Yardbird

by Mark Slade

  “I'm going to call Shep, find out,” Scratch said. He took a step and Jerzy caught the sleeve of his trenchcoat. Scratch stopped. Infuriated, he pulled away, but Jerzy held on.

  “Mr Scratch,” Jerzy shook his head, offered his closed hand. Jerzy motioned for him to open his hand. Reluctantly Scratch extended his hand and Jerzy dropped a ring in his palm.

  “Where did you find this?”

  Jerzy placed a finger over his lips, warning Scratch to keep his voice down. Then he pointed to the large man sitting in a chair too small for him. The man lowered the newspaper and turned the page. Pita-Paul was reading the comics page. His barrel chest occasionally heaved and a wheezing, screeching sound that resembled laughter of some kind came from somewhere among his three chins.

  “What the hell is Pita-Paul doing here?” Scratch said.

  Betty stifled a laugh. “That's his name?”

  “Name he was given because the little bit of English he knows, every other word sounds like Pita-Paul.”

  “Mr Kurtzhun,” Jerzy said.

  “What?” Scratch quickly turned to Jerzy.

  “My teacher,” Jerzy said in a more broken-English accent than usual. “It pays to learn early in your life. In my school, Mr Kurtzhun, my teacher, you see, he tutored my brother and me in English.”

  Betty and Scratch looked at Jerzy sideways.

  “He was a very good teacher,” Scratch said.

  Betty again stifled a laugh, placing her hand over her mouth.

  Scratch turned the ring over in his hand, examining it. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Where did you find this, Jerzy?”

  “That night the state police came into your friend's room.”

  “Gardner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not really my friend, Jerzy,” Scratch said.

  Jerzy shrugged. “You tell me that.”

  “A little white lie,” Scratch said.

  “No color for lies,” Jerzy wagged a finger. “Or size, Mr Scratch. A lie is a lie.”

  “Thank you for letting me know, Mother,” Scratch said, and Betty burst into laughter.

  “I don't care you lie to me. Friends do that sometimes,” Jerzy said.

  “Go on with your story, Jerzy,” Betty said.

  “The secret police—”

  “The state police,” Scratch corrected Jerzy.

  “Yes. Them, too. They screamed. They pushed me. Waved their hands. 'Get out!' I show them. I call someone I know. I know well. I call Quincy Adams.”

  “You know the Governor of Oklahoma?” Betty asked.

  “Yes,” Jerzy's voice rose up an octave and he used his hands to show how much he disliked the question. “Why does everyone doubt me? He has stayed here at the Primrose. He and a young lady he adores very much.”

  “When was the last time he was here?” Scratch asked.

  “The evening Mr Gardner was killed,” Jerzy said.

  Scratch sighed.

  “What's wrong?” Betty asked.

  “We have another player entering the game,” Scratch said.

  “Looks like your friend is leaving,” Betty said.

  “I think we're going to have to follow him,” Scratch said.

  “Mr Scratch,” Jerzy placed a hand on Scratch's shoulder. “Please… be careful. I do not have a good feeling about that man.”

  They watched Pita-Paul march out the double doors of the Primrose and step on to the sidewalk. He looked left, then right, and threw both bulky hands on his hips. He looked antsy. This made Scratch even more curious. He took two steps to the right and plopped down on a bench.

  “I think I'll be all right, Jerzy,” Scratch said. “Betty will protect me.”

  19

  A 1947 plum-red art-deco truck pulled up. The Chevy sat for a minute and the engine backfired a few times. The idle sounded rough. Pita-Paul didn't see the truck at first. The driver blew the horn. Pita-Paul waddled to the truck, opened the door and jumped in. The truck sped off before Pita-Paul could shut the door.

  Scratch took Betty by the hand and they trotted to the double doors. Betty yelped and giggled as he pulled her behind him. She held down her skirt with one hand and kept her balance by holding the door frame with other.

  “See you later, Jerzy!” Scratch yelled out.

  “Be careful, Mr Scratch – oh, why bother? He's not going to listen,” Jerzy said.

