Scratch started the Dodge and sped off behind the Fury. Two Cadillacs, one brown, one white, came out of nowhere and blocked the Dodge. Scratch hit the brakes, the car and he jerked forward, stopped just a hair from colliding with the brown Cadillac. Scratch smacked the steering wheel, watched the Fury drive off into the rising sun, Marty Robbins's voice echoing.
Two lean black men in zoot suits got out of the brown Cadillac and a six-foot-eight, 300-pound white man with a jigsaw scar that ran from the left side of his face to the right side, stepped out of the white Cadillac. The three of them hurried to the Dodge, opened the door and dragged Scratch out. Scratch belted the lighter-skinned black man, the darker-skinned one drove a punch hard into Scratch's midsection. Scratch fell to his knees, wheezing.
Pita-Paul was the big white guy's name. The underlings didn't have names. They were replaced almost weekly, either by haphazard deaths or jail. Pita-Paul had been Uncle Homer's bodyguard since World War II ended. A refugee along with his mother and a very beautiful red-haired sister called Heilke, they came to Darktown by accident, thinking they were in California. They ran out of money and the bus dropped them off thinking it was a funny joke to put Germans in the black part of Odarko, Oklahoma. The joke was on the bus driver. Uncle Homer offered the man a job right away. In spite of his lack of English, Pita-Paul and Uncle Homer understood each other from the jump. Mama and Heilke also lived in Homer's house, the only mansion in Darktown and almost as big besides Oliver Spiff's. As anyone could guess, Heilke was Homer's third wife, and his prized possession. The main wife, Delilah, lived in the big black house on Hubbard with the two boys, just before the line into Odarko, while the second wife, Alma, lived alone in a yellow shack not 100 yards from the chicken factory.
It was Dozen Grant who stepped out of the white Cadillac, not Uncle Homer. Dozen was called that for two reasons. 1: He was the 12th and last child of Mimi and Garret Morris. 2: He was just an inch from being considered a dwarf. He had the features and his arms that were the same as those of a normal-sized man. The white suit he wore had to be specially made by a tailor in Tulsa, but the fedora was bought from a five-and-dime with money from his first bank job, which turned out to be his last. Dozen spent five years on a state farm before he broke from a chain gang and had been a wanted man for the last 15 years.
Dozen got out of the white Cadillac and scuttled over to Scratch and the others as quickly as his little legs could carry him. The lighter-skinned black man kneed Scratch in the face.
“Whoa!” Dozen called out. “Hey stop, you fools!” By the time he'd gotten over there, the two zoot suits had roughed Scratch up some more. “The hell are you two doin'?”
“Doin' what you said, boss,” the darker-skinned one said.
“Yeah… you said…”
“I ain't said no such thing, you dumb motherfuckers! You think I would tell you rough up my employer's fuckin' nephew?”
“What?” The lighter skinned man was stunned. His nose wrinkled in disgust.
“You tellin' me this white jack-off…”
“He ain't all the way white, you dumb assholes!” Dozen sighed. He touched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm down a raging migraine.
“You said to rough up the white guy…”
“Stop talking, please. Damn it to hell! You were supposed to stop the red Fury, you lamebrain,” Dozen said. He walked over to Scratch and helped him to his feet. “Man, I'm sorry, Scratch.”
“That's OK, Dozen,” Scratch said, breathless. He stood, woozy, and steadied himself by leaning on the little man.
“You fools bring Scratch to the white Cadillac.”
“I ride in that!” The lighter-skinned guy said.
“You ride in the brown Caddy or you fuckin' walk!” Dozen said.
The zoot suits didn't like what they were told, but were powerless to do anything about it. They helped Scratch inside the white Cadillac. Zeke was driving. At one time Zeke hung out with Scratch and Dobro, until he and Dobro had a fight over a girl. He let those zoot suits beat up on Scratch because of that. Scratch was sure of it.
“Scratch, my man. How's it going?” Zeke asked with a laugh.
“All peaches and cream, Zeke,” Scratch mumbled.
“Zeke, shut the hell up and drive!” Dozen slammed the car door.
“Yes, sir.” Zeke continued to laugh as he put the Cadillac in gear.
15
Uncle Homer was sitting by the fireplace, lost in thought. He was still in his silk tiger-print pajamas. Heilke was on the sofa in her slip, sliding a stocking on to her right leg. A dead black man laid on the floor. His trousers were round his ankles and there were two gunshot wounds in his back.
Dozen pushed his way through everyone. He walked around the room, surveying the situation. Dozen threw his hands up in the air. “What the hell happened? Why is Delmont dead?”
Without looking at Dozen, Uncle Homer said: “Babycakes was fuckin' this guy.”
“And?” Dozen said sarcastically. “She fucks a lot of your guys, boss! It's what she does! You know this, you approve.”
“Naw, Dozen,” Uncle Homer shook his head slowly. “This is different.”
“Well? Explain,” Dozen said, placed his hands on his hips and bounced his head up and down like an angry hen.
“He was planning to cut me,” Uncle Homer said. There was a sadness in his voice. Disappointment. “You never expect your own people to try and take you out like that. I've known Delmont since he was three years old. His daddy used to work in a rock quarry with my cousins. I took Delmont under my wing. You never expect your own people to gather around and rip you apart – to feast
