Up in Honey's Room (13 page)

H
oney made highballs in tall glasses, rye and ginger ale, while Carl opened a can of peanuts saying he'd spent most of the day at the FBI office. He was coming to the tricky part now of what he wanted to tell her.

“They sat me down and said I was to forget about Jurgen Schrenk for the time being. They're pretty sure the Detroit spy ring's up to something. They're meeting tonight at Vera Mezwa's and the Bureau wants to be sure I don't get in the way. I asked what the meeting had to do with Jurgen. They said that's where he's staying now, at Vera's. I said, Otto's with him? It sounded like they'd forgotten about Otto, the SS major. They said they believed he was still at Walter's.”

“I'd love to meet Vera,” Honey said. “Kevin showed me pictures of her doing her lectures. She's attractive, has her own style, knows how to fix herself up, writes letters with invisible ink. She knows Jurgen?”

“The Bureau,” Carl said, “believes he's involved in whatever Vera's up to, it's why he's at her house. But what kind of job would
they give an escaped prisoner of war? I said what if they don't know about Jurgen? Walter's never mentioned him. He knows what happened to Max Stephan when he showed off the Nazi pilot, so he's kept Jurgen under wraps. But now he calls a meeting to introduce him to the gang.”

“Why?” Honey said.

“I was asked that. If Walter was so careful before, keeping Jurgen a secret, why would he expose him now? I said I didn't know, but I'd talked to Walter last night.”

“They were surprised.”

“They said oh, is that right? I told them Walter knows I'm after Jurgen and Otto. He's afraid I'm gonna come out to the farm looking for them.”

“How do you know that?”

“Why were we out there last night? I told them I must be the reason Walter got rid of Jurgen, sent him to stay with Vera, let her hide him for a while.”

“You think she knows about you?”

“If she's any good. But if she doesn't realize I'm closing in, Jurgen will point it out to her. Now what does she do, hide him or throw him out? She can't hand him over. What's she doing with an escaped Nazi POW?”

“You told this to the feds?”

“I said she knows you guys would come down on her. And before you're through ringing her out she knows she can kiss her spy act good-bye. But, I told them if Jurgen feels she's nervous about the situation he'll leave, disappear. They want to know how I can be sure that's what he'd do. I said because he knows he's better off on his own than having to count on people who're strangers to him. I know he'd have serious doubts about Walter. Walter's scared to death to have Jurgen around.”

“They ask how you know that?”

“I said Jesus Christ, I've met Walter. I know what kind of man he is. I sized him up as I would any offender I'm after. I said the thing to do before you lose Jurgen, go on in the house and bring him out handcuffed. Vera too.” Carl paused to let Honey wait for what he'd say next, but she beat him to it.

“They ask you what an old boy who wears cowboy boots knows about people in espionage?”

“Only the way they put it,” Carl said, “was why don't we let the scenario play out a little more, not spook the spooks.”

“What scenario?”

“Whatever they think is going on.”

“How do they know Jurgen's at Vera's?”

“Bohdan Kravchenko. He's been working for the feds since Vera came here.”

“Kevin told me about him, yeah, Vera calls him Bo.”

“Kevin says this Ukrainian tells them spy stuff without telling them anything. There's a meeting tonight, but Bo doesn't know why it was called. The Bureau guys admit he could be stringing them along, but he's all they've got. I mentioned before, I think Walter's gonna present Jurgen to the gang.”

“But you don't know why, if he's kept him a secret until now.”

“He has a reason this time or he's showing off. Look, everybody, here's an honest-to-God Nazi superman I brought to the party.”

Honey said, “If you think Jurgen will disappear by tomorrow—”

“That's where I'm stuck. What do I do about it?”

“Don't they have agents watching the house?”

“That's why I can't barge in.”

“I have to assume,” Honey said, “the FBI guys know what they're doing. Don't they?”

“They do, only their scenario's different from mine.”

“You're afraid Jurgen's gonna slip by them,” Honey said, “and you'll have to start all over. What's he like?”

