“Obviously!” Shaw mimicked Rooster.
Rooster cut his eyes at the young man. Shaw hung his head.
The door swung open and Shep Howard and his deputy, Ralph Farley, stepped through the jailhouse. Rooster and Shep locked eyes.
“Turn him loose,” Shep said.
“Shep,” Rooster said in a calm, and gentle way, like he was explaining a Bible story to children. “You don't walk into a man's jailhouse, let alone his county, and demand that man set free his A1 suspect.”
“When you work for Oliver Spiff, you bound to do a lot of things you normally wouldn't do,” Shep said. “Like gun down the sheriff of Coleman County and blow the balls off his deputy.”
Rooster laughed. “They are hollow words, Shep. No meaning behind them a-tall. How many men have you really killed? Now,” Rooster showed the butt of his Colt revolver to Shep. “I got 12 notches on this gun. Count 'em. Every one of 'em has a story, my friend.”
“With not a shred of truth to them, Rooster and you damn well know it.” Shep walked past Rooster and Shaw, who was in his gunfighter stance about as scary as Jerry Lewis screwing a football, and went into the office. Ralph went to the jail cell, spoke to Scratch.
“You all right?”
“About as all right as I can be,” Scratch said.
“You had breakfast?” He asked.
“Just hot water with grounds in it.”
Ralph patted the bars on the cell. “We'll go to Chauncey's on 61 when we get you out,” he walked to the office, following Rooster inside.
“He ain't getting' out!” Shaw called out to Ralph. Ralph laughed. Shaw trotted over to the jail cell. “You ain't getting' out, peckerwood. You're so smug. Didn't even ask for a phone call or a lawyer… You ain't getting' out.”
“You a bettin' man, Shaw?” Scratch asked.
Shaw thought about the question. “No,” he said.
“Good,” Scratch nodded. “You'd lose.”
“I know who you really are,” Shaw's upper lip curled. “I know what you came from.”
“Is that a fact?”
“You know damn well it is, boy,” Shaw said. “I've seen you in Darktown,” he chewed on his bottom lip, scrunched up his eyes, trying to look intimidating. “I know what you really are. When I get a chance, I'm gonna let everybody in Odarko know. How's them beans now, peckerwood?”
“Taste like horseshit to me,” Scratch said. “You don't know shit from Shinola. All you know is rumor and housewife talk. You a backdoor man, Shaw? You sleepin' in another man's bed after he done wrinkled the sheets? Huh?”
“Shut your dirty mouth. You need to find a church, peckerwood. Ask God for forgiveness, talking the way you do to a real white man.”
Stone faced, Scratch scowled at Shaw.
“Hell do you mean by that?”
“Ohh-ho-ho! I think I finally got through to you,” Shaw grinned, then added in a sing-song voice: “Like I said,” he giggled. “I seened you in niggertown…”
Scratch leered at Shaw, shrugged. “So what? Maybe I was buying me some brown meat.”
“Yeah? That would be against the law.” Shaw sniffed, examining his fingernails. “You know, brother and sister… knowin' each other… carnally..? “ He moved his eyes up slowly to meet Scratch's hard stare. “I think old man Spiff would be very upset if he knew that you awful close-knit, with some of the… cuh-lard folk. I mean, especially him bein' an honorary Grand Dragon of the Klan.” Shaw licked his lips. “Whew-we! That cocoa-butter-colored girl you visit must be some piece! She could almost pass for a spic girl!”
Shaw guffawed and Scratch reached out to get him, but Shaw danced away from him, squealing, laughing harder.
“Shaw!” Rooster bellowed from doorway of his office. Shep and Ralph stood at arm's length from Rooster, both watching the scene unfold, both touching the butts of Smith and Wesson .38s, ready for anything going down. “Stop teasing that man and let him out of the cell!”
Shaw stopped dancing. The smile disappeared from his pale, flakey face. He looked at Rooster curiously.
“Go on!” Rooster demanded. “Git on with it! Turn Mr Williams loose!”
Shaw, resigned, head bowed almost to his chest, got the keys from a beat-up gun rack and picked one out. The door to the cell popped open as soon his wrists turned the key. Shep relaxed, took his hand off his gun. Ralph smiled, breathed a sigh of relief and did the same.
Shaw pulled on the bars and the cell door creaked open. Scratch stood, grabbed his coat, then his fedora. He smiled at Shaw and slowly placed his hat on his balding head. He walked past Shaw and said: “I'll be seeing you.”
Indignant, nostrils flared, Shaw said: “You can count on it, peckerwood!”
7
They were riding down the highway in Shep's Police car. Scratch was in the back, Shep was in the passenger seat, and Ralph was driving.
“The old man wants to see you,” Shep said.
“I'm sure he does,” Scratch said. His head was pounding and he felt like invisible pins were forcing his eyelids shut. He lay in the backseat, one arm covering his eyes to block out the sun.
“Somehow this misfortune ended up in the Daily Message,” Ralph said.
“I thought the old man controlled the news,” Scratch said.
“He did,” Shep turned the radio on. He turned the knob through dead air and white noise until he came up on Johnny Cash singing Train of Love. He started tapping his finger on the car seat, keeping time with the brushes on the drums. “He never really owned the newspaper. That was Horace Hammock. Old Horace ain't with us no more.”
“What happened to him?” Scratch asked. He remembered two years before, he'd taken care of a problem for Horace. A blackmail from an ex-reporter who went on a vacation with Horace. Seemed Horace ran a paper on the East coast, and had taken some money he shouldn't have. Invested that in a chocolate bar company.
