“I'm trying to understand this,” Dozen said. “Delmont was fucking Heilke?”
“Making love is natural!” Heilke said, as she slipped the other stocking over her left leg.
“Shut the hell up! Ain't nobody talking to you, little Miss Hun!”
Uncle Homer still didn't look at anyone. He raised his hand and waived dismissively at Dozen. “Dozen, don't, please. I'm hurting enough as it is. I don't need to witness you and Babycakes disliking each other.”
Dozen noticed Uncle Homer had slipped into his other personality. He had many faces, all of them a left turn from the actual Homer, the real Homer, who was Boss of Darktown. The real Homer was the dangerous one. The one Dozen liked the most.
“Son of a bitch!” Dozen exclaimed. “The boss has got the blues! OK, OK. Everybody out! Get Delmont and put him in freezer until we can get Ferdie for a funeral.”
“I don't have to leave,” Heilke stood, stomped her feet. “I am his wife!” she said, her accent growing stronger. “I hate you all! Pig-fuckers!”
“Bitch, get the hell out of here and go to your damn room!” Dozen screamed and trotted to Heilke. She held out her hands, her long red fingernails ready to claw his skin off, take an eyeball out if need be. Pita-Paul stood between the two of them, sighing deeply. Dozen stopped short of running into Pita-Paul's thigh.
“Everyone leave!” Uncle Homer yelled.
The light-skinned black man grabbed Heilke by the arm and jerked her toward the door. She cursed and spat at everyone. Pita-Paul and the dark skinned black man picked up Delmont and carried him out the room. Dozen shrugged at Scratch and motioned for him to go out ahead of him.
“Wait. Scratch, you stay,” Uncle Homer called out.
Dozen shrugged and turned to walk back in after Scratch.
“Just Scratch,” Uncle Homer said with enough attitude that if anyone lit a match, the house would catch fire.
Dozen left the room, cursing under his breath. He slammed the door behind him.
Uncle Homer glared at Scratch, fuming.
“Where's your eye, boy?” he asked.
“I was at the right place at the wrong time,” Scratch said. “Somebody jumped me. I think it fell out. They took it.”
“Pokin' your nose where it don't belong again,” Uncle Homer said. “You were in the right place at the wrong time because of your employer?”
“Why do you want to see me, Uncle Homer?”
“Scratch, I love you – you are my dead sister's son and I love Immy. But you two…” Uncle Homer laughed. “You two are a handful. I promised your mama I'd look out for you both.” Homer pointed a finger at Scratch. “Look how you brats repay me! Working for the white devil! The one man who wants what I have!”
Homer produced the same .38 that killed his bodyguard Delmont. Anger rose up in Scratch. Not from having a gun aimed at him. Not because his own flesh and blood was thinking of killing him. But because the statement that he loved Scratch and Immy was a complete lie. So was promising their mother Uncle Homer would look out for them. Scratch wasn't deterred. He sat there stone faced. He wasn't going to feed into Homer's psychosis.
Homer laid the .38 on the arm of his chair. He laughed wildly.
“You are Mr Scratch,” he said. “Nothing gets to you.”
“Why do you say Spiff wants the one thing you have? He already has Odarko,” Scratch said.
“Exactly,” Uncle Homer said. “I have Darktown. Why would he want this piece of shit? He doesn't.”
“You just said…”
“I didn't say he wants Darktown, boy! I said the one thing I have, he don't have!”
OK, Scratch thought. Now he's not making any sense.
“Why was Immy at that party?” Uncle Homer asked.
“You were there?”
Uncle Homer shook his head. “No. I don't need to go to that dumb shit. I have my own parties. One of my boys was there.” Homer looked away. Sadness seemed to come over him. He lifted a slow, uneasy hand to his head. “I can't keep doing this, Allan.”
That was the first time Uncle Homer had called Scratch by his real name.
“Do what, Uncle Homer?”
Homer sighed. “All this,” he waved his hand wearily. “Y'all don't know what it's like to be the man. The one who has everything – the whole damn world sittin' on your shoulders. Spiff… Spiff knows. But he channels it a different way. He don't spread love – that motherfucker is evil, I'm telling you, Allan.”
Tears welled up in the man's wide, dark eyes. He sobbed for a moment, caught himself, and quickly found his composure, although his expression went through several personality changes.
But sad Homer won out.
“I want you to leave Spiff's employment,” Homer said. “I'll groom you to have all this, Allan.”
Scratch thought about it. He shook his head no.
“Thank you. But I can't anytime soon,” he told Uncle Homer. “There's things I need to do before I can leave Spiff's company.”
Homer snarled. He was fuming.
“Same old Mr Scratch, huh? Come to my house, bringing bad luck?”
“You sent for me,” Scratch said.
“If you hadn't meddled, Delmont wouldn't have tried to kill me… and I wouldn't have killed him!” Homer stopped. Emotions were taking over again. Homer got choked up. He waited for the emotions to pass, and chose his words carefully. “I sent for you, for a reason, Mr Scratch. Funny…I was just tellin' Heilke about how your daddy tried to drown you in the sink because he believed you were the devil incarnate,” he breathed in deeply, exhaled. “More and more I think about it,” Homer grasped the .38 and aimed it at Scratch again. “That German motherfucker was right. You are the devil!” Homer screamed.
Homer went quiet. He fell forward in his mahogany chair and covered his face with both hands. It was quick, and the tender frail moment went faster than an Alfred Hitchcock whip pan. Homer straightened up, sniffled, and sighed. He glared at Scratch.
“Believe it or not, I love you boy.” He shook his