“Jurgen? He's a nice guy, he's smart, he's funny. He can do different accents.”

“How old is he?”

“I think he's twenty-six.”

“What's he look like?”

“He has dark blond hair, blue eyes, he's five nine and a half, one forty-five, he's always tan, his legs, 'cause he likes to wear short pants.”

“Is he good-looking?”

“Girls like him, they think he's cute. I'd see girls that worked in the administration building, just outside the gate, watching him through the wire fence. One of them pulling on the front of her blouse like she needed air. He had a girlfriend at that time, a hot young babe, he'd sneak out of camp to visit.”

“You mean he'd escape. What did the hot babe do?”

“It was an experience,” Carl said, “to know her. She went from the debutantes' ball to a cathouse in Kansas City, became a very expensive call girl and got rich, saved it, didn't get into opium. She's gonna write a book, says I won't believe some of the things happened to her in her life. I think she was sixteen working in the cathouse. Shemane had a sideways look she'd give you.” Carl grinned. He said, serious now, “She's a redhead.”

“You liked her,” Honey said.

“I already have a redhead.”

“But you lusted after her. Was she famous?”

“In Kansas City.”

“Will she name names in her book?”

“I told her don't get any good guys in trouble, that's all.”

Honey said, “Tell me what you want to do.”

“About Jurgen?”

“About now. What do you want to do?”

 

They had their drinks and cigarettes sitting low in the sofa, both of them sunk into the cushions that crushed to fit their shapes, close enough to reach out and touch each other.

Carl said he needed a guide since he'd lost Kevin for a while. If she'd like to fill in he'd write a letter to get her off work for a few days and pay her for her time. Or have someone in the FBI office write the letter.

“I call in sick,” Honey said, “it's no problem. Yeah, I'd love to take you around. I have a car a friend's letting me use while he's at Benning jumping out of planes. He's an instructor, airborne. It's a 1940 Model A coupe, but I don't have any gas stamps. The guy's just a friend of mine.”

Carl said he'd get her stamps, but they'd do their running around and maybe surveillance in the Pontiac. He had maps he'd show her.

Honey said, “Wow, maps.” She said, “I'm thinking we should go across the street for dinner. The Paradiso, right there, I think is the best restaurant in Detroit. Outside of the Chop House. It's Italian, but not heavy on the tomato sauce Italian. Really good scaloppini and Tosca, the house salad's terrific, and they have collard greens like back home. I told them they ought to have grits on the menu. Whenever I fix calves' liver and bacon I make a little gravy to put on the grits.”

Carl said, “I crumble bacon in my grits.”

Honey said, “Are you hungry?”

“I'm not in any hurry.”

“The trouble is, if you're hungry and you eat first, and then decide what you want to do or just let it happen, there are certain things you'd be too full to, you know, throw yourself into.”

“Certain things,” Carl said.

“I went with a guy from Argentina during another entire year of my life, after the entire year I spent with Walter. Those two were night and day. Arturo, the guy from Argentina, could order dinner in five languages and choose just the right wines. He said only one restaurant in Detroit had a decent wine list, the London Chop House, so that's where we went. We'd come back to his digs at the Abington, kick our shoes off and have cognac and coffee. The Abington had a dining room, but we only used it if we were too tired to go out. This is when Art would start fooling around in his Latin way, very serious about it, after the dinner and three different kinds of wine.”

“You drank three bottles?”

“Once in a while we'd finish them off. The first time we went out together he said he came to Detroit six times a year for meetings at GM.”

“How'd you get together?”

“We started talking. A young woman from Grosse Pointe, I'll call her, very tailored, brought him along while she tried on dresses. We talked for maybe fifteen minutes and he asked me out. I said, ‘What about your girlfriend?' He said, ‘She's my mother,' deadpan, and we went out.”

“Did he buy her a dress?”

“She had two that she liked. I thought he'd show off and tell her she could have both. No, he said he didn't care for either
of the dresses. The tailored young woman handled it. She said, ‘Okay,' and was just a little bit cold.”

