Yardbird

by Mark Slade

  “I'm supposed to believe that bullshit?” Gilmore said. The two OHPs laughed and he joined in for the last chorus.

  “It's not bullshit!” Immy protested.

  “Really,” Gilmore shook his head and waved his hands at Immy. “Really don't matter. We're off the subject. So, you two were blackmailing fucking everyone. I mean, huge balls! Blackmailing Homer? Blackmailing the pervert druggist? Even damn Oliver Spiff. That's unbelievable. It's a wonder him or Homer didn't have you two killed…” Gilmore stopped talking. A smirk crossed his chipmunk face. “Wait a minute. They didn't know who was blackmailing them. Well, I'll be a monkey's… No, your breed are monkeys. I'll be damned. What the hell did you do with the money you two got?”

  “Real estate.” Immy swallowed hard. “We invested in real estate.”

  “Talking about around here, in nigger town?”

  Immy nodded slowly.

  “Uh-huh,” Gilmore said. He thought about what she said. “You invested in that rival company?”

  Immy slowly nodded again. Her hands started to shake.

  “You invested with Reliance,” Gilmore said. “The bid hasn't even closed…”

  “It has,” Immy cut him off.

  “Oh,” Gilmore said, sorrowfully.

  “No one has made it public yet,” Immy said.

  “You invested in a company who plans to build up Darktown,” Gilmore stood, pointing the half-eaten apple at her. “Give your kind a university, supermarkets, dry cleaners, a shopping center, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Make the world better for niggers. Truth be told, it's all about money. Everything is. Always has been, always will be.”

  Immy tried to weigh options and realized she had none. Pita-Paul had the bedroom covered, the patrolmen had the front door blocked, and Gilmore stood in the way to get through the kitchen and out the back door.

  “The governor's company Green Hills plans to do the same thing. You knew that.” he approached Immy one small step at a time, dragging that leg in its cast. “Why didn't you put that money with a winner? I mean, he cares for your kind, too. More so than that rinky-dink Reliance Oil company. They ain't for people's rights. I should know. I had dealings with them and Spiff, who by the way is in cahoots with…” Gilmore burst out laughing. “Holy shit. You used the money Spiff paid you off to invest in a company that's tied to him. You have big balls, negress!” He shrugged. “I have a question for you.”

  “OK – OK,” Immy said.

  “What were you blackmailing Spiff for? I'm surprised his yardbird didn't come after you.”

  “His yardbird wouldn't hurt me,” Immy said. “I don't tell people's secrets.”

  “Is that so? You have a special relationship with him, too, huh? You like your men white, I see. Come on, you can tell me now. Really won't make a difference,” Gilmore chuckled.

  “Shaw heard Spiff and his daughter,” Immy said slowly. “They were in a… relationship unbecoming of society.”

  “Is that so?” Gilmore laughed. “You know, you two dummies might have hit on something. Thing is, I started hearing a rumor about that when I worked with the union. Hmph! Must have been some truth to it!”

  Gilmore nodded and the two patrolmen grabbed Immy by her arms. She cried out and kicked at anyone close by. Gilmore wagged a finger at Pita-Paul. Gilmore shoved the half-eaten apple in her mouth. Immy moaned, sobbed hard. Pita-Paul took out a switchblade from his pants pocket, showed Immy the blade. She squirmed, gurgled, let out a muffled scream.

  “Hey, boys, y'all like brown meat? I hear it tastes good,” Gilmore laughed.

  A bedroom door creaked open. The sound caught the attention of the Patrolman on the left. He turned and saw the barrel of a Smith and Wesson .38 poke through the crack of the door. Just as he was about to say something, the gun went off. A bullet caught the patrolman in the right side of his temple. Blood splattered Immy and Pita-Paul, blinding him temporarily.

  Immy tore loose from the other patrolman and kicked Pita-Paul square in his crotch. He fell to his knees screaming like a wounded animal. She spat the apple out and screamed like a banshee as she tried to run away. Gilmore reached out for her, took hold of the front of Immy's dress and tore the fabric, exposing cocoa-colored skin against a white lacy brassiere. He bent down at the same time to pick up the switchblade. Immy pulled away from Gilmore's grip and her dress ripped all the way to the waist.

