Up in Honey's Room (17 page)

“Only socially,” Bo said, “he's so much fun.”

“But if Aubrey's body is found in the house,” Vera said, “it becomes a much bigger story because Aubrey's an infamous celebrity. They'll write entertaining features about his Klan activities, perhaps the only Nazi Grand Dragon in America. The investigation can go on forever, newspaper columnists offering theories. More light is cast on us as enemy aliens and the Justice Depart
ment is forced to take action. We'll be indicted, charged with acts of sedition, if not plotting to overthrow the government. We'll be offered a bond we can't possibly afford, and sit in a federal prison for months awaiting trial.”

“But what do they have on us?” Bo said. “Nothing.”

Bo sounding confident for her benefit. Vera knew him, his poses, his attitudes he could turn on and off. By now she could anticipate his reactions. If the FBI came for Bo, he'd run.

She said, “What would you do if they came to arrest you?”

“Run,” Bo said. “Have it already worked out how we'd do it. I
know
they won't be after me without you.”

She wanted him to mean it and murmured into the phone, “This is when I need to feel my lovely boy against my body and whisper things to him.”

“Dirty things?”

“What I want him to do to me.”

“You're giving me what Americans call a boner,” Bo said. “Stay in bed. I'll be home as soon as I dump Mr. Aubrey.”

“The way we planned it.”

“Yes, bury him.”

“He's quite bloody, his clothes?”

“I suppose. I shot him and closed the door.”

“You have to put him in my car, don't you?”

“I can wrap him in a blanket.”

“Bo, don't take anything.”

“I won't.”

“Perhaps the Lugers. But you understand it isn't to look like a robbery.”

“Leave the Schmeisser?”

“The doctor called it that?”

“I did. So he'd think I'm an oaf.”

“Bring the Schmeisser if you want.”

“Anything else?”

“Be sure to clean the powder room.”

 

Vera had learned that if she screamed at Bohdan, sometimes only raised her voice, he'd sulk. He'd stop talking to her and she would have to wait for him to get over his funk or let him wear one of her cocktail dresses. She loved Bo; she did. When they were having fun in bed or on the floor or the stairway and Bo's mind was set on giving her pleasure, she adored him. This lovely boy from Odessa who killed with ease having seen hundreds and hundreds of people gassed, shot against walls, shot with pistols against their heads, hung from streetlights, locked in rooms and burned alive, all of it a part of Bo's coming-of-age. She would ask him, “Will you always love me, Bo?” And he would tell her she was his life, his reason for living.

She wished she'd had more time to spend with Jurgen, another lovely boy, at first thinking he might be a bore or a tragic figure after North Africa, instilled with war, and she would have told him to wake up, we've all been to war. But he was never tiresome. He let you know he was alive, happy to be in America, and he was inquisitive. He accepted her being a reluctant German agent and in another day or so they could have been in love. At least lovers.

But along came Honey, the cheeky
Sieg Heil
girl, not Honey Schoen, Walter's ex, Honey Deal. She had taken Jurgen away and by this morning would have eaten him up. Vera liked Honey from the moment she walked in the house, she sounded so American. “I'd marry Carl in a minute, but he's taken.” Or when she said, “I act a little like I'm on the make, but I'm not after him to
leave home.” Honey just wanted to have fun. She thought Bo was cute.

Vera loved the way Americans spoke in their different accents and the expressions they used. One of her favorites was “on the make,” which meant flirting. She loved Honey saying, “You think he's a shit-kicker till you look in his eyes.” Telling so much in a few words about the federal policeman, Carl, the one Honey had her eye on.

The day they arrived in Detroit she told Bo, “We are going to listen to people, the way they pronounce words and the slang they use. We are not from the South or New York City, we live in Detroit and speak the way they do here.”

At that time Bo said, “I have one. ‘So is your old man.'”

“So's,”
Vera said. “
So's
your old man. You hear the difference? It's a rebuff.”

Bo was a natural. He liked to imitate people on the radio, Walter Winchell, Gabriel Heatter, Jack Benny. He could do Rochester. Vera laughed because he was funny and she loved him, this boy who told her she was his life.

But if the time came he had to make a choice, give her up or go to prison?

He'd give her up.

