Yardbird
A Scratch Williams Mystery
Mark Slade
Copyright (C) 2020 Mark Slade
Layout Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter
Published 2020 by Gumshoe – A Next Chapter Imprint
Edited by Terry Hughes
Cover art by Cover Mint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
Table of Contents
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About the Author
Yardbird yärd’bərd, Noun (informal-US) 1 a convict, 2 one assigned to menial tasks legal, or illegal, performed for a powerful person or persons.
For Tracey, Zoey, Chachi, and of course, Betty Jane, who always loved a good mystery
And for William “Gatz” Hjortsberg for writing Falling Angel
“Damn, what's the world coming to?”
Dozen Grant
1
Old man Spiff snarled at Scratch Williams and spat in the fire. The flames rose from the mixture of gin and saliva. Scratch plucked at his glass eye uneasily, took out the black marble, and then put it back in. He couldn't figure out whether the damn thing was making him uncomfortable or Spiff was. Regardless, the hole where his left eye used to be was twitching something awful.
A piece of paper was at Scratch's feet. A memo addressed to Spiff and signed by his lawyer, Dan Lowery. Without bending down to pick it up, Scratch could make out only three words on the paper because of the badly lit room. Cherry Tree Hill.
“Mr Spiff,” Scratch said, wringing his hands. “I took care of Gilmore and that bunch trying to unionize…”
“Ray Gardner!” Spiff screamed. “I don… I don't care about Gilmore and those… yo-yos in the union! I want Ray Gardner gone!”
“Mr Spiff, with all due respect, I'm a little sick of chasing your daughter's boyfriends out of town…”
“I don't give a shit what you do, yardbird,” Spiff pointed a crooked finger at Scratch. “I want that son of a bitch out of my town.”
“I haven't seen the man do anything wrong…”
“He fucked my daughter!”
Scratch cringed, not just at the word, but at the old man's use of it in terms of his own relation. He didn't like Spiff very much. He didn't like working for the Pinnacle board of trustees. He didn't much like yardbirdin' either, but it sure as hell beat working in the cotton fields – or oil fields, for that matter. Oliver Spiff owned Odarko just like he owned Reliance Oil. Reliance was one of six companies that set up shop in the Tri-county area of southwest Oklahoma.
“I think that's just gossip, Spiff,” Scratch said.
The old man looked him up and down.
“Gossip can be gospel, yardbird,” Spiff said. He limped away from the fireplace and sat in his oversized velvet chair. He poured himself another drink, Scotch this time. “I don't care what it is, from the mouth of babes to the pope, whores talkin' dirty, lies or truth. I want Ray Gardner out of my town dead or alive. Do what I pay you to do, yardbird.”
Scratch made a face, and murmured: “Son of a bitch.” He placed his hat on his head and sighed. “Yes sir.”
“Gardner's staying at the Primrose,” Spiff said. He watched Scratch pick up a yellow envelope from the end table. “There's three hundred bucks and a one-way ticket. Put him on a train to California.”
“Three hundred bucks? You payin' him off?”
“I ain't payin' him off, you moron! That's six weeks' wages.”
“Why not the bus? You usually throw 'em on the bus…”
“Don't worry about what I usually do! Just get this done, yardbird. And don't tell Shep about this.”
That was odd. Shep Howard was Spiff's boy, and the sheriff of Odarko. Shep used to be the Yardbird for Spiff and Pinnacle back in the thirties. Doing all the dirty work for old rich assholes, everything from making oil rig boys behave to handling blackmail and spying on husbands and wives cheating on each other. Not for the faint-hearted.
That all changed when Shep caught the silver hammer killer. One of the oil rig boys went nutty and started slamming women in the head, tying up the bodies to beds with their own stockings and defiling them. Shep caught the guy in the act, shot him three times in the chest. The man died with his dick in his hands. The woman he was defiling didn't die from her wounds but she did wake up in time to see what he was doing. Katlin Grove hadn't been the same ever since. So Pinnacle made Shep Sheriff. He'd been at that post for 15 years. He was a trusted company man. Why wouldn't he want Shep to know about the usual deal of running Maggie Spiff's boyfriends out of town?
“OK, Spiff,” Scratch said. “I won't say a word to Shep.”
The old man looked sour. “You're damned right you won't.” He drained his glass and smacked his lips. “Or I'll get a new yardbird to get rid of you.”
2
Maggie Spiff stood at the top of the stairs looking like a statue of a Greek goddess, her arms folded around her abundant cleavage. Her tangled brown hair was up in a bun, one strand hanging down past her big brown eyes. She was in a green silk nightgown that clung to the ideal body that represented bombshell beauties of those days. Her mother's Italian features showed through in Maggie. It was a fact that Oliver Spiff had been traveling in Italy to make a deal with the powers that ran that boot land to bring his father's custom suits there. Spiff met Maggie's mother and practically shanghaied her to Texas.
She ran off more times the Texas Rangers or the OHP could count. Every time they'd catch up with Isabella, she was shacked up with somebody else. Which is how Maggie was born. As everyone suspected,
