Gilmore produced a small rubber club. He jabbed the fat end into the soldier, then came across the second soldier's face with it. The first soldier doubled over and coughed. Gilmore came back round to backhand the first soldier. Both were lying side by side weeping and moaning.
Scratch sighed. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
Gilmore laughed. “Now,” Gilmore said. “Before you two slime buckets crawl back in the gutter, apologize to the lady!”
A chair came across the back of Gilmore's neck. He cried out, fell on top of the soldiers, realized he was touching another man and panicked. He rolled to his left and discovered Scratch holding the chair.
“Damn,” Scratch said. “It didn't break like in the movies,” he marveled at the craftsmanship of the chair, switching from his left hand to his right hand, examining the seat and legs.
“Ahh! Why'd you hit me?” Gilmore whined.
The two soldiers helped each other up, and they hurried out the Blue Room as fast as their hurt bodies could carry them. Betty walked over to Scratch, watching Gilmore carefully. She touched Scratch's arm and he jerked slightly, realized he needed to turn his attention back to Gilmore.
Scratch tossed the chair down. He took the ring out of the breast pocket of his trench coat. He bent down and showed it to Gilmore. “This is yours,” he said. “You set me up.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
Scratch placed his shoe on Gilmore's crotch, applied some pressure. Gilmore screamed.
“You were at the Primrose the other day, in the room next to Gardner's,” Scratch said.
Gilmore coughed, struggled to speak. “No I wasn't! I was nowhere around the Primrose!”
“You two run together,” Scratch said.
“So what?” Gilmore said.
“This is your ring!”
“No, it's not!”
Scratch pushed his shoe in Gilmore's genitals, applied more pressure. Gilmore squealed.
“This is your Klansman ring!” Scratch bellowed.
“Noo, God, no! Look! Look!” Gilmore held up his right hand. A ring was on his first finger. A silver band with an engraved message preaching purity in the white race. A hooded figure stood in the silver stone with a red and yellow cross at the bottom.
Scratch looked at the ring in his hand. There was a cross on it, it looked nothing like Gilmore's. Scratch removed his shoe from Gilmore's crotch. “Hmm…” He said. “I was wrong.”
Gilmore sat up. He coughed as he stood, using a chair for balance. “That ain't no Klansman ring, you idiot,” he said, caught his breath. “That's a damn Nazi ring. Look at the stone. That's a swastika!”
Out of nowhere, a fist caught Scratch in the back of the head. The ring fell from his fingertips, bounced, then rolled across the floor. He heard Betty scream. Scratch wobbled, took a step and dropped to his knees. He raised his weary head, saw Pita-Paul standing over him.
The light went out in Scratch's head.
20
Scratch came to, and realized he was in the passenger seat side of his car. Betty was driving. The sun was going down and the cool wind from his car sailing down the highway had brought Scratch out of a forced sleep. He retrieved the Bennies from his coat pocket and popped the top.
“You sure you need more of those?” Betty asked.
“Don't tell me what I need,” Scratch said.
“Look, I'm just concerned…”
“Don't tell me what to do!”
“OK, OK, Allan,” Betty sighed. “Don't get upset.”
“Stop calling me Allan,” Scratch commanded, his voice severe, threatening.
“That's your name,” Betty croaked. A nervousness came over her.
“Not anymore,” Scratch said. “That's not who I am. I'm not Allan Williams, you hear me?”
“Yes,” Betty replied after a long delay. She tried to touch his knee. Scratch jerked away.
“How do I know you're on my side?”
“I am,” Betty said. “God, Allan – I mean Scratch – I am, truly, I am on your side.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to my house,” Betty said. “The film is dry and…”
“I'm sick of this.” Scratch stared out the window, watching the sky get darker. “I want to get away from all of this. Away from Odarko, Darktown, the hate… I'm sick of it. Sick of the lies. Sick of getting beat up. And for what? Some rich old ghoul who owns everything – and everyone. A ghoul who takes pleasure in everyone's misery. Why do I do it?”
“I-uh-don't know. Trying to make your world better, I suppose,” Betty said.
“Fat chance of that,” Scratch said. “My world is a disappointment. I was born just to make everyone miserable. Cause evil…”
“That's very harsh,” Betty said.
“It's the damned truth,” Scratch said. “The damned truth.”
The Dodge came up on Betty's street. Black smoke and bright orange flames rose high above the horizon. Betty gasped. A fire truck passed them, nearly running them off the road. Betty stopped short of a ditch.
“There's a fire,” she said.
Scratch sat up in the seat and looked beyond the first house. They were on a slight hill looking down. He shook his head, moved his eyes to Betty.
“Your house,” he said.
“What?” Betty squealed.
“Yep.” Scratch sat back down, popped a few more Bennies. The bottle was getting empty. He was more pissed off about that than Betty's house and the film burning up. He shoved the bottle in his coat pocket. “Your house is on fire. Now do you believe I spread evil?”
“How about we forget you for a moment and think of what I'm losing.” Betty started to sob.
One thing Scratch couldn't stand to hear was a woman crying. Made him feel guilty when it wasn't his fault. This made him doubly guilty, since he felt all this was his fault. He threw his arms around Betty. She laid her head on his chest and wept quietly. Thank God she's not a screamer, Scratch thought. I'd melt in her arms.
When she was almost done, Scratch coaxed her to switch seats. He put the Dodge in gear and drove to her burning house. The firemen were
