Up in Honey's Room (22 page)

“My dear,” he would say, “you don't believe his brain hemorrhaged?”

“Yes, but what caused it to do so?”

They'll consider he used some type of poison and he'll tell them, “Believe what you want.”

“He must have used poison.”

“But how was it administered?”

“He couldn't have done it. Walter is still in Detroit.”

“Walter's clever. He sent it.”

“What?”

“Let's say a cake. Delivered to the Little White House bearing the name of the president's lady friend, according to Joe Aubrey, Miss Lucy Mercer. Oh, that Walter is clever. Even if the president has a food taster like kings of old, a cake said to be from Miss Lucy Mercer would arouse no suspicion. The president has a piece while having his portrait sketched, takes several bites and slumps in his chair in a coma. The time, one-fifteen, as he finishes his lunch.”

It was the kind of cloak-and-dagger plot Vera would think of. Or something like it. He could hear Vera say, “By whatever means the president met his end, you can be sure our Walter made it happen. We are not surprised at the cover-up, the White House saying his death was of natural causes. I doubt
that Walter will ever reveal how he brought it off. For as long as he lives people who know this cunning fellow will offer their own theories and each will ask, ‘Is that how you did it, Walter?'”

His reply would remain, “Believe what you want.”

H
oney had an apron on over the bra and panties she wore straightening the living room, picking up newspapers, emptying ashtrays, dusting here and there with a feather duster, showing off in front of Jurgen on the sofa with
Life,
his favorite magazine. He could
not
believe she had saved every issue since Pearl Harbor, 163 copies of
Life
in the storage room, seven missing consecutively from the winter of 1942.

She astonished Jurgen. She was always her own person, a jewel, a diamond in the rough that was her own style of rough, listening to Sinatra's “Ill Wind” and saying “Fucking effortless” in her quiet way. He wondered what happened to her in the winter of 1942, when he was in Libya. He loved her. He would be in wonder of her for as long as he lived, Honey dusting in her underwear, arching her back to aim her pert rear end at him. He had told Honey he would become a bull rider on the rodeo circuit. “You know from the radio how they announce the contestants? ‘Now here's a young cowboy name of Flea Casanova from Big Spring, Texas.' Soon you're going to hear, ‘We have a young cowpoke now name
of Jurgen Schrenk from Cologne, Germany. Jurgen'll be atop a one-eyed bull full of meanness name of Killer-Diller. Ride him, Jurgen.'” He told Honey, “The first-place bull rider at the Dallas Rodeo—it's in
Life
magazine—made seventy-five hundred dollars for staying on three bulls for eight seconds each. I rode a Tiger in North Africa. I can ride a bull.”

Honey looked over her shoulder so her butt was still aimed at him. “I knew a boy on the circuit was injured one time,” Honey said. “He'd write on a notepad to tell me how hungry he was, his jaw wired shut till it healed.” Now she was dusting the bookcase, dabbing the feathers at the shelves.

“I forgot to tell you Eleanor wasn't there when he died. She was in Washington. Roosevelt had a full schedule today, planning to attend a barbecue where country fiddlers were going to play for him. So he wasn't thinking about dying, was he? You like hillbilly fiddles? I don't. At all. Did you know Roosevelt was president longer'n any of the others? Since 1933. He was sixty-three years old.”

Now she was taking a book from the shelf, holding it toward him so he could see it was
Mein Kampf
. “Never read and no longer a conversation piece,” Honey said, and tossed it in the cabinet she opened, beneath the shelves.

Jurgen said, “Isn't that where you put Darcy's pistol?”

She stooped to bring out the Luger. “Right here, I want to ask you about it.” She laid it on a bookshelf and moved to her record collection in another part of the cabinet. She said, “One of the radio reports said Roosevelt was sitting in an armchair and seemed comfortable when, the guy said, ‘A piercing pain stabbed at the back of Roosevelt's proud, leonine head.' You think Roosevelt had a head like a lion? I thought he was suave with his cigarette holder, but never thought of him as leonine. Now Truman's president.”

