Yardbird

by Mark Slade

  “Were you at the party?”

  “I already told you I was not at no party where George Spiff was at. However,” Uncle Homer gave out a mischievous giggle. “I planned the event from my house. I gave strict orders to Ray Gardner to make sure Deputy Shaw would show up with photographer Betty Klein. She works for Horace Hammock. I didn't know Immy was going to be there.”

  Scratch cut his eyes at Uncle Homer.

  “Do you know what these initials stand for?”

  “I actually do, boy. Saundra Sommers.”

  “Wait… the Saundra Sommers?”

  “Yeah. I told you. Saundra Sommers!” Uncle Homer yelled. “Take the fuckin' hatbox and get out of my sight!”

  Scratch picked up the hatbox. It was very heavy.

  “The hell is in this?” Scratch asked.

  “Open it. See for yourself?”

  Scratch sat the hatbox on the coffee table. He removed the top and found an 8mm camera inside, standing straight up. He looked at Uncle Homer.

  Uncle Homer smiled. “There you go, boy. Now you see what Spiff wanted of mine and I didn't get what I wanted of his.”

  “That makes no sense,” Scratch said.

  “Hmmph! Coming from you? If you're confused, Mr Scratch, then the whole fucking world is doomed. Now get. Hey, Dozen?”

  Dozen came running in, out of breath. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Get him out of my sight before I shoot him!” Uncle Homer belted at the top of his lungs. His hand shook as he pointed the .38 at Scratch. His unsteady hand kept wavering between Dozen and Scratch. Feeling emotions getting ready to take over again, Homer turned, hid his face in the chair. His body convulsed as he sobbed hard.

  Dozen led Scratch out of the room quickly. In the hallway, they stopped. Dozen tapped the hatbox.

  “The hell you doin' with that?”

  “He gave it to me,” Scratch said.

  “The boss gave that to you?”

  “Yeah,” Scratch said.

  “That man is too damn crazy for me.” Dozen touched the bridge of his nose. Another headache was coming on. “He told everybody: 'No matter what, don't let that shit-brickin' nephew of mine have that hatbox!' Damn, I can't take much more of this!”

  “How long has he been like this?”

  “Man, this has been going on for years. If you visited more you'd see it's often,” Dozen said.

  “I'm not as welcomed here as you'd think,” Scratch said. “Bad luck.”

  Dozen sighed. “He does say that about you. He ain't never liked you or Immy. He liked your daddy, though.”

  “He did?”

  “Hell yeah! Used him as a runner when the law was on everybody for having liquor. He found out your daddy was good with a car. Could get away from any cop…” Dozen laughed. “I guess he's still mad at you for the accident.”

  “Who else knows about the accident?”

  “Not many people. Ain't many of us left from Homer's original gang,” Dozen said. “Why?”

  “Somebody knows what Immy and I did,” Scratch said.

  “That's surprising, since the story never hit the papers, never left Darktown. You need Homer to help?”

  Scratch looked sour. He shrugged and shook his head. A thought entered his head, changed his expression.

  “Can I have Delmont's body?”

  “The hell do you want a dead body for?” Dozen asked.

  “I got some use for him,” Scratch answered.

  Dozen scoffed.“Boy you are weird!” Dozen shook his head in disgust. “I don't know… maybe the boss is right. You might be the devil!”

  16

  Scratch drove out to Jesse Fulton's Diner on Route 10. He didn't expect to see Lilly in the place. But there she was. He started to run to her and kiss her long and hard but then thought better. He waited by the kitchen door to watch her, avoiding a waitress or two, who looked at Scratch as if he was some sort of creep.

  Lilly looked at the clock behind the counter, got up from her table and started to leave. Scratch took three steps and called out to her.

  “Lilly! Oh, hey! I made it!” He pretended to be out of breath.

  At first, she didn't answer. She just happened to turn around and see Scratch.

  “Ohh.” she giggled nervously. “You are here!” Her eyes darted around the café.

  Scratch's smile diminished.

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “Nobody,” Lilly said. “Say, let's sit down, huh?”

  Scratch reluctantly sat in a chair next to her. Lilly fidgeted with her skirt, held his hand in hers.

