Yardbird

by Mark Slade

  “Scratch, if whatever you're mixed up in is involved with Adams and his people, drop it like a hot potato,” Shep said. “Dangerous people. I'm telling you.”

  “What's the Governor of Oklahoma doing with a Nazi ring?”

  Shep stared at Scratch. He sighed heavily. “WUNS.”

  “What the hell is that, Shep?”

  “World Union of National Socialists,” Shep said. He shook his head. “Damn Nazis. In America, Scratch. What's this world coming to?”

  “I'm confused. You remember Pita-Paul?”

  “Of course,” Shep said. “He's a bodyguard for Homer Williams.”

  “He's been running around with Gilmore. He hit me and took the ring.”

  “Damn it, Scratch. I wish you'd come to me first,” Shep put a hand on his right hip. It had been hurting him all day. “Where'd you get the ring?”

  “Jerzy found it in the room Gardner was killed in,” Scratch said.

  “I think you know the answer, Scratch. Pita-Paul is not just working for Homer. He's working for the governor.”

  “Hold on.” Scratch held up a hand. “If he's working for a governor who believes in white supremacy, then why is he a bodyguard for a negro criminal?”

  “He's working for someone more powerful than either the governor or Homer,” Shep said.

  “Who could be more powerful than a governor?” Scratch asked.

  Shep chuckled. “The people behind the elected official. That's who.”

  “The old man?” Scratch asked.

  “George Spiff doesn't like Quincy Adams. I'm not sure what the reasons are but they dislike each other quite a bit. Maybe he's working against him.”

  “Was Pita-Paul kicked out of the country?”

  “Yeah,” Shep said. “Yeah, he was. Twice. Right before World War II started, and again last year.”

  “Why?”

  Shep shrugged. “Old man Spiff called the Feds on him. I think it was a drug charge. I can't remember.”

  “The kidnapping of Saundra Sommers's baby,” Scratch said. “Five men were involved. One a negro, we know that for sure. We also know Pita-Paul was the man Mrs Sommers described.”

  “We don't know that, Scratch!”

  “Shep,” Scratch reasoned, “how many six-foot-seven Germans do you know who live in Odarko?”

  At that moment, Ralph came racing down the road, the police car fishtailing. He stopped just short of Scratch's shoes.

  “Ralph, I told you not to be hot roddin' around with the police car!” Shep screamed.

  Ralph stuck his out the window. Blood dripped from a gash on the right side of his forehead. “He's gone!” Ralph screamed back.

  “What do you mean he's gone? What the hell happened to you?”

  Ralph sputtered, tried to form the words correctly, but his tongue seemed to get in the way. After a time, he finally managed to spit it out. “Felix-the black boy. Somebody hit me from the side and turned Felix loose!”

  Shep jumped into the police car and Ralph hit the gas. The car sped off, swerving, kicking up dust behind it.

  23

  The car ride to Darktown started out nice and easy, Cozy even, with Betty sitting very close to Scratch with his arm around her. No words were spoken. The closer they got to the other side, the stiffer Betty became. Scratch noticed she'd embedded her nails into her knee, going through her stockings, even drawing blood.

  “Relax,” he told her. “Everything will be fine.”

  Betty flashed an uneasy smile, removed her nails from her knee, and fixed her skirt so no one could see the self-inflicted wound.

  They passed through an area of ramshackle houses and makeshift barns that were small grocery and butcher shops. Across from the church was a movie theater. Next to that was the school, a one-room building not much bigger than a shack. Betty took it all in.

  They arrived at the lake.

  A car was already parked and a man was standing at the dock, taking a piss.

  Scratch took the bottle of bennies out his coat pocket and popped the top. He poured the last four into the palm of his hand, threw his head back, and swallowed. He coughed once, his eye became large again, and the black circles under both sockets dipped to his cheekbone. He touched the patch on his right eye and adjusted it.

  “Who is that man?” Betty asked.

  Scratch patted Betty's knee. “Nobody you need to worry about,” he said.

  The moonlight gave Betty a glimpse of Shaw's pock-marked face. Betty sighed. “I don't like the way he looks,” she said.

  Scratch chortled. “His mother didn't either,” he opened the car door and stepped out. “That's why she gave him away. Stay in the car. No matter what happens.”

