Yardbird

by Mark Slade

  Scratch sat in his car for a few minutes.

  “What was all that about?” he asked himself, turning the envelope over in his hands.

  A red Plymouth Fury sped by, blaring Train kept a-rollin' by Johnny Burnette Rock 'n Roll Trio. A fair-haired boy with small black eyes and a crooked smile gawked at Scratch the whole time he drove by. The boy had a small round head with a flat top so large the air force could land a jet plane on it. In the passenger seat Scratch could see a brown-haired girl cuddling up to the boy. For a second, Scratch thought it was Maggie Spiff.

  He felt uneasy about it when he thought back. No more than 45 minutes ago he'd left her at the top of the stairs ready for bed. The old man had the house pretty much locked up. He had his security patrolling the property. So it couldn't have been her anyway.

  All Scratch knew was that boy gave him the shivers.

  4

  The Primrose was the nicest building in Odarko. By nicest, it was always clean, very elegant. A lot of Texas businessmen used the Primrose as a stayover from too many parties, to rest up, or just as a cover story for their wives when they were really at the California Club whoring and boozing. The Primrose had three floors and 110 rooms. All with the same burgundy carpet the lobby had.

  There were 110 rooms. Why it stopped on that number is God's little secret. Inside, each had two small doubles or one queen size. A liquor cabinet, a kitchenette, and a bathroom where the queen of England herself would be proud to powder her nose. They had bellhops and room service that didn't close until 1am. Wallpaper from Paris, France, depicting the plight of Joan of Arc, and chandeliers from Florence, Italy. Not many townspeople could afford a room at the Primrose.

  That's why it befuddled Scratch that an oil worker could afford to stay in a place like that. A wage of 50 dollars a week didn't stretch to such accommodations. Usually the men that worked for Reliance stayed at the Courtyard, which was a trailer park. Or Joan Hoss's Room and Board, which most didn't, because Miss Hoss didn't allow beer or booze in her house. Or maybe, if they were lucky, renting a house on the edge of Darktown from Peter Dodd, the local slumlord.

  Sure enough, Jerzy left the pass key in the evening paper lying on the sign-in desk. When Scratch entered the lobby, he gave Jerzy a wave. He walked to the desk and Jerzy pointed to the paper.

  Scratch placed the paper under his arms, started to walk away and stopped. He leaned on the desk with both elbows.

  “Uh, is there any mail for me?” Scratch asked, looked around the nearly empty lobby.

  “I'll check for you, sir,” Jerzy said. He was amused with the charade he and Scratch were carrying in front of practically no one and really, no one cared. Jerzy pretended to look in cubby holes, pulling envelopes and stationary paper out, placing them back.

  One big-shot oil man sat in a velvet chair looking at a copy of Life magazine with a girl in her pajamas on the cover. He looked up from the magazine. The fat man wrinkled his nose at Scratch, exhaled a heavy sigh. Scratch smiled back. The oil man shifted uneasily in his chair and flipped the pages of the magazine like he was angry at the world.

  “No sir,” Jerzy said. “I'm afraid not.”

  A very attractive, overdressed young woman stepped out of the elevator, her heels tapping away as she sashayed across the floor of the lobby.

  The oil man jumped from the velvet chair and trotted to her. His tiny, spindly legs almost gave out under him. Scratch watched the scene unfold. The oil man couldn't keep his fat, stubby hands off the blonde, and she only let him give her a peck on the cheek. He nervously walked her out of the Primrose's door.

  The oil man opened the door of a Chevrolet Bel Air and ushered her in. The woman got in indifferently, making sure her skirt was out of the way when the oil man shut the door. A long, salacious grin was on the man's face. He clapped his hands and shook out a spark of energy from his body. He ran around to the other side, happy as a child on Christmas day.

  “You can't believe your luck, huh, pal?” Scratch said.

  “I'm sorry sir?” Jerzy said.

  Scratch shook his head. “Nothing,” he tipped his hat. “Nothing at all,” he said, moving toward the elevator.

  Inside the elevator, he checked the paper for the pass key. He unrolled the paper and the skeleton key fell to the floor of the elevator with a loud clank. Scratch dropped to his knees and retrieved it. The elevator door opened and a woman appeared. She started to enter but saw Scratch crouched at her legs. She gave out a muted shriek, backed away.

