Up In Honey's Room Part 22

He tried to get hold of Kevin to return his car, phoning from his room. The FBI voice said he was out of the office, on a.s.signment. Carl asked if Bohdan Kravchenko had been apprehended. The voice said that information was not available for release. Carl left word for Kevin to call him at the hotel.

He phoned Louly at the marine air station in North Carolina, proud of his semiclear conscience, ready to say "I've been too busy" when she asked if he was staying out of trouble. But Louly wasn't available either. What he should do, get ready to take the train back to Tulsa.

The phone rang. He expected it to be Kevin or Louly.

It was Honey Deal.

"You want to see Jurgen?"

"Let me talk to him on the phone."

"Carl, Vera called. She wants to stop by this evening and visit."

"With Bohunk?"

"She doesn't know where he is. He didn't come back last night. She's worried about him."

"I can see her wringing her hands," Carl said. "What time she coming?"

"About eight. Stop in and say good-bye to Jurgen."

"Where's he going?"

"He won't tell me."

"Show him your hooters."

"They're on ice for you, Carl. You know what happens when ice touches just the tips?"

Carl said, "You sneeze?" and said right away, "You know you're hanging out with the wrong crowd."

"I know it," Honey said. "But I don't feel the least bit subversive. Do you? Or you can get away with it but I can't?"

"Something like that," Carl said.

"Listen, stop by for a drink tonight. I promise I won't show you my b.o.o.bs."

"But I'll understand," Carl said, "if you can't help taking your clothes off."

She said, "Wait a minute."

He heard her lay the phone down on a hard surface and after that faint voices. Now she was back.

"Carl, turn on your radio. Roosevelt's dead."

It was the way she said it. Not, he died; he was dead.

Carl said, "You don't think Walter . . ."

Walter heard the news in the Greyhound bus station in downtown Detroit over the public-address system. He missed the first part of the announcement, the bus-schedule voice saying, "It is our sad duty to inform you that at three thirty-five this afternoon"- Walter waiting to hear where the bus was going, thought, Three thirty-five? Knowing it was almost six, looked up at the clock and saw he was right. Now he listened and heard the public-address voice say: "Death gave the sixty-three-year-old president of the United States short notice. At about one o'clock this afternoon, in the Little White House in Warm Springs, Georgia, the president felt a sudden pain in the back of his head. At the time he was having his portrait sketched in preparation for a painting. At one-fifteen the president fainted, never to regain consciousness. At three thirty-five p.m. Franklin Roosevelt died without pain of what his doctor called a ma.s.sive cerebral hemorrhage. Funeral service for the president will be held in the East Room of the White House . . ."

That was enough for Walter. He got up and walked over to the ticket window, the PA system sounding as though it was starting over again.

"Today, April twelfth in Warm Springs, Georgia, death took Franklin Delano Roosevelt, president of the United States, and left millions of Americans shocked and stunned."

Walter turned in his ticket to Griffin by way of Atlanta and was given his refund. He began to wonder if any of the people at Vera's the other night, when they heard of Roosevelt's death would immediately say, "My G.o.d, was it Walter?" Or would they say, "My G.o.d, it was Walter." Remembering his determination. Vera comes up to him. No, first Honig. She touches his face and asks in her soft voice, "Walter, how in the world did you do it?"

"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."

Tw enty-sev en [image]oney had an ap.r.o.n 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, Life, his favorite magazine. He could his favorite magazine. He could not not believe she had saved every issue since Pearl Harbor, 163 copies of believe she had saved every issue since Pearl Harbor, 163 copies of Life Life in the storage room, seven missing consecutively from the winter of 1942. 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 "f.u.c.king 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 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." 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 b.u.t.t 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 Was.h.i.+ngton. 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 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 is that?" that?"

"Bob Crosby."

"I mean that instrument."

"Bob Haggart whistling through his teeth while he strums his ba.s.s." 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 Fuhrer 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 cus.h.i.+on 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-a.s.s."

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

"Sc.r.a.p," 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 compet.i.tion 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 h.o.r.n.y, as we all do at times, and he wants some action right now? Something happens. Dumb luck sets in and saves Carl, gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth, from going back on his word. I might've told him it was his guardian angel f.u.c.king 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."

Twenty-eight.