“I'm going to call Shep, find out,” Scratch said. He took a step and Jerzy caught the sleeve of his trenchcoat. Scratch stopped. Infuriated, he pulled away, but Jerzy held on.
“Mr Scratch,” Jerzy shook his head, offered his closed hand. Jerzy motioned for him to open his hand. Reluctantly Scratch extended his hand and Jerzy dropped a ring in his palm.
“Where did you find this?”
Jerzy placed a finger over his lips, warning Scratch to keep his voice down. Then he pointed to the large man sitting in a chair too small for him. The man lowered the newspaper and turned the page. Pita-Paul was reading the comics page. His barrel chest occasionally heaved and a wheezing, screeching sound that resembled laughter of some kind came from somewhere among his three chins.
“What the hell is Pita-Paul doing here?” Scratch said.
Betty stifled a laugh. “That's his name?”
“Name he was given because the little bit of English he knows, every other word sounds like Pita-Paul.”
“Mr Kurtzhun,” Jerzy said.
“What?” Scratch quickly turned to Jerzy.
“My teacher,” Jerzy said in a more broken-English accent than usual. “It pays to learn early in your life. In my school, Mr Kurtzhun, my teacher, you see, he tutored my brother and me in English.”
Betty and Scratch looked at Jerzy sideways.
“He was a very good teacher,” Scratch said.
Betty again stifled a laugh, placing her hand over her mouth.
Scratch turned the ring over in his hand, examining it. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Where did you find this, Jerzy?”
“That night the state police came into your friend's room.”
“Gardner?”
“Yes.”
“Not really my friend, Jerzy,” Scratch said.
Jerzy shrugged. “You tell me that.”
“A little white lie,” Scratch said.
“No color for lies,” Jerzy wagged a finger. “Or size, Mr Scratch. A lie is a lie.”
“Thank you for letting me know, Mother,” Scratch said, and Betty burst into laughter.
“I don't care you lie to me. Friends do that sometimes,” Jerzy said.
“Go on with your story, Jerzy,” Betty said.
“The secret police—”
“The state police,” Scratch corrected Jerzy.
“Yes. Them, too. They screamed. They pushed me. Waved their hands. 'Get out!' I show them. I call someone I know. I know well. I call Quincy Adams.”
“You know the Governor of Oklahoma?” Betty asked.
“Yes,” Jerzy's voice rose up an octave and he used his hands to show how much he disliked the question. “Why does everyone doubt me? He has stayed here at the Primrose. He and a young lady he adores very much.”
“When was the last time he was here?” Scratch asked.
“The evening Mr Gardner was killed,” Jerzy said.
Scratch sighed.
“What's wrong?” Betty asked.
“We have another player entering the game,” Scratch said.
“Looks like your friend is leaving,” Betty said.
“I think we're going to have to follow him,” Scratch said.
“Mr Scratch,” Jerzy placed a hand on Scratch's shoulder. “Please… be careful. I do not have a good feeling about that man.”
They watched Pita-Paul march out the double doors of the Primrose and step on to the sidewalk. He looked left, then right, and threw both bulky hands on his hips. He looked antsy. This made Scratch even more curious. He took two steps to the right and plopped down on a bench.
“I think I'll be all right, Jerzy,” Scratch said. “Betty will protect me.”
19
A 1947 plum-red art-deco truck pulled up. The Chevy sat for a minute and the engine backfired a few times. The idle sounded rough. Pita-Paul didn't see the truck at first. The driver blew the horn. Pita-Paul waddled to the truck, opened the door and jumped in. The truck sped off before Pita-Paul could shut the door.
Scratch took Betty by the hand and they trotted to the double doors. Betty yelped and giggled as he pulled her behind him. She held down her skirt with one hand and kept her balance by holding the door frame with other.
“See you later, Jerzy!” Scratch yelled out.
“Be careful, Mr Scratch – oh, why bother? He's not going to listen,” Jerzy said.
They rushed to Scratch's Dodge and hopped in. Scratch started the engine and sped off. A few blocks down the street, they caught up to the truck at a stop light. The Chevy pulled out easily when the light turned green. Scratch followed as the truck turned on Blueberry Drive.
They hit another stop light. A short, muscled arm hung out the window. On the forearm was a tattoo of a woman in a short dress riding an Atom bomb. Betty touched Scratch's leg. He glanced at her and she pointed to the arm hanging out the window.
“Rudy Gilmore,” she said.
“I see,” Scratch said. “We're going to have to see where these two end up.”
“I think I already know,” Betty said. “The Blue Room is right down the road.”
“Is that a fact?”
“I have an idea, Allan,” Betty said.
She reached into the pocket of her skirt and took out a tube of red lipstick. Betty leaned forward to see herself in the rearview mirror. Scratch smiled and watched Betty carefully apply the lipstick heavily, especially on her top lip to make them look fuller. She reached around and loosened the pink scarf from her ponytail. Her blonde locks fell on her shoulders. Betty pushed the strands around playfully, giggled, and removed her glasses.
She looked completely different. She no longer had the schoolteacher/secretary look. Now she was the bombshell every man dreamt of. Scratch couldn't keep his eyes off her.
“I think you better keep your eyes on the road, buddy,” Betty said, laughing.
“Who knew this other girl was buried inside you,?” Scratch said.
Betty shrugged. “She comes out every once in a while for the right guy.”
Inside the Blue Room, 12 people were sitting at tiny round tables with plastic pineapples obscuring their faces. Of those people, 10 were male, two were women, more than likely working girls, both talking to soldiers. Two men wearing Hawaiian shirts sat at the bar. They obviously worked at the Blue Room because, once