  Scratch immediately stood. He tipped his hat to the stunned woman. “Sorry, ma'am.” He brushed by her.

  Scratch looked for the room. The numbers seemed to be flipped. The lower numbers were at the end of the hallway and on the wrong side. In the hotels Scratch had stayed in on his leave in the Army after boot camp and when he was released, the even numbers were on the right, odd numbers on the left. At the Primrose, it was switched.

  All he really had to do was follow the loud, muffled music. There it was. Room 103. Two rooms from the fire escape. Half-way down the hall, Scratch heard two female voices singing Tonight, you belong to me. Scratch stood at the door and listened. He heard a man's voice, a female's voice, and both of them laughing.

  Scratch eased the skeleton key into the lock. He pulled the door knob to him and turned the right. The lock popped. Quietly, he rolled the knob and the door opened. Scratch waited, listened. He heard a wet sound, loud slurping. The door creaked as it swung open.

  Scratch stepped inside the room, but kept the door open.

  A young blonde woman in her late teens was on her knees, her face buried in Gardner's unbuttoned fly, her mouth wrapped around his bent penis. Her pony tail swung as her head bobbed up and down. Gardner's eyes were closed, his back arched. His hips swiveled slightly as he moaned. The young woman's eyes darted toward Scratch and pulled away from Gardner's crotch.

  The young woman screamed. She retreated, using her hands and feet to crawl backwards. She fell on her back, and felt for her high heels. In one swoop she grabbed them, got to her feet and zipped past Scratch, breathing hard. Scratch laughed, noticing her stockings had slipped down her legs.

  Gardner uttered a few obscenities and some harsh words at the young woman, but she was already down the hallway. She jumped inside the lift as soon as the doors opened. Gardner struggled to put away his erect penis. He pulled his trousers up and buttoned them quickly. He balled his fists up. His face, already flushed, turned bright red. His lips and nose contorted as he spluttered nonsense at Scratch.

  The song on the radio ended. A DJ came on, announced that song was by Patience and Prudence. After that, a barrage of commercials assaulted everyone in the hotel room and the hallway.

  “Who the hell are you?” Gardner screamed.

  “You know me,” Scratch said. His calm demeanor seemed to anger Gardner even more.

  “I don't know you…” He stopped, eyed Scratch. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said in a sour tone. “I know you, buddy.” Gardner walked to the nightstand, grabbed the bottle of Gold's whiskey. He poured some in a long glass more than likely stolen from a bar. “You're the old man's yardbird.”

  Scratch smiled, tipped his hat. “What're you gonna do? Have to make a living somehow.”

  “By spying on the working class for the rich?” Gardner took a sip. He stopped drinking and pointed to the door. “Hey! You mind shuttin' the damn door!” He gulped down the rest of the whiskey, sat the glass down on the nightstand and poured more. This time he filled the long glass halfway.

  “That glass looks familiar,” Scratch said. “You get that at Fleming's bar?”

  Gardner drained the glass and smacked his lips. He shrugged. “So what? What's it matter to you, huh? You a bar detective tracking down every glass and bottle of booze stolen?”

  “Hmm! That ain't a bad idea, Ray,” Scratch said.

  “So what the hell do you want, yardbird?”

  Scratch removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, tossed
it on the bed. “Spiff wants you gone.”

  “Does he now?” Gardner laughed. “He's a miserable old bastard because he takes it up the ass.”

  Scratch nodded. “I'll agree with that. Still, the old man wants you out of Odarko and Oklahoma. There's 300 dollars and a train ticket to California. I suggest you take it and dangle.”

  Gardner glared at Scratch.

  “Look, fella.” Scratch moved toward Gardner slowly, with caution. “The old man wants you to disappear, one way… or another.”

  “What? You going to kill me?” Gardner laughed. “You really don't know who I am. Do you?”

  “I don't care,” Scratch said. “Spiff didn't like the fact you… had relations with his daughter.”

  “Daughter?” Gardner thought about it. “I never met the old man's daughter.”

  “Enough talking!” Scratch raised his voice. The little cat and mouse play was getting him hot under the collar.

