Up in Honey's Room (20 page)

“How does he get in touch with you?”

“Leaves a message with Walter's Aunt Madi. I called him this morning, he said come on over, he needed me to get hold of something for him.”

“A standing rib?” Honey said.

“You get three guesses.”

“A car,” Honey said.

“I sold him mine on the spot. A Model A, looks like everybody else's.”

“Cops are watching the house,” Honey said. “If you parked in front they'll run the license number and find out you stole the car.”

“You are my Sunshine,” Darcy said, “my only only. No, I parked over by the cathedral, like I'm makin' a visit.”

“What'd you get for it?”

“I'll show you,” Darcy said. “I got it in the car.”

“The same car?”

“A different one, but they're both Model A's. And Jurgen's cowboy hat's in the car. You should've told me when I buzzed he was here, save me a trip.”

Darcy left.

 

“No one changes,” Honey said. “He used to blame me all the time when he did dumb things.”

They were in the kitchen now, Jurgen sitting at the table in Honey's kimono sipping his coffee. He said, “I can't believe he's your brother.”

“The outlaw,” Honey said. “I could see growing up he'd never be smart. But I love to listen to him. He tells good stories, semi-true ones.” She said, “I bet the cowboy hat's way too small for you.”

The phone rang, sitting by itself on the counter. It rang three times before Honey picked it up and turned away from Jurgen at the table.

Carl's voice said, “You're home.”

“I've been home, ducking Walter. He's upset 'cause he can't find Aubrey and has to get to Georgia.”

“Aubrey's dead,” Carl said. “Get hold of today's
Detroit News
. The front page, ‘Prominent Doctor in Murder-Suicide.'”

“Dr. Taylor?”

“It looks like his wife popped him and then shot herself. Somebody else was shot in the bathroom but isn't there now.”

“You think it's Aubrey?”

“Kevin says he's the only one missing. If the doctor's wife shot him he'd still be there. So Homicide thinks somebody else did all three. You know Vera's gang,” Carl said, “who do you see as the shooter?”

She almost said, “Bo,” seeing him in the sweater and skirt, but without a good reason for naming him said, “I don't know.”

“Who were you gonna say?”

“Couldn't it be somebody who broke in?”

“It could, but who were you thinking of?”

“Bohdan.”

Carl said, “We all like Bo.”

“You have a reason?”

“He was in a death camp,” Carl said, “and got away with killing three of the guards. Cut their throat while they're asleep. I mentioned the Bureau has a file on him? It goes back to Odessa.”

There was a silence on the line.

Honey said, “Carl?”

He said, “How do you know how to cut a man's throat?”

He was quiet again before saying, “Listen, I'm at the scene with Kevin. I'll call you later. I want to hear about last night.”

She hesitated. “I may not be here.”

“You don't want to help me out?”

“All right, I'll be here,” Honey said and hung up the phone.

She turned to Jurgen saying to her, “That was Carl?”

“He's at Dr. Taylor's,” Honey said and told Jurgen about the murder scene and what Carl had to say.

“If it must be someone from Vera's group,” Jurgen said, “I would say Bo. He eliminates the spy ring and there's no one left to point a finger at Vera.”

“She calls him her guardian angel,” Honey said.

“They're lovers,” Jurgen said. “They've lived with death so close to them, they have intense sex together because they're still alive.”

Honey said, “But he's a homosexual.”

“Or plays the part or does it both ways. I was beginning to like Bohdan, the restrained transvestite in soft cashmere.”

“But he does flaunt it, if you can believe Darcy.”

“I suppose, but last night everyone at Vera's thought Bo looked quite nice.”

“He did,” Honey said. “I have a skirt and sweater set like that only it's black, and isn't cashmere.”

“You wear black, of course,” Jurgen said, “you don't need color, it's in your eyes, your lips…” He said, “Why didn't you tell Carl I was here? You're having second thoughts? You're not sure he'll simply come to visit?”

“I think about it now,” Honey said, “I'm not at all sure what he'll do. I'm holding off, if you're wondering what I'm up to. But I'm in it now. I've given comfort to the enemy in a big way, and I may as well tell you, I loved it. I think if you and I had time, or there wasn't a war…”

“We would be keeping company,” Jurgen said.

