“You still believe in voodoo and bad luck, though?” Scratch asked.
“I must,” Homer laughed again. “You're still here.”
Both of them fell silent, their eyes still locked on each other.
Homer pointed to a shelf with where a hatbox sat with a black stocking lying on top. Scratch stiffened.
“There it is,” Uncle Homer said. “There's the hatbox your employer wants. Go ahead, boy. Take it. Ain't doin' me no good.”
Scratch practically leaped out of his chair. He trotted over to shelf, pushed the black stocking off the hatbox. This was the hatbox in Ray Gardner's room. Scratch ran a finger across the gold initials, seductively across one S, then roughly across the other S.
“Were you at the party?”
“I already told you I was not at no party where George Spiff was at. However,” Uncle Homer gave out a mischievous giggle. “I planned the event from my house. I gave strict orders to Ray Gardner to make sure Deputy Shaw would show up with photographer Betty Klein. She works for Horace Hammock. I didn't know Immy was going to be there.”
Scratch cut his eyes at Uncle Homer.
“Do you know what these initials stand for?”
“I actually do, boy. Saundra Sommers.”
“Wait… the Saundra Sommers?”
“Yeah. I told you. Saundra Sommers!” Uncle Homer yelled. “Take the fuckin' hatbox and get out of my sight!”
Scratch picked up the hatbox. It was very heavy.
“The hell is in this?” Scratch asked.
“Open it. See for yourself?”
Scratch sat the hatbox on the coffee table. He removed the top and found an 8mm camera inside, standing straight up. He looked at Uncle Homer.
Uncle Homer smiled. “There you go, boy. Now you see what Spiff wanted of mine and I didn't get what I wanted of his.”
“That makes no sense,” Scratch said.
“Hmmph! Coming from you? If you're confused, Mr Scratch, then the whole fucking world is doomed. Now get. Hey, Dozen?”
Dozen came running in, out of breath. “Yeah, boss?”
“Get him out of my sight before I shoot him!” Uncle Homer belted at the top of his lungs. His hand shook as he pointed the .38 at Scratch. His unsteady hand kept wavering between Dozen and Scratch. Feeling emotions getting ready to take over again, Homer turned, hid his face in the chair. His body convulsed as he sobbed hard.
Dozen led Scratch out of the room quickly. In the hallway, they stopped. Dozen tapped the hatbox.
“The hell you doin' with that?”
“He gave it to me,” Scratch said.
“The boss gave that to you?”
“Yeah,” Scratch said.
“That man is too damn crazy for me.” Dozen touched the bridge of his nose. Another headache was coming on. “He told everybody: 'No matter what, don't let that shit-brickin' nephew of mine have that hatbox!' Damn, I can't take much more of this!”
“How long has he been like this?”
“Man, this has been going on for years. If you visited more you'd see it's often,” Dozen said.
“I'm not as welcomed here as you'd think,” Scratch said. “Bad luck.”
Dozen sighed. “He does say that about you. He ain't never liked you or Immy. He liked your daddy, though.”
“He did?”
“Hell yeah! Used him as a runner when the law was on everybody for having liquor. He found out your daddy was good with a car. Could get away from any cop…” Dozen laughed. “I guess he's still mad at you for the accident.”
“Who else knows about the accident?”
“Not many people. Ain't many of us left from Homer's original gang,” Dozen said. “Why?”
“Somebody knows what Immy and I did,” Scratch said.
“That's surprising, since the story never hit the papers, never left Darktown. You need Homer to help?”
Scratch looked sour. He shrugged and shook his head. A thought entered his head, changed his expression.
“Can I have Delmont's body?”
“The hell do you want a dead body for?” Dozen asked.
“I got some use for him,” Scratch answered.
Dozen scoffed.“Boy you are weird!” Dozen shook his head in disgust. “I don't know… maybe the boss is right. You might be the devil!”
16
Scratch drove out to Jesse Fulton's Diner on Route 10. He didn't expect to see Lilly in the place. But there she was. He started to run to her and kiss her long and hard but then thought better. He waited by the kitchen door to watch her, avoiding a waitress or two, who looked at Scratch as if he was some sort of creep.
Lilly looked at the clock behind the counter, got up from her table and started to leave. Scratch took three steps and called out to her.
“Lilly! Oh, hey! I made it!” He pretended to be out of breath.
At first, she didn't answer. She just happened to turn around and see Scratch.
“Ohh.” she giggled nervously. “You are here!” Her eyes darted around the café.
Scratch's smile diminished.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Nobody,” Lilly said. “Say, let's sit down, huh?”
Scratch reluctantly sat in a chair next to her. Lilly fidgeted with her skirt, held his hand in hers.
“Worried about something?”
“No.” She was trying to act naturally. She laughed. “I'm surprised you're here.”
“Exuberantly. Overwhelmed.”
“I know what they mean.” Lilly gritted her teeth.
“Who are you, really?”
“Ow! You're squeezing my hand…”
“Don't make me shoot you in front of everybody.” Scratch squeezed harder and Lilly flinched, giving him a pleading look.
Scratch reached into the right pocket of his trenchcoat. He cocked the hammer of his .38. Lilly jumped slightly, gasping.
“My name is Betty – oww! owww!”
“Betty what?”
“Owww… Betty Klein! Please…”
“Photographer. You work for Horace