  They rushed to Scratch's Dodge and hopped in. Scratch started the engine and sped off. A few blocks down the street, they caught up to the truck at a stop light. The Chevy pulled out easily when the light turned green. Scratch followed as the truck turned on Blueberry Drive.

  They hit another stop light. A short, muscled arm hung out the window. On the forearm was a tattoo of a woman in a short dress riding an Atom bomb. Betty touched Scratch's leg. He glanced at her and she pointed to the arm hanging out the window.

  “Rudy Gilmore,” she said.

  “I see,” Scratch said. “We're going to have to see where these two end up.”

  “I think I already know,” Betty said. “The Blue Room is right down the road.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “I have an idea, Allan,” Betty said.

  She reached into the pocket of her skirt and took out a tube of red lipstick. Betty leaned forward to see herself in the rearview mirror. Scratch smiled and watched Betty carefully apply the lipstick heavily, especially on her top lip to make them look fuller. She reached around and loosened the pink scarf from her ponytail. Her blonde locks fell on her shoulders. Betty pushed the strands around playfully, giggled, and removed her glasses.

  She looked completely different. She no longer had the schoolteacher/secretary look. Now she was the bombshell every man dreamt of. Scratch couldn't keep his eyes off her.

  “I think you better keep your eyes on the road, buddy,” Betty said, laughing.

  “Who knew this other girl was buried inside you,?” Scratch said.

  Betty shrugged. “She comes out every once in a while for the right guy.”

  Inside the Blue Room, 12 people were sitting at tiny round tables with plastic pineapples obscuring their faces. Of those people, 10 were male, two were women, more than likely working girls, both talking to soldiers. Two men wearing Hawaiian shirts sat at the bar. They obviously worked at the Blue Room because, once Betty and Scratch entered, the two men went back to work, one behind the counter, while the other returned to the kitchen. The jukebox was playing The Green Door by Jim Lowe.

  In the back of the room sat Gilmore. All by his lonesome self, nursing a glass of beer. On his right leg was a cast. Scratch found that very funny. So, Scratch thought, Gilmore was the Klansman I hit with my car. That makes sense. Gilmore kept looking around nervously.

  Betty and Scratch sat at the bar. The bartender asked if he could help them and Betty spoke up first.

  “Rum and Coke,” she said.

  The bartender did a double-take, and smiled at her. “I almost didn't recognize you,” he said. “Then you ordered rum and Coke. New look?”

  Betty was embarrassed. She smiled uneasily, fluttering her eyes. “Maybe. You like it?”

  “Yeah,” the bartender replied with a laugh. “Looks good on you.”

  “Thanks.” Betty giggled and glanced at Scratch, who was showing slight signs of jealousy.

  “You going to ask me what I want?” Scratch asked.

  “Oh.” The bartender gave Scratch a sour look. “What'll you have?”

  “Just a Coke.”

  “A Coke? That's all?” The bartender laughed. “You know we sell alcohol here, bud?”

  Scratch removed the small plastic bottle from his trench coat pocket. Popped the top off, threw his head back and swallowed five pills. He chewed each pill carefully and, the more he chewed, the wider, the crazier, his eyes got.

  “Do you really think I should drink alcohol with these?” Scratch asked and laughed manically.

  The bartender swallowed hard. Distress crossed his face. His eyes sw
itched back and forth between Betty and Scratch.

  “Yeah.” the bartender nodded. “I'll get that Coke and rum and Coke.”

  “Are you OK?” Betty asked.

  “I wasn't,” Scratch said. His wild, frantic eyes met hers. “Now I am.”

  The bartender brought the drinks. He waited for payment. Scratch glared at the man.

  “These are free.” Scratch was telling the bartender, not asking.

  Took a second for it to register, but the bartender went with it. “Oh.” The man smiled, his jagged teeth looking like a child's drawing. “Sure, sure. Because I know Betty.”

  “You don't know her,” Scratch said. “She wasn't in here today and I wasn't either. The drinks are free because you're a nice guy.”

  The bartender got even more nervous. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “That's right. Good to see you, Betty.”

  He left them to take care of a soldier standing at the end of the counter. The soldier ordered two beers and the bartender handed him two bottles of the Blue Ribbon.