“And he never saw her again.”

“I don't know, I never asked about her, or what he was doing at General Motors.”

“He told you he came to Detroit six times a year.”

“Never stayed more than a week, and wanted to see me each time he came. I said, ‘You're asking me to sit and wait for the phone to ring?' He called me every day from Buenos Aires.” She sipped her drink. “We worked it out. I liked him, he was fun, he was thoughtful. He came every month for five days whether he had a meeting at GM or not. I thought that was sweet.”

“Did he want to marry you 'cause his wife didn't understand him?”

“I think he was married and had kids, but it never came up. He was Latin and fun at the same time. I called him Art. Or I'd call him a Latin from Manhattan and he'd say ‘You can tell by my banana.' He was a terrific dancer.” She was quiet a few moments. “He had something to do with auto racing. He took me to the Indy 500 the year we were seeing each other. Walk along Gasoline Alley, he knew just about everybody, and you could tell they liked him. Mauri Rose won that year, qualified at a hundred and twenty-one miles an hour and led thirty-nine laps out of two hundred.” She said, “After Pearl Harbor, December of that year, I never heard from him again.”

 

She told him she was going to change, get out of the suit she'd been wearing all day picking up lint and put on a dress. “The paper's right there.” She said, “Decide when we should have dinner,” giving him a look. Or maybe not, he wasn't sure. She said, “I'll be, oh, fifteen minutes or so.”

 

It made him think of Crystal Davidson eighteen years ago going into her bedroom while he was waiting for Emmett Long. Crystal telling him, “Don't get nosy,” but left the door open. It wasn't a minute later she stepped into plain sight wearing a pink-colored teddy, the crotch sagging between her white thighs. She thought he was from a newspaper. He told her, “Miss, I'm a deputy United States marshal. I'm here to place Emmett Long under arrest or put him in the ground, one.” A line he'd prepared for the occasion.

Now he was looking through the front section of the
Free Press
. He remembered saying to Crystal, “What you want to do when Emmett comes is pay close attention. Then later on you can tell what happened here as the star witness and get your name in the paper. I bet even your picture.” Crystal said, “Really?”

Carl looked at the paper again and read a couple of stories he thought were funny. He got up from the sofa and began reading aloud from the paper as he approached the hall, Honey's bedroom on the left, the bathroom on the right. “‘A woman was shot in her fashionable eastside home by a jealous suitor. The suspect said he did it because she had trifled with his affection.' You think those were his words?” Carl said, looking up now at the bedroom door standing open.

Honey still had on the skirt to her suit but was bare otherwise, her breasts pointing directly at Carl. She said, “I can't imagine anyone saying that.”

Carl looked at the paper again—Jesus Christ—and read another news item. “‘Barbara Ann Baylis was bludgeoned to death with an iron frying pan in her home in Redford Township. After several days of grilling, her sixteen-year-old son, Elvin, admitted he had slain his mother in reprisal for a scolding.'” Carl looked up.

Honey hadn't moved.

She said, “Don't you love the way they write? The boy goes insane, screams at his mom and beats her to death with a skillet. 'Cause she scolded him?”

Carl said, “I can imagine the scene”—closing the paper—“the boy going into a rage.”

Honey said, “Have you decided what you want to do?”

Carl said, “I was thinking we could have supper then drive by Vera Mezwa's. Check on the cars there for the meeting and get the license numbers.”

Honey still hadn't moved to cover her breasts.

She said, “That's what you want to do, check license numbers?”

B
ohdan came in the kitchen with Dr. Taylor's glass, empty but with dregs, a maraschino cherry, orange rind and bits of melted ice Bo dumped in the sink.

He said to Vera fixing a cheese tray, “The doctor's turning into a chatterbox. He said the most I've ever heard come out of him at one time. All by himself in the parlor reading
Collier's,
he licks his thumb getting ready to turn a page, very deliberate about it. He hands me his empty glass, he says, ‘I've told Vera a hundred times sweet cherries simply don't agree with me.'”

