“Well, this evening,” Vera said, “Walter denounced Himmler, called him Heini most of the time. Walter believes that in America his name will become as well known as John Wilkes Booth. You know who I mean?”
“The actor who shot Lincoln,” Honey said. “You’re saying Walter wants to assassinate President Roosevelt?”
“I can’t see him doing it,” Vera said. “But listen, I have to speak to Joe Aubrey before he leaves. Tell me if you want to meet anyone besides Jurgen.”
She expected Walter any second to walk into the kitchen and tell her how he’s going to give his life for Hitler, hoping to do it on the Führer’s birthday. What would she say? You don’t want to just send him a tie?
Without being a smart-ass what would she say?
Well, if that’s what you want to do, Walter. If you’ve made up your mind. Tell Walter it’s the bravest thing she’s ever heard of. Without overdoing it, stirring his emotions about lost years. She told herself to think, will you, before you say anything? Keep it simple. Tell Walter he’s your hero and tell Carl, tomorrow, what Walter plans to do.
She’d have to get Walter to drive her home.
And thought, Oh shit, he’ll want to stop and talk, hold my hand. It was embarrassing watching a Nazi-lover trying to be lovey.
And thought, No, he won’t stop because Joe Aubrey will be in the car. Walter must’ve brought him, he always did. She’d let Joe sit in front, listen to him rant about the Klan for fifteen minutes and she’d be home. Only once, back in the Bund days, Joe Aubrey ever made a real move on her. Came up behind her and slipped his hands around her body to cup her breasts, alone in the kitchen, the house on Kenilworth near the market, grabbed her breasts and whispered in her ear, “You can do better’n Walter. You know it?”
She said, “ ’Course I know it.”
He said, “You ever thought of movin’ to Georgia? You could work at Rich’s in Atlanta, the best department store in town, and I’d fly up and see you.”
She said, “Joe, I’ve given up my cute southern ways, acting ditsy in front of boys? I’ve learned I’m way smarter than most of them.”
He was caressing her breasts now saying in her ear, “I know how to please a woman, get her moanin’.”
Honey said, “You don’t stop, I’m gonna grab your weenie and yank it so hard Walter’ll hear you scream and come running out here to kill you.”
What did that do? Got him excited. It was one of so many times she spoke before she thought it out. Still, it never got her in trouble, did it?
Jurgen came in the kitchen with his empty glass, smiling, showing his nice white teeth, telling Honey, “Since you came in this house I’ve been thinking of ways to get you alone and Vera offers you to me.”
“Like she knows you’re the reason I crashed the party,” Honey said. “Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so, yes.”
“I have to talk to you about what’s gonna happen next.”
Jurgen hesitated. “You mean when the war ends?”
“I mean now, tonight. I want to know what you’re gonna do,” Honey said. “If you’ve made up your mind to leave here tonight, slip off in the dark or what?”
“Let me think about this,” Jurgen said. “You told Vera that Carl Webster dropped you off here. This policeman who wants to put me in the hoosgow.”
“He can’t,” Honey said.
“You know the word hoosgow?”
“It’s the jail in a Gene Autry movie.”
“Yes, what cowboys call it, from the Spanish word juzgado, meaning a court of law. You know hoosgow, uh?”
“Listen to me,” Honey said. “You’re right, Carl would love to grab you and take you back to Oklahoma, but he can’t. The Federal Bureau of Investigation’s ordered him to stand back, leave you alone. They think you’re helping out the spy ring and want to see their investigation play out. Carl told me he’s cut corners in his time but has never, when a higher-up gives him an order. Has never disobeyed it, he said, and never will.”
She didn’t think it sounded much like Carl, but part of it was true. She wasn’t sure he’d never disobeyed an order. If he did, she imagined that by the time he explained why, he’d tell a great story that ends with gunfire.
Jurgen said, “This is Carl’s idea? To ask me what I’m going to do?”