In the courtroom Bo would gaze at her with tears in his eyes—he could do that, cause his eyes to fill—and testify for the prosecution. Bo would create for her daring acts of espionage, and the newspapers would make her a star, World War II's Mata Hari, without citing a single reference to what Mata Hari did for the Kaiser. Or did she spy for the French? Vera wasn't certain, perhaps both, but knew she was better-looking than the Dutch woman—huge thighs but no tits—whose stage name was a Malay word for “eye of dawn.”

If offered the same choice, would she give up Bo?

Regretfully.

Though it would never come to that. Or Bo in a courtroom testifying against her. She would shoot him first.

Love in a time of war had only moments.

But awfully good ones.

Even Aubrey wasn't that bad.

C
arl's dad phoned at 6
A.M.
waking him up. “How you like De-troit?”

“All right. It's big. They say it's our third-biggest city, but I heard Philadelphia was.”

“It don't mean a thing to me,” his dad said. “How's the ho-tel?”

They'd go through this until his dad came to the reason he was talking to Carl long-distance.

“A guy called last night saying he was a buddy of yours and wondered where you were. Narcissa talked to him.”

“What's his name?”

“Vito Tessa.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“No, I said Vito Tessa.” His dad being funny.

“Didn't the name sound familiar? He's the kid gangster with the big nickel-plate and the zoot suit, the jitterbug, the night before I left.”

“The one, his brother's Lou Tessa?”

“Yeah, it's another one of those brother things. What'd Narcissa tell him, I'm in Detroit, uh? Or you wouldn't of called.”

“Yeah, I guess she did. And where you're staying.”

“I thought she knew better.”

“He told her he was in the Seabees with you. How would he know that?”

“Every time I talk to a writer he wants to know what I did in the war.”

“The kid gangster read up on you.” Virgil said, “Wait a minute, Narcissa's standing here listening.” Virgil came back on saying, “I told her one time shipmates stand together, and she believed the guy was a shipmate of yours. Hold it again.” This time Virgil said, “Narcissa says he told her his name, Vito Tessa. And if we talk to you, let you know Vito Tessa is coming to see you. Why'd he say that if he's out to shoot you?”

“The brother tried to shoot me in the back.”

“This one wants to try face-to-face?”

“I'm not sure. Marvin the doorman at the Mayo said, ‘Uh-oh, the man's got a gun,' and I turned. Now we're face-to-face, but he didn't want any part of it. I don't know what he's doing giving you his name.”

“Showin' off,” Virgil said.

“But it doesn't mean he won't try to surprise me. I'm gonna have to call Tulsa police, find out who he is and why they turned him loose. They had him for possession of a firearm. I can't see the kid gangster with a license to pack. He might be smarter than I gave him credit, but not that different from his brother. Now I have to keep looking over my shoulder while I track the Krauts and get 'em home. One of 'em I believe took off, Otto, the SS guy, but hasn't been gone long.” Carl said to his dad, “Well, I guess my day has started.”

 

He phoned Honey at seven, seven-thirty, and five of eight, each time letting it ring in case Honey was in the shower, Carl seeing her face raised in the spray, eyes closed, soapy water streaming over her sparkling clean breasts, but never got an answer. He had decided the best thing to do, keep Honey on as if she had never shown him her breasts. Though it could get tricky talking to her face-to-face, each knowing how close they came yesterday to something happening, if not adultery. He'd try not to stare at her blouse and imagine the two girls in there, thinking they were a size smaller than Louly's, but weren't what you'd call small breasts, either. What Honey's had was a look of their own, one he thought of as, you know, perky, their pink noses stuck up in the air. He liked this image that came to him, but couldn't think of anyone he could tell and admit he made it up. Maybe Narcissa.

He had stood in the bedroom doorway looking at Honey. She didn't move or give him any kind of sexy look. She didn't have to. She commented on what he read to her from the paper, the same as if she had all her clothes on, and asked him what he wanted to do. No, she said, “Have you decided what you want to do?”

The first thing he thought of was, You got to be kidding. But didn't say it. He didn't want to see her smile, encouraged. He had to be as cool about it as she was, and said let's have supper and drive by Vera Mezwa's, see who's there. Honey said, “That's what you want to do, check license numbers?” Standing there with her honkers staring at him. Honey started to smile, then was laughing, shaking her head. Carl grinned at her and at the two girls he would never see again and everything was almost back to normal. Honey got dressed.

