Up in Honey's Room

Twenty-eight

Walter 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.