“I should tell you though,” Honey said, “I'm older than you are. You might think I don't look it, but I'm twenty-eight.”

“I wouldn't care if you were thirty-one,” Jurgen said. “You know I'm madly in love with you.”

She did, she knew it, but said, “Really?”

He was coming at her in his quiet way, not as quiet as Carl's, but coming with love now and the next thing on the program they'd be back in bed. She did love making love to this boy who blew up British tanks and was tender and knew how to hold her. Still, she'd need time to quit thinking about Carl.

She touched Jurgen's face looking up at her.

“I love you in my kimono, but you'd better get dressed.” She kissed him, nibbling his mouth and Jurgen gave signs of wanting a lot more.

“Darcy's coming back,” Honey said.

“Don't let him in.”

The boy full of love.

“Let's save it for later,” Honey said and got him to go get dressed. She poured herself a rye, just a nip to settle her down.

If Carl wasn't in the picture she could speed it up with Jurgen. She was already calling him Hun, Jurgen hearing it as
hon
. Hun and Honey. What a cute couple.

Carl. Not available but interested. Told her he did
not
want to fool around, have fun with a girl if she wasn't his wife.
If he could help it
. He did say that. But was he leaving it open or being funny? She had to believe that once he saw her bare breasts he'd be getting pictures of them flashing in his mind and he'd be thinking about her, trying not to become involved but keeping a foot in the door. The poor guy. She should quit tempting him. Jurgen was younger, better-looking. She loved his tan lines, midthigh and around his hips. Jurgen was thoughtful and had tender feelings for her. Carl, he could be tender, he was patient. Jurgen was ready for sex at a moment's notice. Carl, he had to be at least horny. She could walk off into the sunset with Jurgen. Except if he got caught and she was with him, she could be charged with treason. Carl was married to a marine who had killed two men, shot them on different occasions, once to save Carl's life.

Was that how you won his heart, shoot somebody?

 

Darcy came in holding a light beige western hat in both hands and presented it to Jurgen, still in the kimono, saying, “I got this Stetson specially for my pard.”

Honey watched Jurgen take the hat into the hall by the bedroom and try it on in front of the mirror. She was surprised the hat was new. He put it on to rest straight on his head, then pulled it down a little more in front and stared at himself in the mirror.

“It's the businessman's range hat,” Darcy said, “the choice of Dallas executives. You understand I'm startin' you out in less hat. You become a cowboy you can get one with a big scoop brim. You don't, you got a hat you can wear anywheres and get nods of approval.”

“It fits him,” Honey said. “How did you know his size?”

“I told the colored guy at Henry-the-Hatter's, ‘This boy is tough, has a mop of hair and he's smart. I know he's got a bigger brain'n me.' I put this'n on, it come down to my eyes and I said, ‘Wrap her up.'”

But it wasn't wrapped or in a bag or a hatbox.

“I like it very much,” Jurgen said, “thank you, amigo.”

“You could pass for American,” Darcy said. “She loosens up on you, stuff some toilet paper in there behind the sweatband.”

Honey was dying to ask Darcy how he'd swiped the hat, but was more interested in what Bo had paid him for the stolen car.

“You said you'd show us what Bo gave you?”

“For my car,” Darcy said. “I got another just like it over at the Sears, Roebuck parkin' lot.”

Honey said, “You already told us you have another car.”

Darcy said, “Here,” zipped open his jacket and brought a pistol out of the waist of his pants and held it up, “a German Luger, what officers have in the war.”

“They used to,” Jurgen said. “Now it's the Walther, but you see Lugers. I had one since 1939 until the MPs took it from me.”

Darcy said, “You shoot anybody with it?”

“Not with a pistol, no.”

“This baby's ready to fire,” Darcy said. “I told Bo to load her up and gimme a box of nines.” He said to Jurgen, “What would you say she's worth?”

“I have no idea. There must be hundreds of thousands of them. They go back to 1908.”

“Bo says it's worth five hunnert easy.”

Honey said, “What were you asking for the car?”

“Five hunnert.”

“If you got a dollar, you'd still be ahead.”

