by Mark Slade
“Deputy Shaw, I figure,” Scratch started to pace, and Immy stopped him.
“Don't, Allan,” she said. “You're getting on my nerves.”
“I need a cigarette. You have any?”
“I have a pack of Silks in my purse. I'll get them for you.”
Silks were marketed to women. Supposedly not as strong as Winstons, won't hurt your throat like Virginia slims. All bullshit. A cigarette is a cigarette. If you're hooked, you are not worrying about taste as much, or making your throat raw. You want that tobacco to put you in the right frame of mind.
Immy returned with a black-and-white package. She handed it to Scratch gingerly, put her hand on top of his for a moment.
“Everything will be all right, Allan.”
Scratch nodded, jerked his hand away. He took two cigarettes out, lit them both, and gave one to Immy. They smoked together in silence for a bit. Then he asked her to continue the story.
“Well,” she said, “Shaw pulled us over. Shaw was happier than a pig in shit. Using all kinds of foul language, calling us jigaboo girls and such. Asking us what we were doing in white-man land. He answered his own question. Saying he knew about the party, he knew what was going on. He knew we were hired whores,” Immy took a few drags before continuing. “He ordered us out of the car. He lined us up and had a free feel while he was frisking us. His hand lingered in some places longer than it should have. When he finished frisking me, he pulled his hands away like something bit him. He studied my face long and hard. It was weird. He let us go. He said he was real sorry for our trouble. He acted embarrassed, rushed to his car and sped off.”
Scratch finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray Immy kept on the mantle with all the family pictures. Scratch's eyes scanned every picture of him and Immy. His mother and father. He looked closer at the picture of Immy and their mother. Son of a bitch, he thought. Immy looks more and more like their mother. Cocoa-skinned, large brown eyes, long, straight black hair, full lips and high cheekbones. But Immy and their mother reminded him of somebody else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
“You think Shaw is blackmailing us?” Immy said. More of a statement than a question. She stubbed out her cigarette in the same ashtray, put a hand on her brother's shoulder.
“Yeah. I do,” Scratch said. 'Just not sure who the woman is helping him.”
Scratch kissed Immy on the cheek. “See you later, Sis.” He headed for the front door.
“You're leaving? Don't you want to have breakfast with Micha and Justine?”
“I'd like to.” Scratch opened the front door and stepped outside. A nice breeze was blowing. Thunder crashed in the distance. “But I can't, Immy. Going to see Dobro.”
“Allan.” Immy threw her hands on her hips in protest. Just like their mother used to. “Don't get caught up in Dobro's shit.”
Scratch laughed. “More like he's getting caught up in our shit, Sis.”
The door slammed behind him.
13
The '48 Dodge pulled into a dirt parking lot. Rain was coming down steady and lightning flashed in the dark sky. The Lock and Key club, a stucco building with one stained-glass window showing a faded image of Mary and Jesus holding hands, had been a Methodist church before WWI. Despite the hour, the club was still going strong. It wasn't just a place to hear the blues and get drunk. In the back was a room for gambling. Beside that room, a projector showed blue movies on the walls.
You could also go upstairs and get laid, too. Whatever you want. Black women, white women, Hispanic. One Asian woman worked there, but the other whores disliked her so much that one night they banded together and stoned her out of town. You can get you a sissy, if that's your game. Only they were in the minority in Dobro's stable. No judgement from the management as long as you followed house rules. No rough stuff, unless you pay extra and the whore is OK with it. No killing anyone inside the club, take it outside. Always be courteous to the cops.
Dobro managed the Lock and Key for Scratch's Uncle Homer. Uncle Homer had his hand in every business in Darktown and Pennywald, another segregated area 25 miles west of Odarko. Homer wasn't too different from Spiff. Just not as rich. Scratch was more than certain that was the goal for dear Uncle Homer.
Scratch walked in the door of the Lock and Key and found wall-to-wall people. A frail skinny black man with an electric guitar bigger than him stood on a small round stage just to the left of the bar. Multitudes of people, mostly women, surrounded the stage, swaying to the music, possession in their haunted eyes. The man howled and screeched, slid a beer bottle across the guitar strings. A fight broke out between two men in black suits and white panama hats.