  Scratch stepped out the bedroom, aimed the .38 and fired twice at the patrolman. Two bullets ripped through the patrolman's chest just as he unholstered his .357 Magnum. The patrolman fell on his back with a loud grunt.

  Immy saw Gilmore maneuver slowly toward a hutch to use as leverage to stand. She sprinted over and pushed the hutch on top of Gilmore's legs. He cried out in agony as knick-knacks and dishes fell around him. Immy used the distraction to head to the kitchen. Gilmore reached out and grabbed Immy's ankle, his torn, jagged, filthy fingernails tearing into the nylon stocking on Immy's right leg. Immy fell, turned herself around and started to kick Gilmore in the neck and face with her other foot. Gilmore took the punishment. He pulled Immy closer to him.

  By this time, Pita-Paul had gotten himself together. He rushed Scratch, tackling him with all his strength. Scratch thought he'd been hit by a freight train. The.38 flew out of Scratch's hands and landed near the dead patrolmen. Scratch covered his face to block punches from Pita-Paul and felt nasty stings to his wrists. He didn't stop there. Pita-Paul gave Scratch several rabbit punches to his midsection, each blow feeling like bricks slamming against his kidneys.

  Finally, Immy got away from Gilmore. She grabbed a stucco pot that had been sitting on the hutch. She brought it down hard on Gilmore's head. He cried out as his skull cracked open. But that wasn't enough for her. Immy came down hard on Gilmore's skull again, and again, until he was no longer moving, just breathing shallowly.

  He was a bloody mess.

  Scratch had no chance to get to the gun. He did see the switchblade was close to him. He took one more driving fist to the chest. With all his strength, Scratch grabbed the switchblade and drove the blade into Pita-Paul's left eye. Pita-Paul screamed. He crouched, arms flailing but kept his balance. He back-pedaled and fell on his back, moaning and wailing.

  Scratch and Immy trotted to Pita-Paul. They stood over him and listened to a man as big as a redwood tree weep like a baby. Words tumbled out of Pita-Paul's fluttering mouth. A mixture of German and English. It was then that Scratch realized that Pita-Paul was just a huge retarded child locked in a man's body. All these years people thought he didn't know English. He understood English and he could speak it – just not as plainly as everyone else.

  “I'm sorry, Allan,” Immy closed her eyes and leaned against the wall.

  “Why, Immy? Why did you do all this – and blackmail me..?”

  “No, that part was made up.”

  “I got the letters, Immy.”

  “Yeah, but Shaw used me. For some reason he and Betty held out on me. They never invested in any land deal. They kept all the money for themselves. I needed to get even with him. So I wrote the letters on paper from the Colman police department.”

  Scratch sighed. “You knew I would take care of him.”

  “Yes, Allan,” Immy nodded. “I knew you'd take care of him.”

  “Where are the kids?” Scratch said without looking at her.

  “A friend has them,” Immy said.

  “Get changed,” Scratch told her. “Grab what you want to take with you. I'm driving you to Oklahoma City.”

  “I don't…”

  “No time to argue, Immy! They were going to kill you! The governor will surely try again!”

  Immy nodded as she started to weep. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

  29

  Scratch got Immy and her kids to Oklahoma City safely. He got a room at the Charlton, paid for a month. No words were spoken, no hugs, no kisses, no goodbyes. He stopped at the General Hospital to see Betty. It was a terrible sight.

  He sat in a me
tal folding chair a nurse provided. He stared at Betty, taking in her condition, for a long time. No words were spoken. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to tell her he forgave her. But his tongue wouldn't release the words.

  Betty was in a coma. Bandaged. Her arms and legs in casts. Scratch bawled like a baby. He couldn't help it. Too many things were happening at once, so much to feel, and he didn't want to feel anything.

  “You killed Horace Hammock,” Scratch wiped his nose and eye. “You killed him, came back, and that's when I surprised you. What were you looking for?” He waited for an answer. No answer came, of course, and Scratch continued in one feverish sentence. “His evidence that you, Shaw and Immy were blackmailing everyone. That part I was sure of… he also had the hatbox with-with the bones of the baby…”

  Scratch wept hard.