  He slammed the door and slowly walked toward Shaw, who was now leaning against his '42 Buick.

  “Heyyy,” he greeted Scratch. “You tried to sneak up on me. Niggers is hard to see in the dark.” He chuckled. “If it weren't for the moonlight, y'know…”

  “The insults are not funny,” Scratch said.

  “Not meant to be, boy,” Shaw said.

  “Why blackmail me?” Scratch asked.

  “You have a lot to lose, son,” Shaw said. “And you know how old man Spiff feels about you darkies. Hell, he's done everything he could to keep your people down.”

  “What about your boss? Every time he catches a criminal, the man's skin is darker than his,” Scratch said. “I'm curious as how you knew about me and Immy.”

  Shaw breathed in and breathed out heavily. He said angrily: “You never mind how I know. I just know about you – and your family.”

  “I'm glad you have that knowledge about me,” Scratch said. “I think it's only right I let you know I've sent your blackmail notes to Rooster.”

  “Bullshit,” Shaw chuckled. “You ain't done that. You didn't know it was me…”

  “You didn't bleach that typing paper good enough, Shaw,” Scratch said. “Still had Coleman County plastered on the heading.”

  Shaw didn't know to say to that. His bottom lip trembled as his pea brain worked out what to say or do. After a bit, he finally blurted out: “You bring the damn money or what?”

  “What!” Dobro said.

  He came from behind with a stocking full of rocks. He swung, catching Shaw on the side of his temple. The rocks put a huge dent over his right eyebrow. Shaw staggered slightly then steadied himself upright and planted his feet. Shaw launched a barrage of rights to Dobro's midsection and a left hook knocked him flat on his ass. The stocking came out of Dobro's hand and the rocks tore through the nylon and hit the ground like birdshot.

  Scratch turned his .38 upside-down, butt end up, and whacked Shaw on the right side of his head. Shaw squealed and turned quickly towards Scratch. He fell face-first in the dirt. Dobro stood and leaned against Shaw's car. He caught his breath, kept pointing without saying anything.

  “You got what we need?” Scratch asked.

  Dobro nodded quickly, trying to catch his breath, still pointing.

  “We'll put them in Shaw's car. You drive,” Scratch said. “Why do you keep pointing?” Finally Scratch turned to see and the headlights from his '48 Dodge put the lake, Shaw, Dobro, and Scratch in the spotlight. Scratch took off in a sprint, waving his hands, but it was too late.

  “Your girlfriend stole your car,” Dobro said.

  24

  Scratch lay in a ditch, his head bleeding profusely. The morning sun slashed his eyes like daggers through a ripe tomato.

  “You fucked up, boy,” Scratch heard a voice say. He cringed at the sound of the expletive. Blurriness gave way to a figure highlighted by the sun's rays. The old Korean man stood in front of Scratch, smiling, showing broken teeth and lips parted with blood spilling down his chin. “You fucked up, boy,” the old Korean mouthed, but Scratch knew that wasn't his voice.

  The old Korean man faded away like most ghosts do, but Scratch knew he'd be back, and like most ghosts, they never leave your side, always attached like umbilical cords that can
never be severed.

  Dozen stood over the ditch looking down at Scratch. He shook his head and repeated: “You fucked up, boy.”

  “Dozen,” Scratch greeted him.

  “You know how you got here?” Dozen said.

  “No,” Scratch rose slightly and surveyed his surroundings.

  Behind Dozen was the black Cadillac parked sideways. All the doors were wide open, Homer's bodyguards stood at the front and rear of the car. Only Heilke sat in the backseat, her legs hanging out the car, spread wide for all to see she wasn't wearing any panties, and one of her stockings, that wasn't attached to her garter, had rolled down past her knee.

  “All I know is you knuckleheads came into Homer's club, you saw somebody there and you two fuckin' chased him out.”

  “I don't remember. Who was he?”

  “Some white kid. I didn't even know a kid was there let alone some cracker. He fuckin' shot up the place. Good thing Wolfy stopped him from shootin' any customers. But not before he caught a bullet.”

  “Is Wolfy OK?” Scratch asked.

  “Yeah. He's OK. Just grazed his arm. Who the fuck was that white kid?”