  “You're the one doing the talkin', Captain,” Gardner said. “I think it's time you started walkin'.”

  The commercials ended on the radio. The DJ announced the next song was Allegheny Moon by Patti Page.

  He saw Garner's hand slip in the drawer of the nightstand, and the butt of a snub nose .38 began to appear. Scratch charged Gardner and took hold of the hand bringing out the gun. The fedora slipped off Scratch's head sailed to the bed. They struggled for 30 seconds before Gardner brought his knee into Scratch's crotch. Scratch yelped and dropped to the floor just as Gardner brought down the barrel of the .38 on top of his head.

  Scratch fell sideways. He tried to shake off the consummate pain surging in his forehead and eyes. He saw Gardner's boot coming towards his face. Scratch caught the man's left leg and tipped him over. Now Gardner was on the floor next to Scratch. Gardner felt three swift punches to the kidney. He cried out, tried to roll away, but Scratch had a hold of his collar with one hand, and drove his fist into the bridge of Gardner's nose. Something popped. Blood flowed from a mess of broken cartilage and bruised flesh.

  Scratch got to his feet. He found a suitcase under the bed and tossed it on the mattress.

  “You're leaving town, Gardner,” Scratch said, unlatched the suitcase and started gathering clothes from the mahogany dresser where the radio sat. “Either by bus or by coffin. You're leaving Odarko for good.”

  He opened a drawer on the bottom and found clothing that shouldn't belong to Ray Gardner. Different colors, styles of panties. Stockings, garter belts, bras. Scratch was a little confused at first. Did he wear these? Then he saw names on torn pieces of paper attached to the undergarments. Suzie, Debbie, Flora. That made more sense. He was collecting the things of women he'd been with. Scratch laughed.

  He showed Gardner a pair of woolen stockings with the name Clara written on a piece of paper attached to them.

  “These don't belong old Mrs Grace, do they?” Scratch said. “You like grandmas, too?”

  Gardner laid on the floor, cupping his bleeding nose in his hands, sobbing. He was wailing, as if he was in terrible pain, and muttering he was going to kill Scratch. He saw Scratch reach for a black hatbox sitting on top of the dresser. What caught Scratch's eye was the gold initials SS, gleaming in the lights.

  “Gardner, You naughty boy,” Scratch laughed. “You collecting women's hats, too?”

  Scratch moved the hatbox slightly and saw a medium-sized hole had been made in the wall. He bent down to peer through it, but scuffing sounds from the floor caught his attention.

  “Don't touch that!” Gardner's voice was muffled by the hand still trying to keep blood from getting on his shirt, which in fact was something he was doing a piss-poor job at.

  Scratch looked at him incredulously. He scoffed, reached for the black hatbox with gold string. He heard two sets of heeled shoes behind him. He heard a metallic sound. Possibly the hammer of a gun clicking. Scratch wasn't sure. He turned to see.

  That's when everything went black.

  5

  The darkness remained, but a muffled voice screamed at him. The voice spoke Korean and Scratch only knew three phrases in that language. What the voice said, he couldn't understand. And when Scratch didn't answer a hard slap or punch in the kidneys would occur. The torture worsened.

  Water dripped on his face for an hour before the voice returned, screaming at him. Again, Scratch didn't understand what was said. A punch in the kidney, and the wooden chair he was bound to was tipped over. A kick in the face came next. He felt the presence of someone else. He smelled their breath, felt them breathing. They didn't say a word for several minutes.

  Scratch and the chair were returned to normal position. He heard boots descend, echoing on a wooden floor. He heard a door open and shut, then lock. Nothing happened for three hours.

  * * *

  Scratch couldn't take it anymore.

  Living in Darktown, no job, no job prospects. Just sitting on Dobro's front porch, drinking swill from a jar and cuttin' up. So Scratch joined the Army. Dobro begged him not to go. Fighting in a white man's war. Had nothing to do with him or his family, killing Chinese people.

  What else was there to do in Darktown? He wasn't allowed in Odarko, like other black folk. If anyone from Darktown ventured into the main town, they got harassment in the daytime, lynching at night. So they set up their own businesses, greengrocer, owned by Leon, produce stable, owned by Leon's brother Homer, and the three lookouts where you could get a proper drink – the Owl, the Redpiper and the Frolic – were co-owned by the Morrison brothers.