“I forgot,” Vera said. “I forget everything he tells me almost instantly.” She repeated, “‘I've told Vera sweet cherries simply don't agree with me.' What's that, ten words? It's about average for him. Unless he's telling us what the Jews are cooking up.”

“You left out he's told you a hundred times, that makes thirteen words, but I haven't come to the good part. Really, he couldn't seem to shut up. I took the glass and said, ‘Doctor, it will be my pleasure to fix this one myself.' He looked up and did
a doubletake. I turned to walk away and he said, ‘Bohdan?' with that sort of British accent he puts on, though not all the time. He waited for me to turn to him and said, ‘You look very handsome this evening. You're doing something different with your hair?' I said no, it's the same, and shook my head so my hair would bounce around. I said, ‘How do you like this outfit on me? It's pure cashmere.' He said, ‘Oh, you're wearing a skirt,' as if he'd just noticed. I said, ‘Do you like it?' He said, ‘It's very chic, I like it with the sandals.' He asked me to turn around, but didn't say anything about my fanny.”

“His drug must be kicking in,” Vera said. “I told you he takes Dilaudid. That druggist, the one who flirts with me, said it's more potent than morphine. The doctor prescribes it for a physical infirmity, his gallstones.” Vera was cutting wedges of hard and soft cheese for the tray, with soda crackers. “Walter will pout because there's no King Ludwig beer cheese, or Tilsit.”

“There's Tilsit in the fridge.”

“That's mine, I'm not putting it out.” She said to Bo, “You decided against the black dress.”

“I love it, but it's not me. The shoulder pads. I look like a footballer in drag.”

“This way you're a little boy in drag. The pearls would look nice.”

“I'm easing the group into what I might do more often. Oh, Jurgen came down. He's wearing his sports coat but no tie in sight. He could use a scarf, or one of my bandanas. I introduced him to Taylor. The doctor rose to his feet and saluted.”

“The Nazi salute?”

“The snappy one. But then looked embarrassed, sorry he'd tried it. Jurgen gave him a rather pleasant nod. He'll have a whiskey with ice, no ginger ale. I'll take care of the doctor.”

“I'm waiting for Joe Aubrey to see you,” Vera said. “Walter called. Joe took the train this time. Walter, his faithful comrade, met him at the station. I don't understand their friendship, Joe is so crude.”

“But he's the one with money.”

Vera closed her eyes and opened them. “I can't imagine kissing him.”

“But if it gets you what you need—be brave, it won't hurt you. Take off your dress and ask if he'll make out a check payable to something German, Dachau? They need funds too, you know, repair the gas chambers, do a little redecorating.”

“In what amount?”

“One hundred thousand simoleons. Life will be bliss for at least ten years.”

“This is too spur of the moment.”

“Vera, take off your undies and get out the invisible ink. The bedroom's dark. He writes in whatever amount the cheap fuck wants in invisible ink and we write over it what
we
want.” Bo said, “Listen, why don't you seduce him tonight?”

“Please—”

“He's here. He goes home, how do you get to Griffin, Georgia? Ask him to stay. You want to talk to him about going into some business, wigs, expensive wigs made of human hair. I see the little Oriental girl crying as they cut off her beautiful hair. Tell Mr. Aubrey I'll drive him to Walter's after, ‘after' being whenever you've finished with him. He won't stay the night, knowing Walter would give him the silent treatment, not offering a word, but willing to give his left nut to know what happened. So when you're through fucking Mr. Aubrey, let me know.”

“Please, I don't like you to use that word.”

“I love it when you're a prude. You can't say the word but go wild doing it.”

 

Jurgen stood with his drink waiting for Walter to arrive and deliver his statement, his plan, whatever it was, to a gathering of ersatz spies, Vera the only genuine one, a paid—at least at one time—espionage agent of the Abwehr, but never with her heart in it. She'd said to him last night, “There is nothing I can do for your people, it's too late.” She said, “To tell you the truth I would have been more comfortable working for the British a few years ago, in 1938, '39, when Germany began taking whatever it wanted. I've had to rationalize like mad to send information to Hamburg, trying to help the cause of your Führer.” Vera said, “I've given up. Still, I don't want you to be caught. You're here because Walter can't be responsible for you and work on his plan. That's the reason he gave me.”