A bottle was broken on one man's arms and he threw two jabs at the other man's chin. They wrestled toward Scratch, who promptly opened the door, stepped outside to let the men roll past him. Scratch came back in and closed the door. The club erupted in laughter and applause, hands clapping fiercely.
Scratch turned to each corner of the room and bowled. More people cheered, hooted at him. Scratch felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw it was Dobro. They gazed at each other and no words were spoken until Scratch leaned in and hugged Dobro.
“Brother,” Scratch said.
Dobro laughed, hugged Scratch back. “Brother! Been too damn long!”
“I know, I know,” Scratch said.
“Let's get a drink,” Dobro pointed to a door with a sign stating keep out.
His office was under the staircase leading to the rooms the whores did their business and the theater where men paid a quarter to see films of people having sex.
“Wolfy! Going to my office!” Dobro yelled over top of loud chatter and driving guitar blues. A tall, bearded black man looked up. “Bring us a bottle of Tennessee!” Wolfy waved, and when he noticed Scratch, he laughed and pointed. Scratch smiled, pointed back. Wolfy came from behind the bar and handed two shot glasses to a woman in a red dress, said he'd see her in 10 minutes. She kissed Wolfy and turned to walk away, but was held up momentarily when Wolfy placed a hand up her dress. She laughed and wiggled more, looking over her shoulder at Wolfy.
Dobro unlocked the door to his office and flipped the light switch on. Nothing much to brag about. A desk, two chairs and a leather couch. The bookshelf behind the desk had lobby cards from all the movies Dobro had seen. Posters of Bogart and Mitchum plastered the walls. A framed autographed photo of Betty Grable sat on the desk with Cab Calloway and the Nicholas brothers.
“Have a seat,” Dobro said. He sat behind his desk. He opened a drawer, removed two large glasses and set them on the desk. “What brings you back to Darktown, brother?”
“Thought I'd see you and Immy,” Scratch said.
“How is your sister?”
“She's… OK.” Scratch shrugged.
There was a knock on the door. Dobro said to come in and Wolfy appeared on the threshold. He ambled over, set the bottle down, put a hand on Scratch's shoulder.
“I'm glad to see you, Scratch,” he said. Scratch patted Wolfy's hand and thanked him. “Took care of that business with Reverend Joe, boss.”
“Good, good.” Dobro opened the whiskey and poured it into the glasses. “Want a drink, Wolfy?”
Wolfy shook his head. “You know I don't drink booze these days, boss. Booze makes me mean.”
“All right,” Dobro chuckled and sipped from his glass. I know Jaunita is waiting for you. Ya'll use room three. It's cleanest.”
Wolfy nodded and went out of the office, closing the door behind him.
“You didn't come here just to see us,” Dobro said.
“No,” Scratch said. “I didn't.”
“You need my help,” Dobro extended his hand, sipped from his glass.
“I do,” Scratch said.
“Tell me what you need, Scratch. You know if I can help, I will. Drink up.”
“I really don't want any.” Scratch pushed the glass aside. “I need some of those pills you have.”
Dobro scoffed. “Bennies?”
“Yeah, those,” Scratch said.
“You sure about that, brother? When was the last time your head laid on a pillow?”
“I don't need sleep, Dobro,” Scratch said. “I need those pills.”
Dobro licked his lips. He opened another drawer, took out a black bottle with no label. He stared hard at Scratch, then tossed the bottle to him. Scratch caught it with one hand.
“You ought to play for the Dodgers,” Dobro chuckled. “OK. Tell me a story.”
“Got a problem with blackmail.” Scratch took the top off and poured a handful of pills into the palm of his hand. He chucked the pills in his mouth. Dobro watched in awe.
“A client, or Spiff has the problem?”
Scratch shook his head as he chewed the pills. “Me and Immy.”
“For what?” Dobro asked. He finished off the whiskey in his glass and started on Scratch's glass.
“What happened to our father,” Scratch said.
“That was a long a time ago,” Dobro said. “I don't even think anyone remembers that happening.”
