“Then what?” Scratch asked.
“That depends on Deputy Shaw and the choices he makes.”
“Good answer,” Scratch popped a few more Bennies.
“Slow down,” Dobro laughed. “You'll do yourself a mischief.”
“I can handle it,” Scratch said.
“You sure you can?” The old Korean man said. He was standing over Scratch, holding a stick high above, ready to strike Scratch across the shoulders.
Scratch fell backwards. Both he and the chair spilled over.
Dobro jumped up from behind his desk and rushed to Scratch's aide.
“What the hell?” Dobro screamed. “Are you all right?” Dobro offered a hand.
Scratch nodded and took his hand. He used Dobro to hoist himself to his feet. Two gunshots sounded. There was a hubbub of raised voices as panic filled the Lock and Key. The door opened quickly. Wolfy poked his head in.
“We got troubles, boss!”
“No shit! I can hear the commotion, Wolfy,” Dobro said. “C'mon, brother,” he said to Scratch. “Might need you to do your specialty.”
“You have Wolfy,” Scratch said.
“Naw,” Dobro chuckled. “He breaks heads. He can't get inside 'em like you do, Mr Scratch.”
People were running out the entrance and exit in droves. Screaming, waving their hands, pushing, and trampling each other. Wolfy led the way down the hallway, pushing onlookers and hangers-on to the side. Most of them were johns trying get their clothes on or whores trying to keep themselves safe.
A light-skinned black man in a black suit was on his knees, praying. A Colt .45 Cavalry issue lay beside him, the barrel of the gun smoking. He had two scars across his bottom lip. Chester Goode was his name and he'd served in World War II in the Pacific. Shrapnel had sliced Chester's lips not once but twice, which affected the way he spoke. But Chester had money, working at the chicken factory. He never spent it and he lived with his mother until she passed two years ago. Celeste Holmes took an interest in the introvert, shy man.
She was lying dead in her bed as was the milkman, Tyrone Radford. Celeste was naked except for black stockings. There was a bullet hole as big as Texas was between her breasts. Tyrone's face was practically obliterated.
“Sweet Jesus,” Dobro murmured and looked away.
Even though Dobro was a pimp and thought he was a hard man, seeing dead bodies, especially people he knew, disturbed him. Scratch placed a hand on Dobro's shoulder.
Chester finished praying. He reached for the .45 and Scratch screamed, “No!” and tackled the man. Dobro kicked the gun out of the way as Scratch pinned Chester to the floor. The man started wailing, screeching like a barn owl. Scratch struggled to hold Chester, rolling on the floor, tearing Chester's suit until he gave up. Chester sobbed hard. Once in a while he would call out for his mother.
“Let me gooooooooooo!” Chester screamed. “I did what any man would do! You know that! You know that!”
Cowboy boots entered the room, spurs rattling with every step. Long, pointed brown tips were almost touching Scratch's face. Scratch looked up and saw it was Culky Lowe. He looked even taller in his wide-brimmed Akubra. His milky-brown skin had started to peel around his cheekbones, giving his pale blue eyes a haunted look. Culky stood there, his hands on his fat belt, a .32 Smith and Wesson stuffed near the oversized belt buckle.
A little history on Culky Lowe.
Culky had been a cowboy all his life. He was a veteran of World War II. Long before that, at the age of 10, Culky got his first job on the trail. First with sheep farmers, then running steers to Chicago. He worked his way up to trail boss with Douglas Northup, one of three men who supplied beef to the west coast.
Tired of taking orders, Culky found himself in Darktown, owning a ranch just outside the town border. He had a Cherokee wife and one daughter. Susan grew up, moved to New York City and died of chickenpox. The Cherokee wife left Culky soon after. Culky hired Saul and Hoke a year or so after. Five years later, a bank robbery happened. No one knew what to do. No one had ever attempted to rob a bank in Darktown, and the bank was owned by Scratch's uncle. There was going to be hell to pay. Culky and his men saddled up and found the two men. He brought them to the town square and strung them up. Ever since, Culky Lowe had been the self-professed Sheriff of Darktown, keeping law and order.
Culky chewed rapidly and spat tobacco juice on the floor. Two other men appeared behind him. Saul and Hoke. They would be Culky's deputies, if any of the three had been real men of the law.
“Seems like every time you come back to Darktown you cause a ruckus, Scratch Williams,” Culky said.
“If that was even true,” Scratch said. “You and your boys would be busier than sitting on your porch whistlin' Dixie.”
“Let him go, Scratch,” Culky said through a flared nostril. “We got it from here.”
Scratch removed his hands from Chester's arms, which he had pinned to the floor. Scratch stood, straightened his hat and wiped dust and dirt from his jacket and pants.
“You seem to show up at the right time, Culky,” Scratch said.
Culky sneered. “You seem to show up at the wrong time, Mr Scratch.”
They glared at each other. No love lost there. Culky had always hated Scratch. Some sort of jealousy? Or the fact that he could travel between two different societies? The latter was the more likely.
“What happens to Chester?” Dobro asked.
Culky shifted his eyes to Dobro. “You know what happens.”
“Come on, Culky. Everybody knows Chester ain't all there.”
“He's gotta pay,” Culky said. “Justice has to be served here in Darktown.”
“To keep everybody in line?” Dobro said.
“You don't have to do this, Culky,” Scratch said.
Culky turned quickly to Scratch. “Uh-huh. I don't, but I'm going to.”
“There's another way…”
“You think this is Odarko?” Culky cut Scratch off. “This ain't your white boss's
