“Local paper?”
“Yeah..uh… Message?” Immy said.
“The Daily Message,” Scratch said.
“At first it was just a card game. They were gambling over us girls. Over what kind of…” Immy looked away and cleared her throat. “What… kind of sex acts we would do to them. They were gambling over this hatbox. One old man got real pissed off when he didn't win. The newspaper owner won. Then it got real ugly, Scratch. There was this younger white guy serving drinks. We saw him sneak that hatbox out the trailer. He got in his car and drove off. Those old men started rantin' and ravin'. Throwing things at the car. No sooner did they kick us girls out, Colman Sheriff department showed up.”
“Deputy Shaw, I figure,” Scratch started to pace, and Immy stopped him.
“Don't, Allan,” she said. “You're getting on my nerves.”
“I need a cigarette. You have any?”
“I have a pack of Silks in my purse. I'll get them for you.”
Silks were marketed to women. Supposedly not as strong as Winstons, won't hurt your throat like Virginia slims. All bullshit. A cigarette is a cigarette. If you're hooked, you are not worrying about taste as much, or making your throat raw. You want that tobacco to put you in the right frame of mind.
Immy returned with a black-and-white package. She handed it to Scratch gingerly, put her hand on top of his for a moment.
“Everything will be all right, Allan.”
Scratch nodded, jerked his hand away. He took two cigarettes out, lit them both, and gave one to Immy. They smoked together in silence for a bit. Then he asked her to continue the story.
“Well,” she said, “Shaw pulled us over. Shaw was happier than a pig in shit. Using all kinds of foul language, calling us jigaboo girls and such. Asking us what we were doing in white-man land. He answered his own question. Saying he knew about the party, he knew what was going on. He knew we were hired whores,” Immy took a few drags before continuing. “He ordered us out of the car. He lined us up and had a free feel while he was frisking us. His hand lingered in some places longer than it should have. When he finished frisking me, he pulled his hands away like something bit him. He studied my face long and hard. It was weird. He let us go. He said he was real sorry for our trouble. He acted embarrassed, rushed to his car and sped off.”
Scratch finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray Immy kept on the mantle with all the family pictures. Scratch's eyes scanned every picture of him and Immy. His mother and father. He looked closer at the picture of Immy and their mother. Son of a bitch, he thought. Immy looks more and more like their mother. Cocoa-skinned, large brown eyes, long, straight black hair, full lips and high cheekbones. But Immy and their mother reminded him of somebody else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
“You think Shaw is blackmailing us?” Immy said. More of a statement than a question. She stubbed out her cigarette in the same ashtray, put a hand on her brother's shoulder.
“Yeah. I do,” Scratch said. 'Just not sure who the woman is helping him.”
Scratch kissed Immy on the cheek. “See you later, Sis.” He headed for the front door.
“You're leaving? Don't you want to have breakfast with Micha and Justine?”
“I'd like to.” Scratch opened the front door and stepped outside. A nice breeze was blowing. Thunder crashed in the distance. “But I can't, Immy. Going to see Dobro.”
“Allan.” Immy threw her hands on her hips in protest. Just like their mother used to. “Don't get caught up in Dobro's shit.”
Scratch laughed. “More like he's getting caught up in our shit, Sis.”
The door slammed behind him.
13
The '48 Dodge pulled into a dirt parking lot. Rain was coming down steady and lightning flashed in the dark sky. The Lock and Key club, a stucco building with one stained-glass window showing a faded image of Mary and Jesus holding hands, had been a Methodist church before WWI. Despite the hour, the club was still going strong. It wasn't just a place to hear the blues and get drunk. In the back was a room for gambling. Beside that room, a projector showed blue movies on the walls.
You could also go upstairs and get laid, too. Whatever you want. Black women, white women, Hispanic. One Asian woman worked there, but the other whores disliked her so much that one night they banded together and stoned her out of town. You can get you a sissy, if that's your game. Only they were in the minority in Dobro's stable. No judgement from the management as long as you followed house rules. No rough stuff, unless you pay extra and the whore is OK with it. No killing anyone inside the club, take it outside. Always be courteous to the cops.
Dobro managed the Lock and Key for Scratch's Uncle Homer. Uncle Homer had his hand in every business in Darktown and Pennywald, another segregated area 25 miles west of Odarko. Homer wasn't too different from Spiff. Just not as rich. Scratch was more than certain that was the goal for dear Uncle Homer.
Scratch walked in the door of the Lock and Key and found wall-to-wall people. A frail skinny black man with an electric guitar bigger than him stood on a small round stage just to the left of the bar. Multitudes of people, mostly women, surrounded the stage, swaying to the music, possession in their haunted eyes. The man howled and screeched, slid a beer bottle across the guitar strings. A fight broke out between two men in black suits and white panama hats.
A bottle was broken on one man's arms and he threw two jabs at the other man's chin. They wrestled toward Scratch, who promptly opened the door, stepped outside to let the men roll past him. Scratch came back