“I know I could get a good price for this gun,” Darcy said. “I ain't about to pack it. My record, I get pulled over for a broke taillight I'm back inside.” He said to Honey, “Sunshine, how about if you hold on to my German Luger for me, till I get situated?”

C
arl came in the afternoon to visit the murder scene, police cars filling the circular drive. Kevin said the Homicide people were calling it a triple now. “I told them the guy they wanted to talk to was Bohdan Kravchenko. He likes jewelry, doesn't he? There's a mess of Miz Taylor's jewelry missing, according to the maid, Nadia—she's from over in Central Europe someplace. And the doctor's medicine cabinet's been cleaned out.” He told Carl in the living room, “Here's where the doctor was lying on his back, with his wife lying over him facedown, still holding the Walther.”

He told Carl the bodies had been removed to the Wayne County morgue downtown, a few blocks from 1300 Beaubien, Detroit Police headquarters. “They all refer to it as just Thirteen-hundred. They're busy down there,” Kevin said, “homicide, major crimes, bomb disposal, firearms examiners.” Kevin grinned. “You ever hear of the Big Four? Four good-size guys, detectives, in a Buick sedan, two in front, two in back. They prowl the streets looking for trouble.”

Carl said if there was time he wouldn't mind meeting these boys. “Sounds like they get right to the point with offenders.”

He phoned Honey while he had the chance and told her about the murder scene, they talked and he said he'd call her later. She said, “I may not be here.” Serious, not sounding like Honey the fun-lover or Honey on the make. He almost said, “Are you working for me or not?” But couldn't tell what was wrong from her tone. Why get tough? He said, “You don't want to help me out?” It moved her enough to say she'd be there.

He could go see her right now, ten minutes away. Seven Mile down to a block this side of McNichols, that everyone called Six Mile. Or cut through Palmer Park. He hung around the scene thinking about her, and his mind would wander to street names in Detroit; they had some good ones like Beaubien and St. Antoine, Chene, an old French town now full of war plants. Finally he told himself to quit fuckin' the dog. Go on. Show you can be alone with the girl in her apartment and not tear her clothes off. It wouldn't happen anyway, she'd have 'em off already. He thought, What if you went to bed with her…No, really, what if you went to bed and made love, but it was only to find out something or prove a point of some kind…Or, he thought, what if you just fucked her socks off and got it over with?

He followed Wellesley to Lowell to Balmoral in the Pontiac, winding through Palmer Woods with the big English-style homes and polite maids who told the homicide dicks going door-to-door, “No, sir, Missus says we never heard nothin' last night.”

Carl came to Seven Mile and stopped. He could turn left to Woodward, take it south to Honey's, or turn right and take Pontchartrain through the park. A car was in his rearview mirror. Stopped, the first car he'd seen in Palmer Woods, parked or moving, outside of cop cars today. Like it was waiting for him to make up his mind, a '41 Model A Ford.

Carl turned left onto Seven, not many cars on the road, held it at thirty and pretty soon the Model A was behind him, hanging back. He remembered the police precinct on the right, came to it and turned into the parking lot. The Model A stopped on Seven Mile. Carl came out of the precinct lot and turned left. Now he was heading toward the Model A, staying in his lane, wanting to see who was in the car, still a couple of hundred feet away when the Model A took off and flew past him going the other way.

One guy in the car.

Carl tried to concentrate on how much of the guy he saw, the way the guy was hunched behind the wheel. He wanted the guy to have slick black hair like the kid gangster Vito Tessa had and he'd know, okay, the guy's here, the Avenger with the big nickel-plate automatic, and he'd know who to look for. But the guy in the Model A didn't have slick black hair, it was a lot lighter.

He turned left on Pontchartrain Drive, the way through Palmer Park, fairways of the public golf course on the left, grass and picnic tables and trees on the right. He saw the Model A way back—but coming, gaining on him. Carl pulled his .38 and laid it on the seat close to his thigh. Looked up at the mirror and the Model A was coming fast, closing on him and, Christ,
shooting
at him. The only thing to do—Carl braked hard, covering the sound of gunfire with screaming tires. The .38 flew off the seat. It didn't matter, Carl was going down anyway, flat against the seat cushion, down there getting his hand on the .38 as the Model A came around to pass him and hammered away at the Pontiac, rounds shattering the side windows above him, through one and out the other, making frosted-looking circles on the windshield, with a machine gun. It
was
. It was a goddamn machine gun, but
didn't sound like a Thompson. He thought of Louly saying she'd have to fire a Browning for him, “rip off a few rounds.”