Last night he'd said to her, “You get out of the car you're on your own,” in a normal tone of voice, but laying it out, this is the way it is. What did she do? She got out saying she'd tell him about it tomorrow and waved her fingers at him. She was out of view trespassing around the house, appeared again on the other side, went up to the door, turned and waved to him.

What did he do after that—nothing. Came back to the hotel, had a drink at the bar, went up to his room and turned on the radio for news reports. The Russians in Vienna fighting house to house. Carl listening, Carl thinking of how to be himself with Honey without getting in trouble.

 

Last night Carl had stopped at the curb in front of Vera Mezwa's house to let Honey out, Honey having her way without acting snippy about it. This morning he turned into the driveway and cut the motor. Nobody was going to drive off while Carl was visiting, not Ms. Mezwa, not her little helper and not the Kraut escape artist Jurgen Schrenk. Carl followed the walk to the front door, his hand raised in a gesture to the surveillance car across the street—not the empty one there for show—his acknowledging them saying there was no reason to call it in, we're all friends here, aren't we? But that's what the agents would do, radio the office. Carl rang the bell and heard the chime inside the house, waited and rang the bell again. He wasn't going anywhere.

The door opened and Carl said, “Bohdan Kravchenko from Odessa, a survivor of the siege. Nice going, buddy. I'm Carl Webster, here in no official capacity to see Miz Vera Mezwa, the lady of the house.”

Bo had on a green smoking jacket with black lapels, his bare chest showing, and pajama pants. He said, “I'm sorry, but Ms. Mezwa is not entertaining callers this morning.”

Carl said, “I don't need to be entertained, Bohunk. Run upstairs and tell her I have the means to search the house if I need to.”

Bo appeared to have turned to stone. He seemed to be trying not to move his mouth as he said, “May I see it?”

Carl pulled out the leather case he carried every day of his life and opened it to show his marshal's ID and his star.

Bo said, “That only tells me who you are.”

Carl said, “It's all you need to know.”

“But it's not a court order.”

Carl said, “It's better.”

 

They were both on the sofa at opposite ends, but turned to each other, Vera in a greenish silk dressing gown that was loose in front and she would let come open enough to catch his eye—Carl thinking these Detroit women came right at you. They were talking about Honey Deal.

Vera saying, “Yes, you dropped her off and she went home with Walter Schoen. That is to say I believe he drove her home. I can't presume to know his intentions. Honey, quite openly, apologized to Walter for the way she left him, rather abruptly, and I sensed he was encouraged to renew their relationship. At least to try. I noticed at one point while they were talking Walter was wiping his eyes.”

Carl said, “No kidding.”

He couldn't imagine her getting Walter worked up on purpose unless she was playing with him. Or she felt sorry for him, the reason she was being nice. Honey was out front in her way, not the least self-conscious. Carl believed she could walk out on a stage, face an auditorium full of strangers, and give a talk off the cuff. Tell about the funny thing that happened on the way there and make up the rest. Tell a few jokes. He felt he and Honey were
alike in that they could talk their way in or out of situations. She always seemed herself, didn't need to put on any kind of act. He said to Vera, “She left with Walter. Just the two of them in the car?”

“As far as I know.”

“What about Dr. Taylor?”

“You're familiar with everyone.”

“What was he doing?”

“Talking to my houseman, Bo.”

“I understand Joe Aubrey arrived with Walter.”

“Honey told you that? Or, there actually
is
someone in the surveillance car?”

Carl smiled for a moment.

“Didn't Joe Aubrey go home with Walter? That would be three of them in Walter's Ford.”

“I don't know, really. I had already said good night to my guests. They could stay and talk if they wished.”

“Maybe Aubrey went home with Dr. Taylor.”

“He might have.”

Carl said, “Who did Jurgen go home with?”

Vera was smoking a cigarette, at ease. She said, “Poor Jurgen. I understand for five and a half months no one can find him, and the Hot Kid arrives. Tell me, what does it mean to be a hot kid?”

“You start out being lucky,” Carl said.

“Twelve times,” Vera said, “you were lucky with your pistol, shooting criminals?”

“What you do with a gun isn't luck,” Carl said. “I'm talking about, in the line of duty having chances to look good, like you know what you're doing.”