  “Worried about something?”

  “No.” She was trying to act naturally. She laughed. “I'm surprised you're here.”

  “Exuberantly. Overwhelmed.”

  “I know what they mean.” Lilly gritted her teeth.

  “Who are you, really?”

  “Ow! You're squeezing my hand…”

  “Don't make me shoot you in front of everybody.” Scratch squeezed harder and Lilly flinched, giving him a pleading look.

  Scratch reached into the right pocket of his trenchcoat. He cocked the hammer of his .38. Lilly jumped slightly, gasping.

  “My name is Betty – oww! owww!”

  “Betty what?”

  “Owww… Betty Klein! Please…”

  “Photographer. You work for Horace Hammock.”

  “I work for a lot of people – I'm freelance. Owww, let go! I'll scream…”

  “You scream and I'll shoot you dead,” Scratch said. “That's a damn promise.”

  “Please, Allan…”

  “Hold on… no one knows my real name. How do you know my first name?”

  “Please let go.”

  “Tell me, now, Betty or I swear to God…”

  “Deputy Shaw!” Betty squealed, her voice, loud enough to echo, interrupted the noise of the café. Scratch let go of her hand. All heads turned to look at them. A few minutes went by and everyone went back to their business.

  “Is that who you're waiting for?”

  “No,” Betty said quietly. “I'm waiting for someone who can sell my pictures.”

  “OK. So, how do you know my real name?” Scratch asked.

  A waitress came to the table.

  “Everything OK, sweetie?” she asked Betty.

  Betty smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes. Could we have some coffee? Want some coffee, honey?”

  Scratch nodded. “Get us a couple slices of cherry pie, too,” he told the waitress.

  The waitress filled their cups and scooted back to the counter. She returned with two plates of cherry pie. She sat Betty's plate down easy but slammed down Scratch's plate. The waitress snarled at Scratch.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “No,” Betty said. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, honey. You need anything else, just holler. Real loud.”

  The waitress headed back to the kitchen.

  “Go on,” Scratch said. “Tell your story.”

  “I heard Shaw on the phone,” Betty said. “I don't know who he was talking to on the phone, but he mentioned you, and the hatbox.”

  “By the way,” Scratch took a bite of his pie, chewed it carefully and swallowed. “Where is the hatbox?”

  “At my studio. You, uh, look in it?”

  “No. I sure didn't. Is it money in it?”

  “Uh, no. Kind of weird…”

  “What-what are you doing here?” a voice demanded.

  Scratch turned around and saw Harry Sanders standing behind him.

  “Harry,” Scratch chuckled. “Shouldn't you be at the drugstore?”

  Harry sat down in a chair next to Betty. “I have a kid named Gary Palmer running it. Very nice, bright boy.”

  “Palmer? His brother is Hick Palmer?” Scratch asked.

  “Yes. I believe so,” Harry said.

  “Interesting.”

  “That doesn't answer my question, Mr Williams.”

  “Now it's Mr Williams. What happened to
calling me Scratch?”

  “The company you keep has changed our relationship!” Harry sputtered, slammed his fist on the table.

  Again, the whole café turned and looked at Scratch. He smiled at them. Harry tugged at his tie and his bottom lip quivered.

  “I'm not sure who you're talking about, Harry. I've known you for two years and you've never acted like this…”

  “You really are a son of a bitch. You know damn well what is going on.” Harry's face turned bright red. He huffed and puffed while tiny beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.

  “Harry, take it easy.” Betty touched Harry's arm and he jerked away.

  “Don't tell me what to do. I'm sorry, Betty. I'm very sorry.” Harry tossed an envelope to her. “Here's the money. Where are the pictures?”

  Betty opened her purse and retrieved her own envelope, only a little longer and fatter, green and bulky. She extended her hand and Scratch took the envelope from her. Harry lunged at Scratch. Scratch stood quickly, the chair fell from under him, making a loud crash when it hit the café floor. Harry saw the .38 aimed at him.

  “I'll plug you, old man,” Scratch said. “Come across that table again, and you'll be exchanging hellos with God.”