The Model A was making a U-turn a hundred yards ahead, getting in behind an Olds that went past, staying close, using the Olds for cover. Carl opened his door, stood up and laid the .38 on the top part of the doorframe, aimed at the front end of the Olds coming toward him, let it pass and opened up on the Model A, fired five rounds double-action at the hood and the car windows, certain he either hit the driver or changed his mind from shooting it out.

Carl got his car turned around and went after the Model A, got close when it had to slow down before turning onto Seven Mile. Now it was flying toward Woodward. Carl made the turn and gunned it, gained on the Model A going past the police precinct, coming to the golf clubhouse now, the first tee, and the Pontiac engine blew with the sound of gears grinding, steam pouring from the hood vents, Carl watching the Model A approaching a red light at Woodward. Carl, his dead car rolling to a stop, had to watch through spiderweb gunshots in the windshield and steam rising to see the speed demon run the light, weaving past cars braking and swerving to miss the nut in the Model A and somehow he made it. The Avenger gone, out of sight on a gloomy April afternoon.

 

The Tulsa Police lieutenant said, “I'm surprised, Carl, there must be somebody else don't like you.”

“Vito Tessa from Kansas City,” Carl said, using the phone on the table behind the staircase that came down in a curve toward the murder-scene living room. “Vito told Virgil he was coming up to see me.”

“I love Virgil,” the Tulsa lieutenant said. “The first thing he ever said to me—we're in that bar in the basement of the Mayo. He says, ‘You ever been in a pissing contest?' I said no, what do you go for, height or distance? He says, ‘No, we piss on the ice in urinals and bet on whose pile of cubes gets melted down the most.' But the thing about your dad, he didn't piss on any kind of regular basis. He could hold it.”

“That's why he's still one of the great pissers,” Carl said, “he can hold it as long as he wants, which you don't find at all in men his age. I've been in that bar with my dad, but I can't say I ever pissed next to him. Go in the woods with him hunting, I don't think I ever saw him piss, not wanting to leave his sign.”

“That's your dad,” the Tulsa lieutenant said. “Who'd you say, Tessa? He's out on bond. No, wait a minute, I got the latest here. He was out on a five-hundred-dollar bond till his hearing. He
was
out. Tessa and some other punk held up the wrong poker game. Both of 'em got shot in the ass going out the door, with the pot they scooped into a hat. So I was right, it's somebody else wants to shoot you.”

“Was he packing that big nickel-plate?”

“Yeah, but didn't get off a shot. Had a full magazine.”

“It didn't seem to me he was gonna make it in his trade,” Carl said and thanked the lieutenant.

Now Kevin Dean was coming across the living room.

“You back already?”

“I haven't gone yet where I'm going. I just spoke to Tulsa Police asking about Vito the Avenger. Remember the kid gangster I told you about, with a brother? It wasn't him shooting a machine gun at me in Palmer Park, he's laid up, handcuffed to a hospital bed. So the one shooting at me was a local guy. He knew who I was, driving away from here. He had light-colored hair, like Bohdan's.”

“As long as his?”

“I couldn't tell. The guy fired at me with a machine gun that wasn't a Thompson. I can hear a Thompson in my head. This one had a different sound.”

“Upstairs in the doctor's bedroom,” Kevin said, “a cabinet was pried open. Nothing in it but a box of nines. But now Nadia the maid says with her accent the guns are missing. A Walther, two Luger pistols and a
Maschinenpistole
40, like the ones she saw at the War Souvenir Show at Hudson's. You recall we missed that show?”

“Having lunch with Honey.” He could see her working on her salad, then wiping a roll over the empty plate, picking up any dressing that was left.

“You know what Walter calls her, Honig, the German word for
honey,
Honig Schoen.” Kevin said, “Tell me what happened in the park.”

