He took his fedora off in a half-hearted salute, closed his eyes and said a prayer in tribute, asking God to forgive Homer, watch over his soul. Scratch sighed, reopened his eyes and placed his fedora back on his balding head. A manila folder caught his eyes.
“What's this?” Scratch asked Dozen.
Dozen came around the desk, pushed an orange crate against the mahogany wood leg. He stepped on the crate for a better view.
“I don't know,” Dozen said. “Looks like names and something about Cherry Tree Hill.”
“The cemetery?” Scratch was shocked. “What business would he have to do with a cemetery?”
Dozen shrugged. “Hell if I know. Cherry Tree Hill. On Route One. That's what it says.”
“Let me see,” Scratch took the folder from Dozen. He read further down.
Two things popped up. Agatha Cripes died last year. She was killed in a hit-and-run. The Cripes family hired Scratch to find the driver. Guy by the name of Morley Gates was driving drunk and sideswiped Agatha on the sidewalk.
“These names are people buried there,” Scratch said.
“You gotta be kidding me!” Dozen exclaimed.
“Pinnacle is the company doing business with Homer.”
“For what?” Then Dozen thought about it. “Oh, shit. The apartments he said he was building. Set to happen in a few months.”
“Land,” Scratch said. “They're going to move those bodies out their graves.
“You know what, he did mention he had a job for Pita-Paul and the boys. Just good old-fashioned hard work involved. I didn't know what he meant until now.”
“I've been meaning to talk to you about Pita-Paul,” Scratch said.
“He's been hanging around that jackass redneck governor. Yeah, I know. Homer sent him to work with that Klansman Gilmore.”
Scratch glared at Dozen. “So this whole racist thing is a front?”
“Hell, naw,” Dozen said. “That shit is real. Two things add to the mix. One: to keep us colored folk separated from the whites and make sure we never get up in the world.”
“What's the second thing?” Scratch asked.
“Money. You know your damn self that money speaks louder than a kind word,” Dozen said. “If a person can make money off of you, you think they give a shit about the color of your skin? Those apartments are low-rent, meant to be gutter houses. For Pinnacle, make bucketloads of money on rent, electric, and water. For Homer, it's a chance to make money off of whores and the shit people put in their bodies.”
“How does Governor Adams fit in this?”
Dozen tilted his head sideways and cut his eyes at Scratch. “How do you think?” He threw his arms in the air. “Zoning laws. Moving the bodies out of the cemetery without it getting in the news.”
“Whoa,” Scratch said. A lightbulb just came on in his head. “I know why Horace Hammock was murdered.”
Dozen gasped. “I thought he committed suicide!”
Scratch shook his head. “No,” he said. He looked at his shoes but he was seeing a train of thought, or thoughts, running amok in his head. “Spiff asked me to look into it. He demanded I look into it. He was generally concerned about the situation.”
“You sure your boy Spiff ain't behind that?”
“No, Dozen. Like I said, he was kind of angry about it. Concerned. Maybe,” Scratch looked up at Dozen. “Scared.”
“Oh, shit,” Dozen said. “When a powerful motherfucker like Oliver Spiff gets scared, we all should be scared. Can't trust any damned soul. What the hell is the world coming to?”
“Boss,” one of the bodyguards called out from the doorway.
“Yeah,” Dozen called back in a shrill voice.
“We're ready,” the bodyguard answered, then went back to the foyer.
“Ready for what?” Scratch asked.
Dozen raised an eyebrow. “Trial and execution.”
He ushered Scratch out of Homer's office and into the foyer. They took some steps by the kitchen and pantry that led down a dark basement. The smell of black mold, cigarettes, and death entered Scratch's nostrils. Scratch retched a little and covered his mouth and nose. He heard Dozen giggling behind him.
“Yeah, Scratch, somebody had an accident down here,” Dozen said. “Actually, quite a few people had several accidents.”
Scratch guessed there were three other people in the basement. Not being able to see anything, brought on memories and anxieties. Part of Scratch knew where he was but another part of him feared a light would turn on and reveal he was be tied to a chair and that old Korean man was standing over him with hot shrapnel ready to slide it into the wound on Scratch's leg.
A familiar smell assaulted Scratch's nostrils. Hair relaxer and Barman's Vex, a popular aftershave with young black men in Darktown. He heard sobbing. Begging. A loud scream echoed. Scratch knew the voice.
“I didn't mean to kill no one,” Felix Crump said. He sobbed more, tried to correct that with a manly, “So what?”, but he was already broken and the sobbing interrupted his short attempt at being tough or hard. “It was just a game, I swear –I didn't know what I was doin'… Please… please…”
Scratch stood on the last step, Dozen snickering behind him. One naked light bulb connected to a tangled wire swung back and forth making everyone's shadows bigger than their souls. One of Dozen's henchmen had a long jagged-bladed knife, the kind used for gutting fish. The blade sliced Felix's chest, dragged across other knife wounds. He screamed as his skin opened up and revealed what was inside him. Felix gurgled and whined. His body convulsed from going into shock.
Scratch turned his head. Then he pushed Dozen out of the way and trotted up the stairs.
“Scratch!” Dozen called out. “Scratch! C'mon! I thought you'd like to see some justice for your uncle's murder!”
“There are steps for doing that, Dozen. Laws.”
Dozen snorted contemptuously. “White man's laws. You know how we do things in Darktown.