She stood up with a record and put it on the Victrola. “He's a
Kansas City politician they say plays the piano. We'll have to see what we have here, Harry S. Truman. I doubt he'll make much noise.”

The record came on and Jurgen said, “What
is
that?”

“Bob Crosby.”

“I mean that instrument.”

“Bob Haggart whistling through his teeth while he strums his bass.” Now she was singing, “‘Big noise blew in from Winnetka, big noise blew right out again.'”

“What's the name of it?”

“‘Big Noise from Winnetka.' What else can you call it? The drummer's Ray Bauduc, with his wood blocks and cowbells. Ray's fun.”

“You know him?”

“I mean the way he plays is fun. I did meet him one time I was in New Orleans. Had a drink with him.” Honey picked up the Luger from the shelf and brought it to Jurgen on the sofa. “I think Darcy said it's loaded, if I'm not mistaken.”

“He did,” Jurgen said as Honey let herself fall into the sofa close to him. He was fooling with the Luger now, pulled up on the toggle that exposed the breech and a nine-millimeter cartridge ejected. He added the cartridge to the magazine, popped it back inside the grip and handed the pistol to Honey. “Loaded, ready to fire,” Jurgen said. “Is there someone you'd like to shoot?”

“Are you kidding?” Honey said, raising the pistol and closing one eye as she aimed at the mirror in the hallway to her bedroom. “I wouldn't hesitate to plug Hitler, I ever had the Führer in my sights.”

“You don't want to see him tried for war crimes?”

“What if he gets off?”

“You're not serious. He'll hang, if he doesn't kill himself, which is a distinct possibility.”

Honey lowered the pistol and raised it again saying, “What about Walter's look-alike, Heinrich Himmler?”

“The world will celebrate for days when he's hanged.”

“If I had a choice,” Honey said, “Hitler or Himmler? I'd pick Himmler. Kick him in the nuts as hard as I can before I shoot him.”

Honey lowered the pistol again. This time she jammed it straight down between the sofa cushion she was sitting on and Jurgen's.

“Boy, am I tired.”

“Why don't you take a nap?”

“I have to go get booze. I think Vera likes to get smashed. Especially the way things are going.”

“I think she handles it well.”

“I hope so. I'd hate to see her fall apart.”

“You mean get drunk?”

“No, the way she's worried about Bo.”

“You believe he's missing?”

“Why would she lie about it?”

“What did you tell me Carl said? He can see her wringing her hands?”

“He's a smart-ass.”

“He has different poses,” Jurgen said. “One time he looks like a farmhand with a jaw full of Beech-Nut chewing tobacco.”

“Scrap,” Honey said.

“The next time—this one's my favorite—he's looking at something miles away that no one else can see, and you believe he actually can. I think he's himself, though, when you're talking to him. He's straight with you.”

“He can stop you in your tracks,” Honey said. “You have to think fast to come back at him. He's more fun than he looks.”

“You like him,” Jurgen said.

“I like him as a man, but he's taken. If he wasn't, you'd have competition breathing down your neck. He told his wife, Louly, on the altar, he'd stay pure as the driven snow, and he believes he means to keep his word. But then if he happens to get horny, as we all do at times, and he wants some action right now? Something happens. Dumb luck sets in and saves Carl, gnashing his teeth, from going back on his word. I might've told him it was his guardian angel fucking with his life.”

“You know him well.”

“I learned that about him in less'n two minutes. You know what he is, he's lucky. And there is nothing in the world like going with a guy you know is lucky.”

“I think several times in his shooting situations,” Jurgen said, “Carl, yes, has been lucky. The bank robber coming out to the street, the sidewalk, with a woman in front of him, and tells Carl and the few police in this small town, ‘Lay down your guns.' Carl told me he could see part of the bank robber's face over the woman's left shoulder. Carl's in the street, thirty feet away. The policemen drop their guns, Carl raises his and shoots the bank robber in the middle of his forehead. I said to Carl, ‘You were risking the woman's life.' Carl said, ‘I hit him where I aimed.'”