“It’s mine,” Honey said. “Carl dropped me off but hasn’t any idea what I’m doing. Actually what I thought of when I walked in and saw you. Carl would love to sit down and talk to you, and if you want, you can do it. I swear he’s been told to leave you alone. You can walk up and give him a shove, he might growl but he won’t handcuff you. He’s been ordered not to”-she was starting to overdo it-“and I know he would love to see you again. How’s that sound? Sit down with Carl and have a drink.”
He seemed to like the idea, but was still suspicious, being on the run, a fugitive.
Honey said, “I imagine Vera would just as soon you weren’t here. But don’t leave unless you know where you’re going. I mean to a friend who’ll hide you, not to some hotel. If you don’t have a friend, Jesus, outside of Walter, you must’ve been a loner when you lived here that time, more interested in what was going on than having buddies.” She paused for a moment and said, “Do you trust me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“All I can say is take me on my word, it’s good as gold.” She said, “I’m willing to help you out, Jurgen.”
“Become complicit in a German soldier’s escape?”
“We’re in the eye of the storm,” Honey said. “It’s calm in here. The FBI’s leaving you alone. Carl can’t touch you. It’s like a time-out in football. You and Carl can get together, have a few drinks and talk, decide what you want to do next. You want to leave, Carl has to let you walk away.”
Jurgen said, “Why are you getting involved in this?”
“Why’d I marry Walter?”
“Why did you?”
“Don’t ask hard questions,” Honey said. “I have a place where you can meet Carl and tell war stories to each other. Yes or no?”
“What you’re telling me,” Jurgen said, “I’m no longer important as an escaped German soldier?”
Almost sounding offended.
“For the time being,” Honey said.
“But I might be a spy. So they have to wait to see what I do?”
Honey said, “If it was okay for Carl to pick you up, you think we’d be standing here talking? You’d be on your way to Oklahoma.”
“But you say he doesn’t know what you’re trying to arrange.”
“I told you, I hadn’t thought of it yet.”
“So you don’t know what he’ll say about it.”
Maybe she was trying too hard.
“It’s up to you,” Honey said. “You want to come with me, I’ll ask Walter to give us a ride when he’s ready.”
“Yes, and where would we be going?”
“To my place,” Honey said, “my apartment.”
See if that stirred him any.
Twenty
Bohdan and Dr. Taylor were on the sofa talking, Bo animated, using his hands. Vera wasn’t anywhere in sight, or Joe Aubrey. Honey couldn’t imagine them off together somewhere in the house. There was Walter sitting by himself with his schnapps, raising the glass to have a sip, but now he saw her and came to his feet. Rehearsed, Honey would bet, ready for her.
As she moved toward Walter, Bohdan and Dr. Taylor were going to the front door together still talking. She watched Bohdan open the door, put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder saying good night and closed the door. Now he was looking this way. Giving her a smile? Now he was flitting up the curved stairway to the second floor, leaving her with Walter, Walter standing in her face as she turned to him.
“I want to tell you what I’m going to do,” Walter said, “and what I would like you to do for me.”
Honey thought of her dog Bits, hit by a car when she was a little girl, and said, “Vera told me, Walt
er,” with a catch in her voice.
“I think of Germany,” Walter said, “at the time we were married setting forth on its conquest of Europe, a time that offered me the great adventure of my life, if I were to take advantage of the opportunity.”
Honey, trying her best to look interested, wondered how long this would take. It was like trying to hold a smile while someone told a boring story that was supposed to be funny.
“Now the war is coming to an end,” Walter said, “while I have given nothing of myself for Germany and the Führer. All that remains is that I give my life. It will be my gift to the Führer for his fifty-sixth birthday.”
Honey said, “Walter . . .” But then what?
Walter said, “Honig,” and it saved her for the moment. “As I prepare to sacrifice my life, there is something you can give me. In honor of our time together.”
She said, “Really?” but saw it coming and wanted to tell him no, please.