  “I don't know. I don't remember anything, except…” Scratch stopped himself. He started to tell what he and Dobro was doing at the lake. Driving Shaw into town, and Betty running off with his car. Then it came to him.

  Betty was in with Shaw blackmailing him and Immy. But another question hit Scratch. Hit him hard. One that kept trying to pop into his brain and he kept trying to fight the question off. Was there something else Shaw and Betty were blackmailing Immy about? Could they have risked it all because Scratch was passing as white and he and Immy killed their father? Truth be told, Scratch had just realized that Uncle Homer might have helped cover up the killing. The passing as white, well, if he had thought about it, even old man Spiff would've covered that up just to save face in the white community because Scratch was in his employ.

  Scratch was going to have to have to talk to Immy again.

  “I don't remember a thing about last night, Dozen.”

  “Hmmm…” Dozen knew Scratch was holding back on him. “If you say so, motherfucker. All I know, it better not come back on me!”

  “I'm hungry,” Heilke said. “I want to eat at Dirty Joe's.”

  “You can eat anywhere you want, baby,” Dozen leaned in and Heilke helped him climb on her. Her hands cradled the lower half of Dozen, and he struggled for a moment to stay there. They gave each other erotic, wet kisses that made everyone feel either disgusted or uncomfortable. Dozen slid down Heike's body, his hands cupping her breasts as his tiny feet were firmly planted on the ground. Dozen giggled childishly.

  Something was different in Dozen's actions. His pose, the way he spoke, and the way the bodyguards responded to him.

  “He's dead, isn't he?” Scratch said.

  Dozen twirled around quickly. “Whatchu think, fool?”

  Scratch didn't answer. He didn't get out of the ditch. Instead, he turned his head and laid his face in the dirt. Tears trickled down his chin, and his body convulsed. He didn't want Dozen or his men to see him cry, but there was no containing the emotions that took over.

  Dozen sighed. His face showed empathy. Dozen slid down the muddy slope.

  “Boss be careful!” one of the bodyguards yelled.

  “Shut the hell up!” Dozen yelled back. “I got this! This is why I'm in charge, motherfucker!”

  Scratch continued to weep, rolling his face in the dirt.

  “Hey, stop that, man,” Dozen told him. He sat on the side of the ditch. He massaged Scratch's back, rubbing in circular movements. “Get your face all dirty? C'mon. The boys are watchin'.” Scratch became motionless except the heavings. Dozen continued: “I know… I know you're all tore up – who wouldn't be? Your uncle. Ya' know how I feel about Homer.” Dozen clucked his tongue, and shook his head. “He was the only one who gave a damn about me. My own parents abandoned me. Left me with Charlie Diggers. Remember that asshole? He was the postman. He wouldn't stop beatin' me or his little girl Rae. Mother fucker who couldn't keep his hands off other people's women. Neighbor took care of him. Homer saw me getting' ready to stick up a gas station. If he hadn't stopped me, that cop who was hiding behind the building would've got me. Off and on, I worked with him ever since that. He never made fun of me. Never.”

  Scratch rose to a sitting position. He wiped dirt from his face. It smeared under his eyes, marking the dark circles even darker.

  “He finally did himself in,” Scratch said. “It was inevitable.”

  “Naw.” Dozen made a face. 'He didn't kill himself. Some knotty-headed skinny punk shot him.”

  “Light-skinned boy?” Scratch asked.

  “Yeah,” Dozen said. “You know him?”

  “If it's the same guy… yeah. I know he lives with his grandma. I can stake her place out…”

  “Don't have to,” Dozen released that childish giggle. “Get in the car. We got him.”

  “You got him?” Scratch asked.

  “Yeah.” Dozen snorted. “The dumbass came right in the window of Homer's study and shot him twice in the chest while he was reading Moby Dick. Damn, I just realized something.”

  Scratch watched Heilke slide to the left against the door. She pulled the flaps of her skirt up and flashed Scratch before she smoothed them out. He got in next to her.

  “What's that?”

  “Homer been readin' that damn book for 10 years.”

  25

  Sure enough, Uncle Homer was dead.