  “Why didn't you come to me?” he said, sobbing. “You could've told me… I could have taken care of everything…”

  The nurse came into the room, stood in the threshold and listened to Scratch weep. She backed out of the room and closed the door.

  * * *

  On his way back to Odarko, three Oklahoma Highway Patrolmen pulled him over. Guns were drawn, and one of the butts of their .357s found its way to Scratch's forehead.

  When he came to, his eyes focused on two men sitting at a huge desk. One of the men was the governor of Oklahoma, the other was old man Spiff's lawyer. Guarding the door and the windows behind Adams were Oklahoma highway patrolmen, six to be exact, and all them with their weapons aimed at Scratch.

  “You were out for quite a while,” Dan Lowery said.

  “He had to rest up,” Governor Adams said. “He knew we got a lot of talkin' to do.”

  “What do we have to talk about, Governor?” Scratch asked. “Loyalty?” That question was lobbed at Lowery.

  Lowery smiled at that. “Loyalty goes on as long as whoever is signing my paycheck.”

  “How long has that been going on?” Scratch picked himself up and used a chair to steady himself. He realized he'd left a dirty stain where he'd been lying on a red and yellow checkered rug with tassels at each corner.

  “Inconsequential, Mister Williams,” Lowery said.

  “Lowery is a good man. An asset to anyone's business,” Adams said, chuckled, his crooked teeth poking out between fat heart-shaped lips. His three chins moved up and down a gurgling, wobbling throat. Adams was a fat man. He was too big for the Columbus wingback chair he was propped up in. He looked as if he was desperately trying to recoup his youth by combing the three stands of hair over a huge bald spot and wearing a modern pair of men's thin eyeglass frames that barely covered his large fish eyes.

  “That's what old man Spiff thinks of the young lawyer. Funny, though, Governor.” Scratch sat in the glossy wooden chair in front of the desk. “If I may ask a question?”

  Adams waved up a hand indifferently. “Ask away, Mister Williams.”

  “Knowing your views on human beings,” Scratch lit a cigarette, blew smoke in the governor's direction. “What are you doing hanging around with a Jew?”

  “Are there any better people to be around especially when it comes to law and business, Mister Williams? I know he's from unclean blood. I know. But I'm all right with it as long as he takes care of problems and brings me those greenbacks.” He cleared his throat, readjusted his large ass in the chair. “I'll overlook anyone's deficiencies as long as I am compensated. Just as I'll overlook your deficiency.”

  “What deficiency is that?” Scratch asked.

  Lowery and Adams looked each other and laughed.

  “A nigger is always going to be a nigger no matter what skin color he pretends to be,” Adams said, his thick dark eyebrows narrowed. “You can never run away from the truth.”

  “I have something of yours.” Lowery rose from his chair next to Adams, took two steps and retrieved a glass eye from his jacket pocket. He tossed it to Scratch. Scratch caught it haphazardly with both hands. “I'm sure you've been missing this.”

  Scratch removed his eyepatch. He turned from Lowery and Adams, held his head to one side and eased his glass eye into the empty eye socket. He turned back to face Lowery and Adams. A highway patrolman stood in front of Scratch, the barrel of his .357 touching the tip of his nose. Scratch flinched, then gave an odd, twisted smile.

  “Mighty big gun for little old me.”

  “Wanted to make sure you were not going to pull anything,” Lowery said. “Now that you have your eye back. I noticed… there was a lack of confidence.”

  “All right, Patrolman,” Adams spoke up. “Put the gun away. It's obvious Mr Williams is not going to try anything.”

  The patrolman holstered his gun and stepped quickly, even stiffly, back to his post by the window.

  “OK, this is where I tell you what I know,” Scratch said with a chuckle.

  Lowery and Adams glanced at each other and laughed.

  “We don't care about what you know, Mr Williams,” Lowery said.

  “I like this guy. He really thinks he can negotiate for his life,” Adams added.

  “If you wanted me dead,” Scratch said. “You would already have killed me.”

  Adams sighed. “We'll humor you.”

  “You killed Gardner,” Scratch said.

  Lowery shrugged. “Inconsequential.”