“He knows what he's doing,” Honey said. “Did he tell you the woman fainted? Carl said something like, ‘Yeah, she slumped over, I was afraid I'd hit her.' Then shows just a speck of a grin.”

“He told you that?”

“No, it was in the ‘Hot Kid' book about him. Kevin loaned me his copy. I haven't told Carl I read it. I've been comparing him to the one in the book.”

“Are they the same person?”

“Identical. He's the only guy I know who can brag about something he did without sounding like he's bragging. You accuse him of risking the woman's life and he tells you he hit where he'd aimed. In the book he says, ‘Dead center.' He's still lucky.”

“I was in tanks almost four years,” Jurgen said, “and I'm still alive.”

Honey said, “I know you are, Hun. I spotted you as Mr. Lucky in Vera's kitchen, the first time I laid eyes on my Kraut,” patting his thigh.

“Yes, but if you had to choose between us right now, at this moment—”

“I'd pick you,” Honey said, “because you love me. I'm getting there with you, Hun, all I have are tender feelings. I don't see why we won't make it. Right now I gotta go get the booze.”

“I'll get it,” Jurgen said. “Go to bed and I'll come looking for you.”

W
alter arrived downstairs at twenty to eight, surprising Honey. She buzzed him in and opened the door to the apartment. In the kitchen, Jurgen sipped his martini and raised the glass to Honey coming in with an empty one.

“To the love of my life. Who was that?”

“Walter—”

“I thought he was in Georgia.”

“Hun, you may have to protect me from him. Walter gets horny at strange times, okay? Shoot him if you have to.”

“With the Luger, it would be poetic melodrama.”

She said, “Talk to him while I cut the cheese,” and grinned. “As you learn more of our slang, don't ever say, ‘Who cut the cheese?' in polite company.”

He didn't know what she was talking about, but paused as he was walking out. “How many of those have you had?”

“This is my second,” Honey said, pouring herself one.

Jurgen came in the living room looking at the sofa, the last place
he saw the Luger, Honey holding it, aiming at Himmler after kicking him in the nuts, and turns as Walter said, “May I come in?”

Walter standing in the doorway.

Jurgen gestured. “Yes, please.”

Now Honey was in the room with her martini.

“Walter, you didn't go to Georgia.”

“No, this time I didn't have to. But he is dead, isn't he?”

Honey glanced at Jurgen.

“The president of the United States,” Walter said. “You didn't hear he's dead?”

“Oh, right, the president. We were shocked,” Honey said. “Where were you, Walter, when you heard?”

He said, “I was at home,” and after a moment, “awaiting the news.”

“Have a martini,” Honey said, handing him her glass. She started for the kitchen saying, “You were waiting for the news to come on?” and kept going.

Walter turned to Jurgen. “She's like an impulsive child. As I said, I was awaiting the news of his death.”

Jurgen waited a moment for Honey, back again with a martini. “His radio must have been on. Walter says he was waiting for the report of the president's death.”

Honey said, “You knew he was gonna die? What'd you have, a vision?”

“You wouldn't understand,” Walter said.

“Why not?”

“I prefer not to talk about it.”

“He wants us to believe,” Jurgen said, “he had something to do with the president's death.”

“Did I say that?”

“It sounds to me that's what you're saying.”

“Believe what you want,” Walter said, raised the stemware and downed his martini.

 

Carl sat in Kevin's Chevy parked in front of the building, Honey's apartment up on four, looking at Woodward Avenue from the top floor. Carl was thinking it would be all right once you got used to the streetcars. It was twenty past eight. He was thinking of Jurgen and he was thinking of Honey, back and forth. Thinking he shouldn't act like Jurgen was an old buddy and get bombed with him telling stories to each other. You don't ignore your sworn duty, 'less you see nothing wrong in the light of eternity with giving the Kraut a break. Then thinking, If you believe Honey is an occasion of lustful ideas, show that vamping him will get her nowhere. He thought about Vera, too, anxious to see her again. He had figured out what her game was. Honey said she was coming to visit, sounding like they'd have coffee and cookies. But if Bo was missing would she step a foot out of the house? To Carl it meant Bo would be with her.
Look who showed up, my darling Bohunk
. Something like that. Once he comes in and curtseys, Carl thought, watch him like a fuckin' hawk. This is the boy who did Joe Aubrey and the other two at the same time, the doctor and his wife, stood there and shot all three of them, and knows how to cut a man's throat. Vera's game was to set her dog on anybody who could tell on her, her puppy dog, but a vicious little son of a bitch, wasn't he?