“It's enough,” Jurgen said. “But once I meet your associates I can't risk staying. I don't know these people.”

She told him about Dr. Michael George Taylor, an obstetrician who saw quite a number of German women in his practice. “He tells them, goes to their ladies' groups and tells them about the tremendous leap forward the Nazis have made in the history of man. He doesn't say what they've done for women, if anything. He loves Germany because he hates Jews. Don't ask him why, he'll recite his speech on the international Jewish conspiracy. I think what he tells anyone who will listen is seditious rather than treasonable, though he did give me information, at least a year ago, about a nitrate plant in Sandusky, where he's from originally, in Ohio. In the late thirties the doctor lectured on
Mein Kampf
for ladies' clubs. Imagine the glazed expressions on the faces of the women.” Jurgen smiled and Vera said, “Yes, but Dr. Taylor doesn't try to be funny. He's serious, he's afraid, he worries. If he's arrested I'm quite sure he'll give us up.” She said, “Did you ever read
Mein Kampf
?”

“I've never felt it necessary.”

“Last summer in my backyard the doctor pissed on the American flag. No, he set fire to it and then pissed on it.”

“To extinguish the flame.”

“The fire was out,” Vera said. “I think he simply had to piss.”

He liked Vera and liked being with her; she was warm to him. He knew if he stayed she would take him to bed before long. Unless Bohdan was providing the love, the going-to-bed love. At this time he liked Bo and admired his skirt and sweater, like a baby step into pure decadence, if that's what he wanted to do. Jurgen hadn't yet made up his mind about Bo. What all his duties were. What he might be up to. It didn't matter to Jurgen; he wasn't going to wait around to find out.

He wished he could help Vera. Think of something she could do with her life, use her personality in some way, when the war was over. If she didn't go to prison. Bo swore, kissing his Black Madonna holy medal, he had not told the G-men anything they could use against Vera. But Jurgen thought he must, from time to time, tell them things that happened. Good liars spoke in half-truths.

Walter came in with Joe Aubrey, they approached Jurgen and Joe Aubrey gave him a salute that was stiff, military, and told Jurgen meeting him was a special honor, something he couldn't wait to tell his grandkids.

Jurgen said, “Oh, you have grandchildren.”

Joe Aubrey said, “My first wife was barren, my second wife frigid, and my third wife's gonna get traded in she don't have a duck in the oven by this time next year.”

“You could see a doctor,” Jurgen said, “find out it isn't your fault your wife can't conceive.”

“All I have to see,” Joe Aubrey said, “is a good-lookin' high yella, high-assed Georgia-Hawaiian in Griffin with a light-skinned boy looking dead-on like yours truly when I was a tad.”

Jurgen paused to make sure he understood.

“You're his father.”

“Don't say it too loud now.”

“You support him?”

“Twenty dollars every month. I told his mama, ‘You see he behaves. He's going to that nigger college in Atlanta, Morehouse, when he's of age.'”

Joe Aubrey looked off and then turned to watch Bo talking to Dr. Taylor.

“My goodness, will you get a load of Bo-Bo, finally showing he's a girl at heart. Look, he even stands like a girl, one that's kinda lazy.”

Now he was walking across the Oriental carpet in the middle of the sitting room to join Bo and Dr. Taylor, Aubrey saying, “Hey, Bo-Bo, you had knockers you wouldn't be a bad-lookin' broad, you know it?”

Now the doctor was telling Aubrey to leave him alone. “Why do you have to be so crass? Bohdan isn't bothering you, is he?”

Joe Aubrey turns on the doctor, Jurgen thought and watched him do it, Aubrey saying, “What're you, Doc, on the fence? Tired of looking up the old hair pie all day, so what's the alternative? How 'bout a boy dresses like a woman, looks like a woman, acts like one…Doc, I know you have a wife name of Rosemary. How's it work, you go either way?”