Vera liked that. She smiled at him. “The newspapers write the story and you become a hero.”

“Once you get a name,” Carl said, “and somebody writes a book about you, you get referred to a lot. A clerk in a store stops a robbery. They might say he made a lightning fast Carl Webster move and brought up a revolver. Last month I was interviewed about escaped prisoners of war like I'm an expert on it. They call me 'cause my name's familiar. Let's see what Carl Webster has to say. It was a piece in
Newsweek
.”

“I saw it,” Vera said. “‘The Hot Kid's War.' Did you like what they wrote?”

“The writer and I got along pretty well.”

“Your wife I see is a marine?”

“A gunny. Louly teaches firing a machine gun from a dive-bomber.”

“Of the dozen people you've shot and killed in your career, were any of them women?”

“None. They were pretty much all wanted felons, bank robbers. One a cow thief caught in the act, but I don't count him.”

“Why is that?”

“I wasn't a marshal yet. If you're counting people I shot in the line of duty.”

“Do you ever regret taking their lives?”

Carl said, “Does Joe Foss regret shooting down twenty-six Zekes? He flew a Wildcat in the Pacific.”

Vera said, “Yes, of course, why would it be different? Though I imagine Joe Foss never sees the faces of the ones he kills.” She said, “Forgive me, I'm making conversation.”

Bo came to the sofa looking only at Vera to say there was a call for the deputy marshal. “In the den,” he told Carl, still looking at Vera, and turned away.

Carl said, “Was he asking you if it was okay?”

“You must have said something he didn't like.” Vera waved her hand. “He wants you to follow him.”

 

It was Kevin Dean on the phone.

“You're talking to Vera?”

“I'm looking for Honey,” Carl said standing by the desk, shelves of leather-bound sets of books behind him, books he thought of as decoration, never opened.

Kevin said, “She doing you any good? I haven't seen her since I was reassigned. You have trouble calling her Honey?”

“No,” Carl said. “Do you?”

“I did at first. In fact I still have trouble. It's what you call your wife or your girlfriend. Anyway, listen, the reason I called, Dr. Michael Taylor, one of the useless spy ring guys, was shot and killed last night. It looks like his wife Rosemary did it with a Walther P38 and then used it on herself, blew her brains out. The cleaning woman said the gun belonged to Dr. Taylor. She came this morning surprised to see the car still in the garage, the doctor hadn't left to go to his office, and found them in the living room.”

Carl was thinking, If Kevin had trouble calling her Honey, it meant he hadn't gone to bed with her yet. He said, “The maid called the police?”

“Right away. Detroit Homicide got on the scene. One of the guys in the squad knew about Dr. Taylor being pro-Nazi, a member of the Bund back in the thirties, arrested on a misdemeanor, demonstrating in front of a synagogue. Homicide's keeping us up on what they find.”

Carl was looking at Bo standing in the doorway, his back to Carl by the desk.

“Something else,” Kevin said. “They're positive a third gunshot victim was in the lavatory, shot in the back of the head. They found traces of blood the shooter tried to clean up but did a half-assed job, so the evidence techs went over the entire lavatory and found bone fragments and brain tissue in the drain.”

Carl told Kevin to hold it a minute. He said to Bo, “Sweet-heart, instead of listening to the conversation, how about getting me a cup of coffee?”

Bo walked away without saying a word.

“Maybe the doctor,” Carl said, “was in the can when she popped him.”

“Taylor was shot in the chest. It was someone else.”

“Who's missing?”

“Joe Aubrey.”

“His plane's at the airport?”

“It never was. He took the train this time. He's having work done on the Cessna, in Atlanta.”

“Where's Walter?”

“At his farm this morning.”

“Alone?”

“That German couple's there. I asked the woman, she answered the phone, if anybody came home with Walter, she said no.”

“You know Honey crashed the spy party.”

“I heard, yeah. You believe it? I've been trying to get hold of her, but she hasn't been home or at work all morning.”

“You still pickin' through bomb damage?”

“I'm on the homicide now. You want to look at the scene, I'll take you.”

Carl said, “Is there any reason to believe the third one might be a woman?”

Kevin took a moment to say, “I don't know. I think they all assume it was a guy. But the wife, say she caught him with another woman.” There was a silence. “No, if the wife did it, the other woman's body'd still be there. I'll find out and let you know.”