“Somebody does.”
“You know who?”
Scratch took the letters from his jacket pocket and threw them toward Dobro. The papers fell on the empty glass. Dobro snatched the letters, eyeing Scratch. He read them in silence.
“Hmph! OK. You want five hundred from me? No sweat,” Dobro said. “I'll borrow it from your uncle.”
“Not paying,” Scratch said.
“Oh?”
“Not paying.”
“Then what?”
“I want you to help me get this blackmailer,” Scratch said.
“You didn't say who it was. Somebody from Darktown?”
“Too white.”
“Who is it, then? Shit, boy! Anybody teach you how to tell a story? You start at the beginning,” Dobro put the bottle in the top drawer, slamming it shut. He leaned across the desk, pointed a finger. “You want me to help you make this blackmailer disappear.”
“Yeah,” Scratch nodded. His eyes became wild. He could feel the pills working, like a lamp plugged into an electrical outlet, electricity hitting every nerve in his body.
“Tell me who it is, then,” Dobro ordered.
“Smell the paper,” Scratch told him.
Dobro did. He pulled his head away quickly. “Damn it! Coulda told me it was lye!”
“The blackmailer was trying to remove a stamp or a seal already on the paper,” Scratch said. “Look at the top right side. Hold it under a light.”
Dobro removed the lamp shade on the lamp on his desk. He turned it on and held it to the paper. He laughed, sat the lamp back in place, and the shade back on it. He stared at Scratch and smiled.
“Coleman county Sheriff's department,” Dobro said. “You're talking about wiping Rooster off the face of the earth and not thinking anyone would notice or care? Hell, your uncle has dealings with Rooster!”
“Not Rooster,” Scratch said. “Deputy Shaw.”
“That's another story.” Dobro raised an eyebrow.
“He wants to meet at the lake at 10pm tomorrow night.”
“Hmm…” Dobro thought about it. “What I can do is arrive with Wolfy much earlier from Darktown side.”
“Don't bring Wolfy. I don't want anyone else knowing about this,” Scratch said.
“OK.” Dobro shrugged. “I'll just come early. You arrive a little after 10, the way he would come.”
“Then what?” Scratch asked.
“That depends on Deputy Shaw and the choices he makes.”
“Good answer,” Scratch popped a few more Bennies.
“Slow down,” Dobro laughed. “You'll do yourself a mischief.”
“I can handle it,” Scratch said.
“You sure you can?” The old Korean man said. He was standing over Scratch, holding a stick high above, ready to strike Scratch across the shoulders.
Scratch fell backwards. Both he and the chair spilled over.
Dobro jumped up from behind his desk and rushed to Scratch's aide.
“What the hell?” Dobro screamed. “Are you all right?” Dobro offered a hand.
Scratch nodded and took his hand. He used Dobro to hoist himself to his feet. Two gunshots sounded. There was a hubbub of raised voices as panic filled the Lock and Key. The door opened quickly. Wolfy poked his head in.
“We got troubles, boss!”
“No shit! I can hear the commotion, Wolfy,” Dobro said. “C'mon, brother,” he said to Scratch. “Might need you to do your specialty.”
“You have Wolfy,” Scratch said.
“Naw,” Dobro chuckled. “He breaks heads. He can't get inside 'em like you do, Mr Scratch.”
People were running out the entrance and exit in droves. Screaming, waving their hands, pushing, and trampling each other. Wolfy led the way down the hallway, pushing onlookers and hangers-on to the side. Most of them were johns trying get their clothes on or whores trying to keep themselves safe.
A light-skinned black man in a black suit was on his knees, praying. A Colt .45 Cavalry issue lay beside him, the barrel of the gun smoking. He had two scars across his bottom lip. Chester Goode was his name and he'd served in World War II in the Pacific. Shrapnel had sliced Chester's lips not once but twice, which affected the way he spoke. But Chester had money, working at the chicken factory. He never spent it and he lived with his mother until she passed two years ago. Celeste Holmes took an interest in the introvert, shy man.
She was lying dead in her bed as was the milkman, Tyrone Radford. Celeste was naked except for black stockings. There was a bullet hole as big as Texas was between her breasts. Tyrone's face was practically obliterated.
