Huh?” he snorted.
    “I said, how come you out here actin’ like a niggah?”
    “What you talkin’ ’bout, fool?”
    “I’m sayin’ that here you are out in these streets dry-humpin’ some girl in front of a man live on’y two blocks from you. Shoot! I done talked to your wife an’ yo’ li’l boy, what’s his name? Yeah. Warren.”
    It was hearing his son’s name that put real fear into Ralphie.
    “Hey, man,” he said. “This ain’t none’a your fuckin’ business.”
    “It ain’t?”
    “Not one bit. So you just better shet yo’ trap an’ forget what you think you know. ’Cause you don’t know a damn thing about me.”
    “Oh yeah I do,” Socrates said. “I know you. I know you front and back.”
    “Hey!” Ralphie pushed his hands out and to the side in a mock breaststroke. “I’ll kick holy shit outta you you wanna fuck wit’ me!”
    “Touch me.” Socrates pointed down at the dark cement under their feet. “And I will leave you cold an’ dead on this here flo’.”
    Ralphie saw the hand slip into the khaki pocket, he saw the flat mud luster in the older man’s eyes. He drew back into silence except for a hiccough that he couldn’t stifle.
    Just then a police car cruised slowly by. The two white faces peered through the glass and rain at the two black men. A light flashed out and the patrol car slowed almost to a stop—but then it went on.
    The rain , Socrates thought. Boys don’t wanna get wet .
    {4.}
    “You gonna answer my question, boy?”
    “What you want, man? You want a couple’a dollars?”
    “I wanna know what you got against yo’ wife, um, uh … Angel.”
    Socrates saw the name sink into Ralphie’s shoulders. The young man slumped down and shook his head.
    “I’ont even know you, man,” Ralphie said.
    “That’s right. You cain’t even see me when I’m standin’ here right next to you. Cain’t even say, Hey, brother, what’s happenin’ . You cain’t see me but I could see you.”
    “So what do you want?”
    It wasn’t so much the question but the pain in