  Total silence in the café. Stunned faces, shocked, frightened eyes watched the scene unfold.

  “Just… give the envelope back… please,” Harry stammered, his bottom lip quivering. There was more to say but Harry's tongue, lips, and brain had everything twisted.

  “I'm taking it and the contents inside,” Scratch said. He placed the envelope in the breast pocket of his trench coat. He grabbed Betty by the arm and jerked her out of her chair. She squealed, trotted to Scratch against her will. She bumped him, and scratch threw his arm around her collarbone and neck. Betty dodged the .38 as it swung past her nose. “I'm taking her, too.”

  “I-I-I-I-I don't give a rat's ass about her!” Harry screamed. “I want those pictures!” His raspy voice blew out, hummed like a PA speaker with faulty wiring, and curdled the pitcher milk left on the counter by another patron.

  Scratch backed away through a crowd of people. Women gasping, hands covering their mouths, men wanting to play the hero, except their nerves of steel had turned to mush. He pushed the door open with his foot and shoved Betty through the threshold. She yelped, stumbled outside, and fell on the sidewalk.

  “You better find a way to get them back, Hoss,” Scratch said. “Short of putting a bullet in my head!”

  “That can be arranged!” Harry called out. “I don't care who you work for!”

  Scratch let the door to the café close on its own then aimed the .38 at the bottom glass pane and fired into it. The glass shattered. There were screams and the crowd scattered. Scratch ran to Betty, picked her up by her blouse. The fabric on her sleeve ripped. Scratch practically dragged her to the Dodge. He motioned for her to get in, placed the .38 on her heaving breasts.

  Betty smiled. She seemed to like the way he was treating her and that confused Scratch a little. She stepped toward him and tried to kiss him. Scratch turned from her.

  “Get in the damn car!” he said.

  Betty swallowed hard, gave him a lascivious look but dutifully did as she was told.

  17

  They were driving back to Odarko on Route 11. Neither said a word for a while until they approached the town limits. Betty was fidgety most of the ride. She would often turn to Scratch, sigh heavily, tut in frustration and shake her head. Scratch wouldn't look at her. He was thinking about his next move. Betty couldn't hold it in any longer.

  “Say something,” Betty said.

  Scratch glanced at her.

  “Oh. Come on.” Betty rubbed her forehead. “I'm sorry I lied to you.”

  He wouldn't answer.

  Betty rested her arm on the window frame and watched the trees pass by. “You could at least tell me where you're taking me.”

  “Going to your studio,” Scratch said. Betty eyed him. “I have some film for you to develop.”

  Scratch reached over and placed his hand on Betty's knee. She put her hand on his. Betty smiled at Scratch and said: “OK.”

  * * *

  “Pretty lewd photos,” Scratch said, spreading out 20 glossy prints of women in various poses, some unclothed, touching themselves, others in lingerie or boudoir shots.

  “They're just photographs to me,” Betty said. She was finishing up developing the 8mm film in her bathtub, the film from the camera that had been in the hatbox. “I've photographed worse things. I'm telling you, Allan. Seeing a woman laid out on the blacktop without her head and her car smashed in like an accordion is 10 times worse than seeing her legs spread open.”

  “Not everyone agrees,” Scratch said. He glanced at the bottom picture again. A brown-haired young woman in a see-through negligée and black stockings was lying on her back, cupping her naked right breast, pursing her lips. It was Maggi Spiff. “You know her?”

  Betty adjusted her glasses, squinted. She smiled. “You like her, huh?” Scratch shrugged, pleaded with her to answer. “It's OK that you like her… Yeah,” Betty chuckled. “She goes by Suzie Q. Dumb name, huh? She's very popular with buyers. Why?”

  “She's actually Maggie Spiff.”

  “What? You mean…”

  “Yep. Oliver Spiff's daughter,” Scratch said.

  Betty took a breath. “I didn't know, Allan. This guy met me in the Blue Room. We had a few drinks. He knew I was looking for girls to photograph. He said he had a guy, too. I never met the guy. He said he had three girls and a guy he tricks out, usually to rich businessmen. They'll do whatever they are asked to do. I told him I don't photograph anything the models are not comfortable with.”