“Sweet Jesus,” Dobro murmured and looked away.
Even though Dobro was a pimp and thought he was a hard man, seeing dead bodies, especially people he knew, disturbed him. Scratch placed a hand on Dobro's shoulder.
Chester finished praying. He reached for the .45 and Scratch screamed, “No!” and tackled the man. Dobro kicked the gun out of the way as Scratch pinned Chester to the floor. The man started wailing, screeching like a barn owl. Scratch struggled to hold Chester, rolling on the floor, tearing Chester's suit until he gave up. Chester sobbed hard. Once in a while he would call out for his mother.
“Let me gooooooooooo!” Chester screamed. “I did what any man would do! You know that! You know that!”
Cowboy boots entered the room, spurs rattling with every step. Long, pointed brown tips were almost touching Scratch's face. Scratch looked up and saw it was Culky Lowe. He looked even taller in his wide-brimmed Akubra. His milky-brown skin had started to peel around his cheekbones, giving his pale blue eyes a haunted look. Culky stood there, his hands on his fat belt, a .32 Smith and Wesson stuffed near the oversized belt buckle.
A little history on Culky Lowe.
Culky had been a cowboy all his life. He was a veteran of World War II. Long before that, at the age of 10, Culky got his first job on the trail. First with sheep farmers, then running steers to Chicago. He worked his way up to trail boss with Douglas Northup, one of three men who supplied beef to the west coast.
Tired of taking orders, Culky found himself in Darktown, owning a ranch just outside the town border. He had a Cherokee wife and one daughter. Susan grew up, moved to New York City and died of chickenpox. The Cherokee wife left Culky soon after. Culky hired Saul and Hoke a year or so after. Five years later, a bank robbery happened. No one knew what to do. No one had ever attempted to rob a bank in Darktown, and the bank was owned by Scratch's uncle. There was going to be hell to pay. Culky and his men saddled up and found the two men. He brought them to the town square and strung them up. Ever since, Culky Lowe had been the self-professed Sheriff of Darktown, keeping law and order.
Culky chewed rapidly and spat tobacco juice on the floor. Two other men appeared behind him. Saul and Hoke. They would be Culky's deputies, if any of the three had been real men of the law.
“Seems like every time you come back to Darktown you cause a ruckus, Scratch Williams,” Culky said.
“If that was even true,” Scratch said. “You and your boys would be busier than sitting on your porch whistlin' Dixie.”
“Let him go, Scratch,” Culky said through a flared nostril. “We got it from here.”
Scratch removed his hands from Chester's arms, which he had pinned to the floor. Scratch stood, straightened his hat and wiped dust and dirt from his jacket and pants.
“You seem to show up at the right time, Culky,” Scratch said.
Culky sneered. “You seem to show up at the wrong time, Mr Scratch.”
They glared at each other. No love lost there. Culky had always hated Scratch. Some sort of jealousy? Or the fact that he could travel between two different societies? The latter was the more likely.
“What happens to Chester?” Dobro asked.
Culky shifted his eyes to Dobro. “You know what happens.”
“Come on, Culky. Everybody knows Chester ain't all there.”
“He's gotta pay,” Culky said. “Justice has to be served here in Darktown.”
“To keep everybody in line?” Dobro said.
“You don't have to do this, Culky,” Scratch said.
Culky turned quickly to Scratch. “Uh-huh. I don't, but I'm going to.”
“There's another way…”
“You think this is Odarko?” Culky cut Scratch off. “This ain't your white boss's territory, Mr Scratch! He don't own Darktown! Oliver Spiff only has his big toe on our soil and it's because of you and your uncle. That's all.”
“I'm not going to let you do this…”
The butt of Saul's .38 caught the back of Scratch's head. Scratch fell immediately. He hit the floor with a groan. Saul pointed his .38 at Dobro. Dobro held up his hands and backed away. Hoke and Culky led Chester out the room, but before they left, Culky had one more thing to say.
“I keep telling your boy,” he said to Dobro. “He don't have nothin' to do with Darktown. Get his ass out of here!”