The Right Mistake by Walter Mosley Read Free Book Online Page A

down in front of a plate of fried chicken and macaroni and cheese that Billy Psalms had provided.
“What the fuck . . .” Ron Zeal said, a spasm of rage going through him. He moved too quickly and the legs slid out from under the chair. But the young man was agile as well as strong. He maintained his balance with both feet and caught the chair before it could fall to the floor. “What the fuck that shit s’posed to mean to me?”
Zeal looked as if he were about to attack the little tinkerer.
Billy leaned forward.
Wan Tai placed his hands on the table before him.
“It means,” Socrates said, “that Mr. Zetel has twenty-five black and brown chirren workin’ for him. They drive around the city lookin’ for things thrown away that can be fixed. They work in a little workshop he got up in Silverlake. They make a livin’ and learn a trade all under this man here.”
“Prob’ly gettin’ rich off ’em too,” Zeal said.
“So what if he make a dollah?” Socrates said, coming to his feet. “They gonna do bettah wit’ you? Carryin’ guns? Dealin’ drugs?”
Ronald Zeal clutched his hands on imaginary weapons and cut his eyes to laser points on Socrates. The fight brewing between them sent waves through the room.
“What about a niggah?” Leanne Northford said, obviously addressing Zeal.
Ron’s eyes were still on Socrates but his hands loosened a bit. He glanced briefly at the small social worker.
“What about a niggah,” Leanne said again, “who kills his brothers? Lays ’em out in a coffin for their mothers and fathers to cry ovah.”
“What you talkin’ ’bout, woman?” Zeal said, turning his head fully to regard her.
“What about you, niggah?” the previously sedate lady said. “You walkin’ down the street laughin’ an’ drinkin’ while Thomas King and Terry Lingham laid up there in the cemetery.”
Zeal seemed stunned by Leanne’s declaration. He looked at her as if he had not understood the words.
“Killer,” she said. “Just a damned killer. Talk about that little white man like he was our enemy. You the enemy, niggah. I been alive seventy-one years an’ I seen it all—but you are the first black man that I have evah called a niggah. The first one— niggah.”
“I don’t have to listen to this shit,” Zeal said. He set the chair upright and turned.
“Sit down, Ron,” Socrates commanded.
“You think you can make me?”
“I know I could,” Socrates said simply. “But it’s not an order. I want you to stay here. This woman not insultin’ you. She hates you right now. She really do. But she got reason. You know it’s true. I’m not askin’ you to confess or apologize or nuthin’ like that. I’m just sayin’ sit down an’ finish your gumbo an’ tell us somethin’.”
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me why it’s okay for one black man to shoot down another one but it’s wrong for Chaim here to make a buck while teachin’ our youngsters a trade.”
Something in Socrates’ tone persuaded the angry young man. He banged the chair into position and sat. Leanne was staring across the table at him.
Luna was watching Socrates.
“You old people don’t understand what it’s like out here,” Zeal said to the dark tabletop. “It’s a fuckin’ war out here.”
“Did Thomas King and Terry Lingham attack you?” Leanne asked.
“I’m not sayin’ nuthin’ about them,” Ron said. “That’s for the court. Right, Miss Wheaton?”
“Yes,” the lawyer said. “Mr. Zeal would be well advised not to address any crime still under investigation by the police and the district attorney.”
“Yeah,” Ron averred. “But if a niggah disrespects me you know we got to go. If one man walk on you out here then you ev’rybody’s bitch. You got to stand up. You got to take care’a business.”
“And is that right?” Mustafa Ali asked.
“Ain’t got nuthin’ to do with right. Niggah don’t have no rights. All he got is his respect, his pride.”
“But what about the question?”