Carl took him through it to where the Pontiac engine blew and he watched the Model A make it through the Woodward intersection.

“And you left your car?”

Carl said he stopped at the Palmer Park Precinct, the Twelfth, and sent them after a shot-up Model A, a black one, and told them where Bo lived. “They towed my car out of the street and said they'd have their mechanic look under the hood.” Carl said, “I hate to lose that car,” and said, “You wouldn't happen to have one I can borrow, do you? Or maybe the Bureau'll let me have one?”

Maybe. But what Kevin wanted to know, “If Bo's shooting people who can testify against him and Vera, why's he want to shoot you?”

“I don't know, I only met him this morning,” Carl said. “I did speak loud to him. I might've hurt his feelings.”

“You going to Honey's?”

“I'm thinking about it.”

“You don't have wheels, I can take you, tag along.”

Carl didn't need Kevin with him. He said, “You're on this case—don't you want to get hold of Bohdan quick as you can?”

“You sent the cops after him.”

“When your superior asks you what you were doing, you tell him you were visiting a young lady?”

“Don't you want Bo?”

“I'd rather have Jurgen,” Carl said. “Homicide wants Bo. You could drive down to Vera's with one of those boys and let me have your car. How's that sound?”

 

What Bo did, he ditched the Model A on a street of workingmen's homes, walked a block to Woodward Avenue and around the corner to the 4-Mile Bar, a block and a half from the cathedral. He had a shot of whiskey before he called Vera.

“Are you sober?”

“I'm glowing,” Bo said. “I can't come home. I think the police are looking for me. When they come, tell them I've gone up north. It's what people around here do, they go up north. Two women at the market. ‘What're you doing this weekend?' ‘We're going up north.' Northern Michigan. I don't have an idea what's up there.”

Vera said, “Bo…?”

“I saw Carl, driving around in his Pontiac like he had no idea where he was going. He turned to go through Palmer Park, the road's wide open there, hardly any traffic, and I got excited and went after him, fired almost thirty-two rounds, an entire clip. I don't know if I got him or not.”

“Did he shoot at you?”

“When I turned around, yeah, he was ready for me.”

“Then you didn't get him. But why do you want him, because he insulted you? That's settled with a duel, not shooting at him with a machine pistol. What about your car?”

“It's full of bullet holes. But listen, Vera? He could've been going to Honey's.”

Vera said, “Yes?”

“And I could've followed him. Honey's there, Jurgen's there, and Carl.”

Vera said, “You want to shoot Carl because he called you a Bohunk?”

“He knows as much about you as they do. I could've gotten the three of them in her apartment.”

Vera said, “If that's where he was going.”

“I'm so fucking glad you listen. You always listen and remember. Vera, if we could get them to all be there tomorrow I could do it then. Set it up. Carl, Honey and Jurgen's Lotion. Zap.”

Vera said, “Bo, I don't want to be in this house anymore. Please get me out of here before I become an alcoholic.”

“You already are.”

“I count my drinks,” Vera said. “I never have more than twenty-five in a day.”

“We're going away tomorrow,” Bo said. “If we can think of a way to get all three of them at Honey's apartment again. You want to say good-bye. Or you want to leave each one of them something.”

Vera said, “You have to do this, don't you.”

“If I don't,” Bo said, “the FBI will wring you out and hang you up to dry. You like that saying? We'll make it sometime in the evening, but not too late. We arrive last. The ones I want are there.” He turned from the pay phone on the wall and looked down the
bar at the patrons, a few men and one woman, blitzed, talking loud, a guy at a table reading a dream book. “I'll slip in the house tonight. Leave the back door unlocked.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey, they don't have vodka.”

“They ran out of it?”

“They don't have it, Vera, ever.”

“I'm glad we're leaving.”

“We'll each take a bag. Any treasures you can't leave behind, as long as they're small. The umbrella, that big black one like Neville Chamberlain's.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“I haven't thought about it yet.”

 

Honey jumped hearing the buzzer. She answered, pressed the button to open the door downstairs and said to Jurgen, “It's Carl.”

Jurgen waited, standing in the living room, dressed now.

“I think you'd better stay in the bedroom,” Honey said.