Carl had been parked here almost an hour.

He saw Walter arrive and hadn't seen him leave.

He was going to wait for Vera and Bo and ride up in the elevator with them. This late, though, they might've changed their mind. Unless they were holding off, making sure everybody they wanted was
here. Carl wasn't sure if Bo wanted him or not. But if you're here, Carl thought, he'll have to deal with you. So quit thinking and go on upstairs.

 

He saw Jurgen standing there in his sport coat and saw him smile. He looked at Honey and she smiled at him. Everybody happy this evening. There was Walter holding what looked like a martini in a water glass, judging from the olives in it, and Jurgen and Honey both holding martinis, the killer drink meant to put you out. Carl could take 'em or leave 'em. He said to Honey, “I bet a dollar you still haven't got a bottle of bourbon.”

“You win,” Honey said. “Go talk to your friend, I'll get you a drink.”

He walked up to Jurgen and Jurgen put out his hand and Carl took it and couldn't help grinning at him. “The escape artist,” Carl said. “You ought to write a book about how you did it, slipped out anytime you wanted.”

“You know who's writing a book, Shemane. I'll be in there with the whores and crooked politicians.”

“I'm not taking you in,” Carl said, “not now. I mean it's too late, and I don't have my heart in it.”

“I appreciate it,” Jurgen said. “What I'm going to do is become a star of the rodeo circuit riding bulls.”

“Talk to Gary Marion,” Carl said. “Remember that kid marshal, couldn't wait to shoot somebody? You know he left the marshals to ride bulls.”

“Yes, I'm going to look him up, get him to show me how to stay on the eight seconds.”

Carl said, “Here's a boy name of Tex Schrenk from Cologne, way out in the panhandle.”

“I keep wondering if I'll ever go back.”

“Why wouldn't you? Pay a visit, see your old dad.”

“He was killed in a bombing.”

Carl said, “I'm sorry to hear it. You can use mine if you ever need a dad. You know Virgil, you shook his pecan trees.”

“I loved Virgil, with his opinions.”

Honey handed Carl a highball. “He loved you too, he told me. Go ahead and pat each other's asses.”

Now Walter came over with his water-glass martini.

“I don't see you people mourning your Führer, Franklin Roosevelt.” Walter sounding more robust.

“I'm wearing black, aren't I?” Honey said. “You want another martini? You've only had four.”

“I want to know,” Walter said, “what you think about your president and his unusually sudden death.”

“I think Stalin wore him out,” Honey said. “Dealing with that maniac. Vera said he was a pygmy, wore lifts in his shoes.”

“I might say,” Walter said, “the sudden and mysterious death of your president—”

Carl said, “What's the mystery about it?”

“The circumstances. You believe it or you don't. It doesn't matter to me.”

Carl said, “Walter, quit messin' with us and say what you're dying to tell.”

Jurgen said, “Tell us, Valter,” sounding German, having fun drinking martinis, “or I have you tortured.”

Carl said, “Honey told me on the phone. She said, ‘Roosevelt's dead,' and I thought of you, Walter.”

Honey was nodding. “He did. He said, ‘You don't think it was Walter, do you?' I said something smart like, ‘Not unless he has the paranormal ability to cause our president's brain to hemorrhage.'”

Carl was shaking his head. “You said, ‘Not unless Walter got the president on the phone and bored him to death.'”

Honey said, “I did, didn't I?” and turned to Walter. “But I didn't mean it, Hun. The point I was making, no, you didn't have anything to do with the president's death, how could you?”

“Believe what you want,” Walter said.

The buzzer buzzed.