  “Who's the guy?”

  “I don't know his name. Harry set us up.” Betty went on to describe the man. “He was short, portly, kind of muscled. He had a tattoo of a woman in dress sitting on an atom bomb. Kind of scary, intense – for a little guy.”

  Scratch chuckled. “Rudy Gilmore.”

  “You know him?” Betty asked.

  “We've had a few run-ins,” Scratch said. A thought came him. “Betty?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where's the other hatbox? The one you left Horace Hammock's house with?”

  “I don't know, Allan,” She sat on the toilet. “I was going to my car and a red Fury pulled up. This young man and woman were in the car. The man got out and showed me a .45. He said he wanted the hatbox, nothing else. Of course, I handed it over.”

  “Did you look inside the hatbox?” Scratch asked.

  “No,” Betty said. She laughed. “I thought there was money in it. That's why I left with it. I thought I could use it to help with my mother's hospital bills. She has cancer.” The thought of all those bills mounting up overwhelmed Betty. She had to focus. She wanted to help Scratch. “Why does everyone want that hatbox?”

  “Two different camps with two different goals, Betty,” Scratch said. “Two different bosses pulling the strings.”

  Some of the film started to come though. Betty tapped Scratch on the arm. She pointed to Images of three people becoming visible.

  “Well,” Betty laughed. “Looky, looky at the dirty pictures.”

  A woman was bent over on a canopy bed, her face buried between another woman's legs. A man was directly behind the first woman, entering her with his erect penis. The next 23 frames appeared after that, showing the man bucking hard and the second woman holding the first woman's bobbing head. The second woman looks at the camera, cups her right breast and smiles.

  At that point, no other images came through. Betty drew Scratch's attention away from the negative. She kissed Scratch. He kissed her back, and she sat down on the toilet seat again. Scratch found himself on his knees, feeling the hard tile floor on his aching kneecaps. He kissed Betty's neck, moved to her collar bone, and finally to the naked right breast she'd just freed from her brassiere and blouse.

  They would have done more but Scratch remembered two
things he had not done yet. One: Go back to the Primrose and look at Gardner's room. The second thing was visit the offices of The Daily Message, the newspaper Horace Hammock owned.

  “The film has to dry anyway,” Betty said, placing the long black loops across a wire rack invented for undergarments to dry on. “I'll come with you.”

  Scratch hugged Betty from behind, caressed her breasts and kissed her left earlobe. Betty giggled.

  18

  Jerzy was hunched over his desk, reading the guest ledger. When he saw Scratch and Betty saunter through the lobby of the Primrose, he dropped his pen and straightened up as if an army sergeant had barked an order. He came from around the desk, and stared. Then he rushed to greet them.

  “Mr Williams… uh… Scratch, my friend! How-how good to see you!” Jerzy's whole body shook, causing him to have a slight hiccup when he spoke. “Miss Klein… What brings you here?”

  Scratch glanced at Betty.

  “I took some family portraits and Christmas photos for him,” Betty said.

  “You celebrate Christmas, Jerzy?”

  “Of course,” Jerzy chuckled. “I'm an American now! I celebrate every holiday.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Scratch looked at him incredulously. “Hey Jerzy, we're here to see the room.”

  “Room?” Jerzy smiled.

  “Yeah, the room,” Scratch repeated, smiling.

  “You can check into 233. I believe that is free…”

  “No, Jerzy,” Scratch said. “The room where…” Scratch lowered his voice as a woman walked by and a bellboy followed, struggling with her suitcases. “The room where Ray Gardner was killed?”

  Jerzy's eyes slowly eased down to his shoes. He swallowed hard. “I'm sorry, Scratch. That room.” His eyes rose up again to meet Scratch's. “That room… is under renovations.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Jerzy?”

  “I was told to…”

  “It hasn't been long enough for the police to gather all the evidence they need,” Betty said.

  “The sheriff know about this?”

  “I-I don't know.” Jerzy crooked his finger for Betty and Scratch to follow him. They went to the lobby desk. He removed some papers and revealed a cashier's check for 500 dollars, signed by Oliver Spiff. “I assume Shep knows.”