Nine months later, Maggie was born.
Scratch looked up at her. They locked eyes. She smirked and let out a long sigh.
“You doin' my daddy's dirty work again?”
“I'm always doing you daddy's dirty work,” Scratch said.
“Mmm.” Maggie nodded. “Because of little old me, I suppose.”
Scratch put his fedora on his balding head. “It's always about you, Miss Maggie.”
She shrugged. “Can't get through this life without raisin' some hell.”
“Ah. Yes. That might be true.” Scratch laughed. “So, uh, Miss Maggie?”
“Yes, Mr Williams?”
“Just to let you know… that truck driver who made that record singin'?”
“What about him, Mr Williams?”
“I saw him on Ed Sullivan.”
“Is that a fact, Mr Williams?”
“That's a fact, Miss Spiff,” Scratch said. He headed to the front door of Spiff Manor. He twisted the door knob and turned to Maggie. “He took that beating I gave him like a real man. Looks like his face healed real good.”
“I'm glad, Mr Williams,” was all she said. No conscience about getting that man into trouble or in danger of death. Just cold like. Real damn cold.
“You should've held on to him, ma'am. Yep. That boy has talent,” Scratch crossed the threshold and called out: “I think he's going to make a lot of money.”
3
Scratch pulled up in front of the Primrose hotel in his '48 Dodge. The building was one of the tallest in Odarko, other than the Reliance offices. The Primrose was run by an old Jewish fella from Budapest. Jerzy Gerkbahn. Scratch was the only one who knew Jerzy's real heritage. If people in Odarko knew, the Klan would hang his ass by Moonbark Tree in the park just to show everyone they didn't allow his kind to run things in town. Actually, it would have been a message to Darktown. Stay in your place.
Jerzy had hired Scratch to find his brother, Konny. He disappeared just after they came to Oklahoma with their mother. She was the one who bought the building and turned it into a hotel in 1938. Konny liked to drink, raise a little hell. Scratch traced the man's last days. Apparently, he was robbed out in Darktown. An eyewitness to the account was Frito Barnes, who owned an illegal gin joint back in those days. Konny liked his women dark, dangerous, and more than willing to do things in public.
Out back, behind Barnes's gin joint, three men came up behind Konny and cut him to ribbons while he was having sex with one of the local prostitutes. Barnes came out to throw away trash and saw the whole thing. They rolled him in an old pickup, and drove toward Pleasant Lake. Nothing pleasant about that body of water. People picnic out there in the day. At night, it was a dumping ground for the dead.
The info he gave to Jerzy netted Scratch a few hundred. Neither man let old Spiff know of the outside job. Spiff would have run Scratch out of Odarko. He was possessive like that. Evidence shows. Look what Scratch had to do at the moment. Scratch had long ago come to the conclusion the old man was nuts.
Scratch finished his cigarette and tossed it in a mud puddle on the street. He got out of the Dodge, slow and deliberate like his walk. He stepped up to the drugstore and stood at the door. Scratch checked his wristwatch. Six thirty-five. Harry Sanders would lock the doors soon. The door swung open fast, and a bell chimed.
Harry popped up from behind the counter. His face, with its fleshy jowls, was flushed. No doubt the little fat druggist was putting away a new batch of pornographic photos and magazines. He caught his breath and chuckled. He came from behind the counter.
“Oh,” Harry said, “it's only you, Scratch. How's tricks?”
“Expecting somebody else, Harry?” Scratch asked.
“No, no.” Harry threw his hands up. “Just pleased to see you.” He ran a finger over his pencil-thin mustache. “Can I get you an ice-cream soda?”
Scratch shook his head. “Not tonight, Harry. I need to use your phone, if that's all right?”
“Of course.” Harry flipped a nickel to Scratch.
Scratch barely caught it. “And that's why you will never pitch for the Yankees.”
Harry swatted the air. “Ah, who wants to play for those pansies?”
“For the right money…” Scratch let his words trail off. Harry just shook his head, walked away muttering something about the Kansas Athletics winning the World Series one day.
Scratch put the nickel in the slot and he heard a smooth female voice on the line.
“What can I do for you?” The operator asked.
Scratch smiled sheepishly. He leaned in to the pay phone, hung his head.
“You could have dinner with me,” Scratch said.
The operator clucked her tongue. “Sir, I'm only a telephone operator. I'm providing a service.”
“I'm sorry,” Scratch chuckled. “Your voice sends me over the moon.”
Scratch couldn't help himself. The woman reminded him of a school teacher he had in the eighth grade, Scratch's last year. They shared that same commanding, smooth-as-velvet voice, telling you what to do in a precise, well-mannered way. Mrs Donner was her name. She was a solid woman, but not overweight, just tall and shapely. Her honey-brown hair was always fashioned neatly in a bun and her thinly framed glasses always sat at end of her nose. She always wore a white blouse and a black skirt, and black open-toed heels. You couldn't find a wrinkle or a crease in her clothes. When she walked, her stockings rubbed together, creating a rhythm like a whispering ticking clock.
He often wondered what happened to Mrs Donner. Maybe she married a wealthy businessman and had a couple of kids. Or she ended up running a clothing shop in Tulsa. Or she tutored kids for her regular income. Maybe she spent her nights alone thinking about all the students she taught.
Scratch hoped she'd think of him once in a while.
Scratch used to imagine all kinds of things he'd do with