Dr. Taylor was saying something about his wife Jurgen couldn't hear. He felt someone come up next to him. Vera.

“Why can't he behave himself?”

“He holds Negroes in disdain,” Jurgen said, “but fathers a child by a Negro woman.”

“What don't you understand?”

“He called the woman high yellow. If ‘yella' means yellow.”

“You know what a mulatta is, or a quadroon?”

“Ah, I see.”

Vera started to move away and he touched her arm.

“Are you afraid Joe Aubrey will give you up?”

“Joe talks without hearing what he's saying. He could give me up without realizing it. And Dr. Taylor…Dr. Taylor the drug addict.”

Jurgen listened, but now was distracted. He said, “Let me speak to your guests,” and walked across the room to join Vera's spies: Bohdan with the palm of his hand to his mouth; Walter frowning with all his heart. Frowning when he told Jurgen he was being moved to Vera's so Walter could concentrate on what he planned to do for the Führer. Still frowning as he admitted yes, Carl Webster had come to see him and lied, saying Jurgen and Otto had been caught and put back in the prison camp.
Why?
Jurgen said, “To confuse you. Get you to say no, we're still free.” Jurgen could feel Carl coming closer in his cowboy boots, with each stride. He remembered Carl saying, “I like to hear myself walk.” Hardly ever saying what Jurgen expected. He missed talking to Carl, missed his company, this federal lawman from Oklahoma who believed Will Rogers was the greatest American who ever lived because there wasn't ever anyone as American as Will Rogers. He was funny and dead-on accurate when he took shots at the government, and he was always a cowboy. Carl said, “You could tell he was the real thing by the hundred-foot reata he carried around, could do tricks with, throwing his loop over whatever you pointed to and never had to untangle it. Jurgen was thinking that if he ever saw Carl Webster again, even if Carl had him handcuffed, he'd ask him how one became a cowboy.

He heard Joe Aubrey telling the doctor, “The reason you don't talk much 'less it's about Jew boys, you know you sound like a
woman. You use words like
lovely
and
precious
you never hear men saying. Or you come off creepy having all those drugs in your medicine cabinet.”

Jurgen reached them.

He said, “Gentlemen, Walter Schoen is ready to give his address. He's going to tell you about all the women he's been screwing for the past five years or so and give you their names. Vera will introduce Walter in a moment. Dr. Taylor, have a seat, please. Bohdan, if you'll turn these chairs around…And, Mr. Aubrey, come with me, please. I want to see how you make your mint julep.”

“With rye? Are you kiddin',” Joe Aubrey said, “and no mint? I swear, Vera's the cheapest rich broad I ever met.”

 

Vera began with a quote from her predecessor assigned to Abwehr's Detroit station, Grace Buchanan-Dineen.

“You will recall that when the Justice Department threatened Grahs with acts of treason, and she allowed them to plant a recording device in her apartment, Grahs said, ‘I was technically involved in the spy ring, yes, but I never considered myself morally guilty.'”

The statement made no sense to Vera. If turning in her spy ring wasn't an immoral act, what was? It was a cheap out, getting the woman twelve years instead of a rope around her neck. Still, Vera used the quote. She made herself say to the group seated in her living room, there was no reason for any of us to feel moral guilt, fighting the good fight, working for the cause of National Socialism. But, she said, as the end of the war draws near, our efforts have proved to be, well, insufficient, despite the Führer's inspiration, Vera said, wanting to bite her tongue. Even our brave saboteurs, two months from the time U-boats put them ashore,
were tried by a military court and convicted. Six of our fellow agents were hanged, the remaining two, the informers, languish in prison. Vera had to pause and think before telling them the indictment against the thirty defendants last year for sedition ended with prison terms. We are told we have a right to free speech, but when we stand up for the truth, say that Communists control the American government, that Franklin
Roose
velt, the cripple, gets down to kiss the ass of the midget Josef Stalin, we are imprisoned.