25Sure enough, Uncle Homer was dead.
He was sitting in his chair at his desk, slumped to the left, two bullet holes in his chest, a hardback copy of Moby d**k in his hand. Scratch fought the emotions that started take him over again. He fought back the tears. He'd stopped at the threshold of Homer's study, and Dozen urged him to go further. Scratch slowly sidled up to Homer's desk.
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 bet
