by Mark Slade
Yardbird
A Scratch Williams Mystery
Mark Slade
Copyright (C) 2020 Mark Slade
Layout Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter
Published 2020 by Gumshoe – A Next Chapter Imprint
Edited by Terry Hughes
Cover art by Cover Mint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
Table of Contents
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About the Author
Yardbird yärd’bərd, Noun (informal-US) 1 a convict, 2 one assigned to menial tasks legal, or illegal, performed for a powerful person or persons.
For Tracey, Zoey, Chachi, and of course, Betty Jane, who always loved a good mystery
And for William “Gatz” Hjortsberg for writing Falling Angel
“Damn, what's the world coming to?”
Dozen Grant
1
Old man Spiff snarled at Scratch Williams and spat in the fire. The flames rose from the mixture of gin and saliva. Scratch plucked at his glass eye uneasily, took out the black marble, and then put it back in. He couldn't figure out whether the damn thing was making him uncomfortable or Spiff was. Regardless, the hole where his left eye used to be was twitching something awful.
A piece of paper was at Scratch's feet. A memo addressed to Spiff and signed by his lawyer, Dan Lowery. Without bending down to pick it up, Scratch could make out only three words on the paper because of the badly lit room. Cherry Tree Hill.
“Mr Spiff,” Scratch said, wringing his hands. “I took care of Gilmore and that bunch trying to unionize…”
“Ray Gardner!” Spiff screamed. “I don… I don't care about Gilmore and those… yo-yos in the union! I want Ray Gardner gone!”
“Mr Spiff, with all due respect, I'm a little sick of chasing your daughter's boyfriends out of town…”
“I don't give a shit what you do, yardbird,” Spiff pointed a crooked finger at Scratch. “I want that son of a bitch out of my town.”
“I haven't seen the man do anything wrong…”
“He fucked my daughter!”
Scratch cringed, not just at the word, but at the old man's use of it in terms of his own relation. He didn't like Spiff very much. He didn't like working for the Pinnacle board of trustees. He didn't much like yardbirdin' either, but it sure as hell beat working in the cotton fields – or oil fields, for that matter. Oliver Spiff owned Odarko just like he owned Reliance Oil. Reliance was one of six companies that set up shop in the Tri-county area of southwest Oklahoma.
“I think that's just gossip, Spiff,” Scratch said.
The old man looked him up and down.
“Gossip can be gospel, yardbird,” Spiff said. He limped away from the fireplace and sat in his oversized velvet chair. He poured himself another drink, Scotch this time. “I don't care what it is, from the mouth of babes to the pope, whores talkin' dirty, lies or truth. I want Ray Gardner out of my town dead or alive. Do what I pay you to do, yardbird.”
Scratch made a face, and murmured: “Son of a bitch.” He placed his hat on his head and sighed. “Yes sir.”
“Gardner's staying at the Primrose,” Spiff said. He watched Scratch pick up a yellow envelope from the end table. “There's three hundred bucks and a one-way ticket. Put him on a train to California.”
“Three hundred bucks? You payin' him off?”
“I ain't payin' him off, you moron! That's six weeks' wages.”
“Why not the bus? You usually throw 'em on the bus…”
“Don't worry about what I usually do! Just get this done, yardbird. And don't tell Shep about this.”
That was odd. Shep Howard was Spiff's boy, and the sheriff of Odarko. Shep used to be the Yardbird for Spiff and Pinnacle back in the thirties. Doing all the dirty work for old rich assholes, everything from making oil rig boys behave to handling blackmail and spying on husbands and wives cheating on each other. Not for the faint-hearted.
That all changed when Shep caught the silver hammer killer. One of the oil rig boys went nutty and started slamming women in the head, tying up the bodies to beds with their own stockings and defiling them. Shep caught the guy in the act, shot him three times in the chest. The man died with his dick in his hands. The woman he was defiling didn't die from her wounds but she did wake up in time to see what he was doing. Katlin Grove hadn't been the same ever since. So Pinnacle made Shep Sheriff. He'd been at that post for 15 years. He was a trusted company man. Why wouldn't he want Shep to know about the usual deal of running Maggie Spiff's boyfriends out of town?
“OK, Spiff,” Scratch said. “I won't say a word to Shep.”
The old man looked sour. “You're damned right you won't.” He drained his glass and smacked his lips. “Or I'll get a new yardbird to get rid of you.”
2
Maggie Spiff stood at the top of the stairs looking like a statue of a Greek goddess, her arms folded around her abundant cleavage. Her tangled brown hair was up in a bun, one strand hanging down past her big brown eyes. She was in a green silk nightgown that clung to the ideal body that represented bombshell beauties of those days. Her mother's Italian features showed through in Maggie. It was a fact that Oliver Spiff had been traveling in Italy to make a deal with the powers that ran that boot land to bring his father's custom suits there. Spiff met Maggie's mother and practically shanghaied her to Texas.
She ran off more times the Texas Rangers or the OHP could count. Every time they'd catch up with Isabella, she was shacked up with somebody else. Which is how Maggie was born. As everyone suspected, Maggie's real father was half-black, half-Kichai Indian. Another fact, Oliver Spiff had the Texas Rangers kill Isabella's boyfriend.
