“This case is all tangled up,” Shep said. “I'm getting' too old to do Spiff's bidding.”
“I have to tell you something,” Scratch said. “Harry is involved with Gardner with pornography. The old man might be, too.”
“The old man isn't involved,” Shep said. “Not directly. Harry pays Spiff for protection. Just in case anyone tips off the Feds about his little pornography business. Harry thought he was protected by the Chicago mob. Spiff bought Harry from the mob.”
“Maybe you should talk to Harry anyway,” Scratch said.
“That will be difficult, Scratch.”
“Why is that?”
“Harry is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah,” Shep confirmed. “Shot to death in his drugstore.”
“Robbery?”
“Yes and no,” Shep sighed. He removed his trilby hat, ran a hand through the few strands of hair on his bald head, and placed the hat back on his head. “It was made to look like a robbery. Witnesses saw a Red Fury drive away. Before that Fury drove off, it stopped to pick someone up.”
“Let me guess,” Scratch said, pointed to the police car. “The car picked up Felix?”
“How'd you know?” Shep asked.
Scratch smiled. “I've had a run-in with that Fury, as well as Felix.”
“That's his name, huh?”
“Yes. Felix Crump,” Scratch said. “You mind if I talk to the woman who saw Felix burn Betty's house down?”
“I didn't say she saw Felix set the fire,” Shep said. “She only saw him run away from the house. I don't mind at all. We work for the same man. As a matter of fact.” Shep walked over to the police car. He leaned in the passenger's open window, spoke to Ralph. Ralph started the engine, put the car in gear and drove off, trailing a cloud of dust. Shep ambled back over to Scratch. “I want to talk to her again. Let's go.”
“Mind if Betty comes along?”
Shep glared at Scratch.
“No,” he said, his face contorted painfully in a moment of confusion. “I guess not. Was her house after all.”
“Good.” Scratch walked off. “I'll get her and we'll meet you over there.”
21
Only one light was on in the whole house. A broken lamp with a dim light bulb that kept shorting out. The mood was weird and surreal. The house was cluttered with furniture stacked on top of each other, and pans and dishes hanging on the walls next to framed pictures with people's faces blacked out.
Betty let Shep enter the house first. She came behind him and Scratch brought up the rear. A large black roach crawled across Betty's shoe. She jumped, muffling a scream with her hand.
“Mrs Sommers?” Shep called out. No answer.
“Wait,” Scratch whispered. He tapped Shep on the shoulder. “Saundra Sommers, the silent movie star?”
“Yeah,” Shep said. “You didn't know she lived here?”
“No, I didn't.”
“Been here for almost 15 years,” Shep said. “Crazy as a bedbug. As you can see.”
“How does a person get this way?” Betty asked.
“Family tragedies,” Shep said. “On her way back from the east coast, in 1931, her husband was gunned down when their train stopped over here in Odarko.”
“Train?” Scratch enquired. “I thought the only train running in this part of Oklahoma was in Presscott. We didn't get a train until 1934.”
“Nope,” Shep said. “That was the new train tracks Spiff and his father built. Much to our governor's chagrin.”
“The governor opposed a train for voters?” Betty asked and sniggered. “How's he going to reach out to his constituents?”
“He's not and he doesn't need them,” Shep said. “He buys the votes.”
“Why didn't he want the train here? I don't understand,” Betty said.
“He doesn't like anyone other than white people,” Shep said.
“What's the story with Mrs Sommers?”
“They took my baby,” a voice rattled from the darkness.
Her broken English sounded harsh to her new audience's ears. Betty even seemed to cringe at the old woman's voice – it was like something out of a Boris Karloff film. Old age had ravished a perfect speaking voice. Saundra Sommers had been a stage star in the early 1900s, in Berlin.
Saundra Sommers continued: “They killed my husband – shot him down like a dog. Took my child – drove off…”
“How many men? Do you remember what they looked like?”
“No faces. Just handkerchiefs, stockings covering their faces. I dream of those contorted faces every night. Ohhhh…” she cried out as if in sudden pain. “I'll never forget the size of one of them…” She paused. Perhaps recalling the memory of the man took time to dig into a vast bag of yesterdays. “He was a giant. The largest man I'd ever seen. He spoke fluent German.”
Right away Scratch knew who she was talking about. Pita-Paul.
Mrs Sommers continued: “The one who shot my Konrad was a negro. He shot him like a dog. I had his blood all over me. I screamed and I couldn't stop. I've been screaming ever since.”
Oh, now the timeline for Pita-Paul joining Uncle Homer was fudged. Or… Pita-Paul might have gone to Germany or been sent back. Homer took his family in when Pita-Paul returned.
“You paid the ransom,” Scratch said.
“I keep paying it,” Saundra said. “They never bring my baby back to me.”
“Mrs Sommers,” Shep butted in. “I need to ask you about the fire next door.”
“Oh, God,” she wept. “Hell is coming for all of us!” The old woman screamed and wept loudly. Betty went into the dark room. Shep and Scratch could hear Betty consoling Mrs Sommers.
When she calmed down, Betty whispered to her: “It's important that you answer the sheriff's questions about the fire. That was my house that burned down.”
Shep waited to ask his question. Time for Scratch seemed to move the same pace as somebody drowning in quicksand.
“Mrs Sommers, did you see the negro boy set the fire?”
“No,” she said. “I saw him run away.”
“Did you see who set the fire?” Scratch asked.
“Yes.” She started to weep again. Betty's voice was soft and serene as she tried to comfort her. Mrs Sommers controlled her sobs for just long enough to answer. “My nightmare was coming true.