  “You keep saying that, counselor. I bet you won't say it in front of a judge when you go on trial.”

  Adams laughed. “None of this so-called evidence will go to trial, Mr Williams.”

  “Even if you kill me,” Scratch said to Adams. “Others know. Might take years. Eventually, you'll stand trial. You also burned down Betty Klein's house. I saw you out and about with the crowd. Some old lady stopped you. You burned down the house because of the film. You and the governor were having a great time with Felix, weren't you?”

  Neither man said anything. They exchanged glances. Lowery swallowed hard and looked down at his 100-dollar shoes.

  “I understand now. Blackmail all over the place. Somebody hired Gardner to film you two. Somebody hired Felix to show up at the Primrose. I saw the hole in the wall when I touched that hatbox. Gardner tried to stop me. He was killed, I was hit on the head. I woke up next to Gardner's body in my car out in Coleman County. Jerzy said highway patrolmen were all over the Primrose for hours. He was told not to go in either room. This thing ballooned, got out of whack for both of you.” Scratch sniffed the air as he took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled as if he was drawing his last breath. “I'm sure the governor would hate for his youthful step in the wrong direction to go public.”

  “What direction are you referring to, Mister Williams?” Adams asked with a smile. He was amused by the way the conversation had taken a turn or by the way Scratch had taken charge of the meeting.

  “You and Homer, with Pita-Paul, kidnapped an aging movie star's baby. During the snatch, one of you shot and killed her husband. I'm not sure which one,” Scratch cleared his throat. “My guess is… it was you, Governor.”

  “Oh.” Adams's grin widened. “How so?”

  “You really don't give a shit about people,” Scratch said. “Homer cared just enough. Depending on what he could get out of it. You don't care how you get things. You just take, helping yourself to a man's last meal as you step over his body. You remind me of someone.”

  “You are a very resourceful man, Scratch Williams,” Governor Adams said. “I think I should retain you.”

  “What?” Lowery was not only shocked by the governor's comment, but alarmed. “Are you sure about this, Governor? I think your first decision…”

  “Shut up, you fork-tongued cretin!” Adams screamed. “I call the goddamn shots. You hear?”

  Lowery didn't say a word. He wanted to. He was fuming, his nostrils flaring as he breathed rapidly.

  “What makes you think you can take me away from Spiff?”

  “Mister Williams, I'm already taking everything away from him. Surely having you as my p
ersonal yardbird would just amuse me.”

  The door flew open, knocking one patrolman to the floor. The other turned, drew his weapon. The barrel of a Smith and Wesson .45 appeared and fired once. The bullet sliced through the patrolman's gut like a knife through hot butter. He cried out, fell to his knees. Shep Howard peered through the cracked door. The patrolman who had fallen pulled his gun and fired at Shep. The bullet zipped by Shep's nose and took a huge chunk of the door frame with it.

  Shep kicked the door open and stood a moment on the threshold and fired twice at the patrolman, both bullets lodged in his forehead, creating a chasm so big, a Coke bottle could fit inside the wound. Just for that fleeting second, everyone saw a gunfighter, not an aging lawman with bad knees. Bullets flew around the governor's office like mayflies around a pile of horse shit. Shep spun around and hid behind the door just as the bullets created a paint-by-numbers line drawing of a man in the moon. Scratch leaped from his chair. He fell to the floor and mashed his face to the carpet.

  Mere minutes later, the gunplay ended. Five more patrolmen lay dead on the floor, drowning in their own blood. The other three more than likely killed by friendly fire than by Shep. Nothing happened for a few minutes. The only sounds in the room was sobbing coming from Lowery.

  “Adams?” A voice called out. “You alive?”

  Scratch recognized the voice. It was Oliver Spiff.

  Governor Adams didn't answer.

  The door riddled with bullet holes swung open. Shep stepped inside the office, gun aimed at anything that moved. George Spiff followed. When the coast was clear, Spiff stepped in front and surveyed the situation.

  Shep helped Scratch to his feet. He looked behind the desk and saw Governor Adams dead. It seems a bullet had struck the governor in the chest.

  “He's dead,” Shep said.

  “Hmm,” Spiff thought about it. “That was not my intention.”