Nine months later, Maggie was born.
Scratch looked up at her. They locked eyes. She smirked and let out a long sigh.
“You doin' my daddy's dirty work again?”
“I'm always doing you daddy's dirty work,” Scratch said.
“Mmm.” Maggie nodded. “Because of little old me, I suppose.”
Scratch put his fedora on his balding head. “It's always about you, Miss Maggie.”
She shrugged. “Can't get through this life without raisin' some hell.”
“Ah. Yes. That might be true.” Scratch laughed. “So, uh, Miss Maggie?”
“Yes, Mr Williams?”
“Just to let you know… that truck driver who made that record singin'?”
“What about him, Mr Williams?”
“I saw him on Ed Sullivan.”
“Is that a fact, Mr Williams?”
“That's a fact, Miss Spiff,” Scratch said. He headed to the front door of Spiff Manor. He twisted the door knob and turned to Maggie. “He took that beating I gave him like a real man. Looks like his face healed real good.”
“I'm glad, Mr Williams,” was al
l she said. No conscience about getting that man into trouble or in danger of death. Just cold like. Real damn cold.
“You should've held on to him, ma'am. Yep. That boy has talent,” Scratch crossed the threshold and called out: “I think he's going to make a lot of money.”
3
Scratch pulled up in front of the Primrose hotel in his '48 Dodge. The building was one of the tallest in Odarko, other than the Reliance offices. The Primrose was run by an old Jewish fella from Budapest. Jerzy Gerkbahn. Scratch was the only one who knew Jerzy's real heritage. If people in Odarko knew, the Klan would hang his ass by Moonbark Tree in the park just to show everyone they didn't allow his kind to run things in town. Actually, it would have been a message to Darktown. Stay in your place.
Jerzy had hired Scratch to find his brother, Konny. He disappeared just after they came to Oklahoma with their mother. She was the one who bought the building and turned it into a hotel in 1938. Konny liked to drink, raise a little hell. Scratch traced the man's last days. Apparently, he was robbed out in Darktown. An eyewitness to the account was Frito Barnes, who owned an illegal gin joint back in those days. Konny liked his women dark, dangerous, and more than willing to do things in public.
Out back, behind Barnes's gin joint, three men came up behind Konny and cut him to ribbons while he was having sex with one of the local prostitutes. Barnes came out to throw away trash and saw the whole thing. They rolled him in an old pickup, and drove toward Pleasant Lake. Nothing pleasant about that body of water. People picnic out there in the day. At night, it was a dumping ground for the dead.
The info he gave to Jerzy netted Scratch a few hundred. Neither man let old Spiff know of the outside job. Spiff would have run Scratch out of Odarko. He was possessive like that. Evidence shows. Look what Scratch had to do at the moment. Scratch had long ago come to the conclusion the old man was nuts.
Scratch finished his cigarette and tossed it in a mud puddle on the street. He got out of the Dodge, slow and deliberate like his walk. He stepped up to the drugstore and stood at the door. Scratch checked his wristwatch. Six thirty-five. Harry Sanders would lock the doors soon. The door swung open fast, and a bell chimed.
Harry popped up from behind the counter. His face, with its fleshy jowls, was flushed. No doubt the little fat druggist was putting away a new batch of pornographic photos and magazines. He caught his breath and chuckled. He came from behind the counter.
“Oh,” Harry said, “it's only you, Scratch. How's tricks?”
“Expecting somebody else, Harry?” Scratch asked.
“No, no.” Harry threw his hands up. “Just pleased to see you.” He ran a finger over his pencil-thin mustache. “Can I get you an ice-cream soda?”
Scratch shook his head. “Not tonight, Harry. I need to use your phone, if that's all right?”
“Of course.” Harry flipped a nickel to Scratch.
Scratch barely caught it. “And that's why you will never pitch for the Yankees.”
Harry swatted the air. “Ah, who wants to play for those pansies?”
“For the right money…” Scratch let his words trail off. Harry just shook his head, walked away muttering something about the Kansas Athletics winning the World Series one day.
Scratch put the nickel in the slot and he heard a smooth female voice on the line.
“What can I do for you?” The operator asked.
Scratch smiled sheepishly. He leaned in to the pay phone, hung his head.
“You could have dinner with me,” Scratch said.
The operator clucked her tongue. “Sir, I'm only a telephone operator. I'm providing a service.”
“I'm sorry,” Scratch chuckled. “Your voice sends me over the moon.”
Scratch couldn't help himself. The woman reminded him of a school teacher he had in the eighth grade, Scratch's last year. They shared that same commanding, smooth-as-velvet voice, telling you what to do in a precise, well-mannered way. Mrs Donner was her name. She was a solid woman, but not overweight, just tall and shapely. Her honey-brown hair was always fashioned neatly in a bun and her thinly framed glasses always sat at end of her nose. She always wore a white blouse and a black skirt, and black open-toed heels. You couldn't find a wrinkle or a crease in her clothes. When she walked, her stockings rubbed together, creating a rhythm like a whispering ticking clock.