  He was sitting in his chair at his desk, slumped to the left, two bullet holes in his chest, a hardback copy of Moby Dick in his hand. Scratch fought the emotions that started take him over again. He fought back the tears. He'd stopped at the threshold of Homer's study, and Dozen urged him to go further. Scratch slowly sidled up to Homer's desk.

  He took his fedora off in a half-hearted salute, closed his eyes and said a prayer in tribute, asking God to forgive Homer, watch over his soul. Scratch sighed, reopened his eyes and placed his fedora back on his balding head. A manila folder caught his eyes.

  “What's this?” Scratch asked Dozen.

  Dozen came around the desk, pushed an orange crate against the mahogany wood leg. He stepped on the crate for a better view.

  “I don't know,” Dozen said. “Looks like names and something about Cherry Tree Hill.”

  “The cemetery?” Scratch was shocked. “What business would he have to do with a cemetery?”

  Dozen shrugged. “Hell if I know. Cherry Tree Hill. On Route One. That's what it says.”

  “Let me see,” Scratch took the folder from Dozen. He read further down.

  Two things popped up. Agatha Cripes died last year. She was killed in a hit-and-run. The Cripes family hired Scratch to find the driver. Guy by the name of Morley Gates was driving drunk and sideswiped Agatha on the sidewalk.

  “These names are people buried there,” Scratch said.

  “You gotta be kidding me!” Dozen exclaimed.

  “Pinnacle is the company doing business with Homer.”

  “For what?” Then Dozen thought about it. “Oh, shit. The apartments he said he was building. Set to happen in a few months.”

  “Land,” Scratch said. “They're going to move those bodies out their graves.

  “You know what, he did mention he had a job for Pita-Paul and the boys. Just good old-fashioned hard work involved. I didn't know what he meant until now.”

  “I've been meaning to talk to you about Pita-Paul,” Scratch said.

  “He's been hanging around that jackass redneck governor. Yeah, I know. Homer sent him to work with that Klansman Gilmore.”

  Scratch glared at Dozen. “So this whole racist thing is a front?”

  “Hell, naw,” Dozen said. “That shit is real. Two things add to the mix. One: to keep us colored folk separated from the whites and make sure we never get up in the world.”

  “What's the second thing?” Scratch asked.
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  “Money. You know your damn self that money speaks louder than a kind word,” Dozen said. “If a person can make money off of you, you think they give a shit about the color of your skin? Those apartments are low-rent, meant to be gutter houses. For Pinnacle, make bucketloads of money on rent, electric, and water. For Homer, it's a chance to make money off of whores and the shit people put in their bodies.”

  “How does Governor Adams fit in this?”

  Dozen tilted his head sideways and cut his eyes at Scratch. “How do you think?” He threw his arms in the air. “Zoning laws. Moving the bodies out of the cemetery without it getting in the news.”

  “Whoa,” Scratch said. A lightbulb just came on in his head. “I know why Horace Hammock was murdered.”

  Dozen gasped. “I thought he committed suicide!”

  Scratch shook his head. “No,” he said. He looked at his shoes but he was seeing a train of thought, or thoughts, running amok in his head. “Spiff asked me to look into it. He demanded I look into it. He was generally concerned about the situation.”

  “You sure your boy Spiff ain't behind that?”

  “No, Dozen. Like I said, he was kind of angry about it. Concerned. Maybe,” Scratch looked up at Dozen. “Scared.”

  “Oh, shit,” Dozen said. “When a powerful motherfucker like Oliver Spiff gets scared, we all should be scared. Can't trust any damned soul. What the hell is the world coming to?”

  “Boss,” one of the bodyguards called out from the doorway.

  “Yeah,” Dozen called back in a shrill voice.

  “We're ready,” the bodyguard answered, then went back to the foyer.

  “Ready for what?” Scratch asked.

  Dozen raised an eyebrow. “Trial and execution.”

  He ushered Scratch out of Homer's office and into the foyer. They took some steps by the kitchen and pantry that led down a dark basement. The smell of black mold, cigarettes, and death entered Scratch's nostrils. Scratch retched a little and covered his mouth and nose. He heard Dozen giggling behind him.

  “Yeah, Scratch, somebody had an accident down here,” Dozen said. “Actually, quite a few people had several accidents.”