  “Go ahead and talk to Gilmore,” Scratch ordered Betty.

  “Allan, maybe we should wait…”

  “I said go talk to him,” Scratch said more forcefully.

  Betty gave him a worried eye. She sighed and sashayed off.

  The soldier started off for his table where another soldier was waiting on him.

  “Hey,” Scratch called to the soldier.

  “What?” The soldier asked.

  “Come here,” Scratch smiled motioned with a hand.

  “What do you want?” The soldier turned to Scratch. He waited for a smart comment, an insult, or an indecent proposal. He was tall and lean but with a barrel chest. His face seemed to be out of alignment, his ears didn't match, his left eye was higher than his right, and even his nostrils were disproportioned. It was as if he'd been drawn by the worst caricaturist ever to have picked up a pencil.

  “Come on,” Scratch said, laughing. “Have a seat, friend. Look, I want to ask a favor that will benefit you. Monetary.”

  “Speak English, mister,” the soldier said. His attitude was exactly what Scratch hoped it would be. This guy needed some relief in one form or another. More than likely his friend came to the Blue Room to pay for female companionship or start a fight.

  “I've 10 bucks for you and your friend to help me out with something,” Scratch said.

  “We ain't into weird shit,” the soldier returned, angrily.

  “Nothing like that.” Scratch chuckled. He opened his wallet, threw a 20-dollar bill on the counter, followed by a five.

  “OK, buster,” the soldier shuffled over, sat the beers on the counter and took a stool beside Scratch. “I'll listen, then decide.”

  “All I'm asking is you open your ears, friend,” Scratch said.

  “I hardly recognize you,” Gilmore said, grinning.

  Betty giggled. “I am… sort of going through a bit of change.”

  “I like it,” Gilmore said and they both chuckled. “Instead of taking those pictures, maybe you should get in front of the camera.”

  Betty giggled, waved a hand. “Oh, no. Not me,” she shook her head. “I would be the worst model in the world.”

  “You wouldn't be modeling anything.” Gilmore stared lecherously. He took Betty's hand in his, rubbed his thumb seductively across her fingers. “Just your body. Maybe we could go to your place and pretend – I'll be the cameraman and you be one of those models you photograph…”

  “What do you think you're doing, Betty?” the soldier said.

  She turned to him, then looked towards Scratch, who was hunched over at the bar, nursing a beer. He'd made sure his fedora was pulled down over his face.

  “What?” Betty asked.

  “The hell do you think you're doin'?” the soldier said. His buddy, a much larger, taller soldier, ambled over.

  “Betty,” the soldier's buddy said in a sorrowful voice. “Why do you do this to Joe? He's been good to you.”

  “I don't know either of you,” Betty said.

  “My parents are expecting us for dinner and you go out lookin' for company?” The soldier raised his voice.

  Gilmore stood as best he could, the cast on his leg pulling him off balance. He placed two hands on the thin, flimsy table.

  “You boys heard her,” Gilmore said, sticking out his chest. “She said she doesn't know you. So if this some sort of gag, ha ha, the joke was told, nobody laughed. Shove off!”

  “The only one shovin' off,” the soldier said as he and his buddy moved closer to Gilmore, dwarfing him, “is your faggot ass.”

  “Is that the way they teach you fellas how to talk in the army?” Gilmore said, reaching in the right pocket of his jeans. “And in front of a lady, too!”

  Betty knew a fight was about to happen. She got up and trotted to the bar where Scratch sat. Scratch smiled at her. Betty gave him worried glance.

  Gilmore produced a small rubber club. He jabbed the fat end into the soldier, then came across the second soldier's face with it. The first soldier doubled over and coughed. Gilmore came back round to backhand the first soldier. Both were lying side by side weeping and moaning.

  Scratch sighed. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

  Gilmore laughed. “Now,” Gilmore said. “Before you two slime buckets crawl back in the gutter, apologize to the lady!”

  A chair came across the back of Gilmore's neck. He cried out, fell on top of the soldiers, realized he was touching another man and panicked. He rolled to his left and discovered Scratch holding the chair.

  “Damn,” Scratch said. “It didn't break like in the movies,” he marveled at the craftsmanship of the chair, switching from his left hand to his right hand, examining the seat and legs.