  Even Scratch's sister Imelda told him not to leave Darktown.

  “There's nothing outside of Darktown for you, Scratch,” Immy said.

  “Ain't nothing inside Darktown for me, either,” Scratch told her.

  Immy snorted. “Just because you look white don't mean they ain't gonna find out where you from.”

  Scratch shrugged. “You could look white.”

  “Not like you, Scratch,” Immy said.

  Their father was Paul Gruber, a German who came to America for a better life after World War One and ended up as a bootlegger in Odarko. He took a shine to a golden-skinned young woman by the name of Sherry Williams. She'd been married at 14 to the Morrison brothers' cousin, Carter. That marriage produced no children and lasted until she was 18. Technically, she and Carter never dissolved their relationship by law. But she also never took Carter's last name.

  She took up with Gruber but he never lived with her. For good reason. Gruber already had a wife and two boys and a girl. Sherry became pregnant with Allan. Then Imelda, a year later. Gruber kept up house with both women. They each knew about the other, but never met. Danika and her children lived in Cottonwood County, 20 miles from Odarko. Danika struggled with money and food just like Sherry did because, in spite of all the money Paul Gruber made, he spent most of it gambling, whoring or drinking.

  Paul Gruber was stabbed to death in a Tulsa nightclub over 10 dollars owed to a man no one could identify and the police had no interest in catching. At least, that;s what everyone was told.

  At 12 and 11, Allan and Imelda went to live with Danika's sister Collen in Tulsa while Sherry worked in all three lookouts, serving drinks or hosting live shows. That's where they got most of their education and the lie that both of them were of Spanish descent. Allan hated it in Tulsa. He was the first to leave, aged 14. Imelda stayed until she was 16. She flourished in school, even had a scholarship to Oklahoma State.

  Sherry died just as Immy was ready to go to college.

  Immy didn't take the scholarship. They both ended up back in Darktown, living in the shack Gruber bought for their mother.

  Stealing produce from his uncle and selling it in Horace County got Scratch and Dobro in trouble. Uncle Homer's men got wind of it one night. They chased Dobro's old pickup down highway 20 and started shooting at them. Dobro lost control, the pickup slammed in a tree. Uncle Homer's men thought they were dead, so kept on driving.

  Funny enough, Dobro didn't get hurt at all
. No broken bones. Not a mark on his body. Scratch, well, he lost his right eye. Had to use a marble for a while until Uncle Homer took him to Tulsa, saw a doctor and bought him a glass eye. Uncle Homer wasn't as cold-blooded as people thought. He just didn't like his own blood to steal from him.

  To everyone's amazement, the army took Scratch. The doctor didn't even examine the men sent to him. He just signed everyone's papers and sent them to boot camp. The sergeant questioned Scratch about getting past the doctor and Scratch didn't have an answer. After that, no one else even mentioned his eye or how he got in the army. Nearly a year went by when Joe Turner, who was in boot camp with Scratch, had the answer. Turned out the doctor went home and shot himself. By that time, Scratch was in Korea, defending the name of a mountain he couldn't pronounce.

  * * *

  The darkness didn't succumb to light for a long time. The torture continued, but there were long bouts of silence from his torturers. They kept asking him questions in a language he didn't understand. Scratch never talked. He did scream a lot and begged them to stop.

  One day, light came. So did explosions and gunfire. People screamed. He heard the voices of women and children call out to their God as death came for them. Scratch heard American voices. There was a familiar smell of tainted clothing and the grease used to clean guns.

  A hand pulled the scarf from Scratch's eyes. A square-jawed man with thin lips and tiny black eyes was facing him. He was a private, just like Scratch. Tommy Dilleo was his name, as Scratch later learned. They stared at each other for a few seconds.

  Scratch looked past him to see about 20 American GIs standing in a hut, with what looked to be a family. Four women of varying ages, three little boys and one little girl. There was also an old man who might have been the grandfather and most likely Scratch's torturer. The awful smell Scratch kept smelling was boiled cabbage. A GI stirred the pot on a wood stove, raked green and white leaves with a spoon. He showed it to his buddy, who made a face.