He often wondered what happened to Mrs Donner. Maybe she married a wealthy businessman and had a couple of kids. Or she ended up running a clothing shop in Tulsa. Or she tutored kids for her regular income. Maybe she spent her nights alone thinking about all the students she taught.
Scratch hoped she'd think of him once in a while.
Scratch used to imagine all kinds of things he'd do with Mrs Donner. Now he imagines all those things he'd like to do with the telephone operator. He wondered if she was a blonde or a redhead. Maybe the same hair color as Mrs Donner.
The operator wasn't pleased at all with that confession. She sounded incensed. “Another one.”
“Another?” Scratch said. “What do you mean by that?”
The operator let out an angry sigh. “I mean just that. Another one! A nutcase! Look, you want a number or what?”
“Yeah, yeah. I'm in a hurry anyway, but we'll continue this…”
“The number! Give it to me!” The operator said.
Scratch smiled. Yeah, he thought. I think I'm in love.
“Waltzing 224.”
“Thank you,” she said in that smooth, commanding voice and Scratch drew in a sharp breath, released it slowly. “Connecting.”
The line buzzed. A soft male voice answered in an Eastern-European accent.
“Primrose Hotel.”
“Jerzy, old pal,” Scratch crooned. “How's it hangin'?”
“I'm sorry? Can I help you sir?” Jerzy asked.
“It's Scratch, Jerzy.”
“Mr Williams,” he sighed. “Oh my. Been a few months since I've spoken to you. You didn't come dinner as my wife requested.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Been busy,” Scratch said.
“Of course,” Jerzy said. “I explained to Clara you were almost always on call. No matter, I am forever indebted to you for the job you performed.”
“It was nothing, Jerzy,” Scratch said. “Say, uh… could you do me a favor?”
“Well, of course!” Jerzy exclaimed, his voice pitched a little higher with each syllable. “Jerzy Gerkbahn takes care of his friends – always!”
Scratch chuckled. “I know, Jerzy, I know. Anyway, uh, look,” he licked his lips as he came up with a suitable lie. “Say… a friend of mine has a room at your establishment.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah… uh… Jerzy. His name is Gardner. Ray Gardner.”
“Oh, yes.” Jerzy sniffed. “I know Mr Gardner.”
“We're supposed to have a party at my place.” Scratch stopped to make sure Jerzy was listening.
After a brief pause, Jerzy said: “Ah. Yes.”
“Thing is, old pal.” Scratch chuckled. “I can't have it at my place. My mother is in town…”
“Oh! How wonderful! Give her my love!”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. That's the reason we can't have our party,” Scratch said, squinting with concentration as he made the story up on the spot.
“Uh-huh.” Jerzy sounded slightly confused. “Does she not like parties because of the noise?”
Scratch laughed. “Let's just say… she wouldn't like what went on at these parties.”
“Oh?” Jerzy still didn't understand what Scratch was getting at.
“Yeah, old pal. I'd bring the booze and Ray would bring the ladies.”
Jerzy laughed. “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. I see. Well, it seems Mr Gardner has already started without you in his room.”
“Is that right?” Scratch said, very interested. “You know…” Scratch chuckled. “I forgot what room number he said he'd be in.”
“Oh…uh…” Jerzy pulled away from the phone, his voice on th
e line reflected that. He bounced back, his voice louder and sharper. “Room number one-o-three.”
“Thanks, pal,” Scratch said.
“Mmm. He has a young lady already in there. As a matter of fact, I've had one or two complaints about the loud music. Frankly – please forgive me, Mr Williams – I don't like your friend very much.”
“That's OK, Jerzy,” Scratch said. “Not many people do. Say. The favor?”
“Oh,” Jerzy cleared his throat. “Yes? What would it be?”
“Well, it's a silly game Ray and I play. We like to – uh – scare each other. Practical jokes and all.”
“Oh. All right. Is this an American folly?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Could you leave me the pass key?”
Total silence. Damn, Scratch thought. Maybe I went too far with that last part. After a few seconds, Jerzy spoke.
“Yes,” he said in a quiet voice. “When you come in the hotel, give me a wave. I will hand you the evening paper. The key will be inside.”
Jerzy hung up quickly, leaving a couple of clicking noises in Scratch's ears. He waited for the operator.
“Hang up now, please,” she demanded.
Scratch smiled. “That's all I wanted, baby, was to hear you say that.”
“Weirdo!” The operator said in a huff.
The line went dead and Scratch placed the receiver on the cradle. When Scratch turned around, Harry was standing behind him, scowling.
“What's wrong?” Scratch asked.
“Nothing,” Harry said. He was stony-faced, ice in his voice. He handed Scratch an envelope.
“What's this?”
“For the old man,” Harry said, glaring at Scratch.
Scratch looked inside. There was 100 dollars in 10s and 20s. Scratch didn't understand.
“No,” Scratch said. “What's this for?”
“When you see Gardner,” Harry snarled. “You ask him what it's for. Now get out, will ya? I'm closing up.”
Scratch nodded. “Yeah. All right.” He shuffled out the door, tipped his hat to Harry.
“And tell the old man and your friend they can both hang!” Harry slammed the door, locked it and pulled the blinds.