  “Ahh! Why'd you hit me?” Gilmore whined.

  The two soldiers helped each other up, and they hurried out the Blue Room as fast as their hurt bodies could carry them. Betty walked over to Scratch, watching Gilmore carefully. She touched Scratch's arm and he jerked slightly, realized he needed to turn his attention back to Gilmore.

  Scratch tossed the chair down. He took the ring out of the breast pocket of his trench coat. He bent down and showed it to Gilmore. “This is yours,” he said. “You set me up.”

  “The hell are you talking about?”

  Scratch placed his shoe on Gilmore's crotch, applied some pressure. Gilmore screamed.

  “You were at the Primrose the other day, in the room next to Gardner's,” Scratch said.

  Gilmore coughed, struggled to speak. “No I wasn't! I was nowhere around the Primrose!”

  “You two run together,” Scratch said.

  “So what?” Gilmore said.

  “This is your ring!”

  “No, it's not!”

  Scratch pushed his shoe in Gilmore's genitals, applied more pressure. Gilmore squealed.

  “This is your Klansman ring!” Scratch bellowed.

  “Noo, God, no! Look! Look!” Gilmore held up his right hand. A ring was on his first finger. A silver band with an engraved message preaching purity in the white race. A hooded figure stood in the silver stone with a red and yellow cross at the bottom.

  Scratch looked at the ring in his hand. There was a cross on it, it looked nothing like Gilmore's. Scratch removed his shoe from Gilmore's crotch. “Hmm…” He said. “I was wrong.”

  Gilmore sat up. He coughed as he stood, using a chair for balance. “That ain't no Klansman ring, you idiot,” he said, caught his breath. “That's a damn Nazi ring. Look at the stone. That's a swastika!”

  Out of nowhere, a fist caught Scratch in the back of the head. The ring fell from his fingertips, bounced, then rolled across the floor. He heard Betty scream. Scratch wobbled, took a step and dropped to his knees. He raised his weary head, saw Pita-Paul standing over him.

  The light went out in Scratch's head.

  20

  Scratch came to, and realized he was in the passenger seat side of his car. Betty was driving. The sun was go
ing down and the cool wind from his car sailing down the highway had brought Scratch out of a forced sleep. He retrieved the Bennies from his coat pocket and popped the top.

  “You sure you need more of those?” Betty asked.

  “Don't tell me what I need,” Scratch said.

  “Look, I'm just concerned…”

  “Don't tell me what to do!”

  “OK, OK, Allan,” Betty sighed. “Don't get upset.”

  “Stop calling me Allan,” Scratch commanded, his voice severe, threatening.

  “That's your name,” Betty croaked. A nervousness came over her.

  “Not anymore,” Scratch said. “That's not who I am. I'm not Allan Williams, you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Betty replied after a long delay. She tried to touch his knee. Scratch jerked away.

  “How do I know you're on my side?”

  “I am,” Betty said. “God, Allan – I mean Scratch – I am, truly, I am on your side.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to my house,” Betty said. “The film is dry and…”

  “I'm sick of this.” Scratch stared out the window, watching the sky get darker. “I want to get away from all of this. Away from Odarko, Darktown, the hate… I'm sick of it. Sick of the lies. Sick of getting beat up. And for what? Some rich old ghoul who owns everything – and everyone. A ghoul who takes pleasure in everyone's misery. Why do I do it?”

  “I-uh-don't know. Trying to make your world better, I suppose,” Betty said.

  “Fat chance of that,” Scratch said. “My world is a disappointment. I was born just to make everyone miserable. Cause evil…”

  “That's very harsh,” Betty said.

  “It's the damned truth,” Scratch said. “The damned truth.”

  The Dodge came up on Betty's street. Black smoke and bright orange flames rose high above the horizon. Betty gasped. A fire truck passed them, nearly running them off the road. Betty stopped short of a ditch.

  “There's a fire,” she said.

  Scratch sat up in the seat and looked beyond the first house. They were on a slight hill looking down. He shook his head, moved his eyes to Betty.

  “Your house,” he said.

  “What?” Betty squealed.