The Right Mistake by Walter Mosley Read Free Book Online

Angeles and California, the United States—all ovah the world. In Israel and South Africa and Europe too. Ev’rybody sittin’ there with a sour look on their face while the killers and their prey run in the night.”
From Darryl to Cassie, from Leanne to Antonio there was profound, intense silence—even Billy Psalms kept his peace. The extraordinary hush didn’t bother Socrates. He was ready for this deathlike response. If someone didn’t speak up soon he’d make a toast and promise the assembly that he would have a dinner every Thursday until the day that they could speak out loud about what they felt.
He was reaching for his paper cup when Ronald Zeal said, “I got sumpin’ t’say.”
“Yes, Brother Zeal.”
The dark-skinned young man sat back in his chair, balancing it on the two hind legs.
“You told me that we was gonna come in here an’ talk about somethin’ important,” Zeal said, “sumpin’ for the people.”
“I sure did.”
“I expected to see a room fulla black men ready t’stand up and tell the cops and the whites what we won’t take no mo’. But instead I come into a house fulla bitches, beaners, an’ chinks. And then you got this Jew. What the fuck am I s’posed to do with that?”
The faces of the dinner guests registered shock and dismay. Everyone was disturbed except Luna and Socrates, neither of whom were bothered by the killer’s concerns.
Socrates laughed; not because he found the words funny but because he was surprised. It was rare that anyone could sneak up on the ex-con like that.
This laughter further disturbed his friends.
“Ron,” he said. “You see Wan Tai over there? He teaches black chirren the discipline of the martial arts. Antonio here repairs the houses of poor people no mattah what color they are. Cassie Wheaton kept you outta prison when you know they coulda had your ass, and as far as Chaim goes . . . Mr. Zetel?”
“Yes, Mr. Fortlow?”
“Tell this boy sumpin’ will ya?”
The little man, who was not an inch over five feet, stood up as Socrates sat down. He was maybe seventy wearing a gray suit cut from coarse cloth. His shirt was yellow and he wore no tie. The hands he placed on the table were small, liver-spotted, with thick, blunt-tipped fingers. His hair was still full, a thatch of dull silver that needed a trim. His white skin had lost its luster to age but his eyes, equally gray and brown, seemed to be smiling.
“My grandfather was a ragman, my young friend,” Chaim said gently. “Do you know what that is?”
Every eye was on Zeal. He resisted the pressure and then gave in to it.
“A homeless,” he said.
“Almost,” Chaim said with a grin. “He was poor, very poor. He had a horse so skinny that it looked like the one ridden by Death when the plague raced through our cities and towns. This horse pulled a wagon and my grandfather, Moses Zetel, would go around collecting things that people had thrown out. He’d trade those things with the poorest people who might have had some need for them. His father had done that and his father had too. There have been ragmen so far back in our family that I wonder why Ragman was not our name.”
Out of the corner of his eye Socrates noticed Luna smiling for the first time.
“My grandfather wanted his son to go into the business,” Chaim continued, “but my father was very lazy.” The sad look on Chaim’s face elicited a few smiles. “He would stay at home playing with the broken doll houses, dishware, and machines. One day Moses realized that my father, Aaron, was fixing the things he found, making them almost like new. All of a sudden my grandfather was a wealthy man. He took in broken things only good for the poorest people and made products that everyone wanted to buy.
“Moses died and my father married and came to America. He wanted me to be a doctor but I was too lazy. So I went into his business finding things that no one wants and making them into something useful.” With that the tiny man sat