“A son,” Walter said, “to bear the name Walter Helmut Schoen after I am gone.”
It stopped her. “Helmut, that’s your middle name?” She said, “There isn’t time, Walter.”
“He will be conceived tomorrow.”
“I’m not ovulating. I know, because you feel different when you can make a baby.”
“We can try, Honig, and pray,” Walter said.
He was talking about screwing her sometime tomorrow. She thought of herself in bed with Walter during the day. Their first time with sunlight on the shades pulled down. He’d have his first good look at her bush, dark as the roots of her hair. He’d see that too and scream at her, “You lied to me, you Gypsy slut.” Strange? She thought of this first?
“Tomorrow morning,” Walter said.
“I’ve got the curse.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You can’t conceive during your period.”
“We try,” Walter said. “Maybe God will help us. You know we met in front of the cathedral.”
He was different. His voice was different, more German. He had made up his mind he was taking her to bed tomorrow morning. But it couldn’t be tomorrow. She’d have Jurgen. Yeah...? But would she be with him all day? Carl would come by. If there was a reason she had to see Walter tomorrow she could probably find the time. Whatever the reason. Though it wouldn’t be to go to bed with him, old Mr. Serious, Mr. Speedy Von Schoen. She said, “Walter, don’t ever make a promise when you’ve been drinking you’re gonna do something.”
“I’ve been thinking of it since I heard of Warm Springs, where polio victims and your president go to bathe in the mineral waters.”
“He’s your president too, Walter. Remember my saying that to you in front of the cathedral?”
Looking at her, his glasses glistening in lamplight, Walter said, “I still love you, Honig.”
His eyes raised and Honey turned enough to see Bohdan coming toward them from the staircase.
He said to Walter, “Old friend, Mr. Aubrey won’t be going back with you. He and Vera are talking business of some sort, I don’t know what. When they’ve talked themselves out I can drive Mr. Aubrey to your farm. He likes to tease me-you know how he is- but I don’t mind, it’s all in fun.” Bo seemed about to walk away but paused and said to Walter, “Old sport, it’s a noble thing you’re doing for the Führer. It will give him the strength to go on.”
Honey watched Bo heading for the staircase, Bo throwing his head to make his hair bounce. She said to Walter, “I have to ask you a huge favor. Do you love me?”
“I told you, didn’t I?” Walter frowning as he said it.
“I have to hide Jurgen. Can he ride with us?”
“Take him where?”
“My apartment. I’ll put him in the storage room full of junk and spiders, and a cot he can sleep on,” Honey said, “so you won’t be arrested for helping him out. You can keep your mind on the assassination.”
“But tomorrow,” Walter said, “you’ll be with Jurgen? How will I see you?”
“It doesn’t mean I have to stay with him,” Honey said, maybe going too far, as usual, but at the moment curious about Walter, if he was still a complete bore in bed. A thought flashed in her mind and she saw no reason not to say it. “Give me a call, let’s see what we can arrange.”
Vera was at rest in her bedroom wearing a gauzy yellow negligee Bo could see through, Vera standing by the window so he could look all he wanted. The room was dim, dramatic, Bo thought, almost theatrical, a bedside lamp holding Joe Aubrey in a soft glow, Joe sprawled on his back in the double bed, his naked body round and white down to his black socks and garters. Bo stood by the bed for a close look, Joe’s mouth open, wet snores dribbling out of him, before crossing the room to the goddess on her love seat smoking a cigarette, a white ceramic ashtray resting on her crotch.
Bo said, “It worked, uh?”
“The amount he drank, he didn’t need the goofball.”
“It won’t hurt him. Makes him go seepy-by is all it does. Tell me what he did.”
“He gave me a check.”
“I mean in bed, what did he do? Is he a muff-diver?”
“They all are, you give them a chance.”
“So, it was painless?”
“For the first time in years and years I feel I should go to Confession.”
“‘Bless me, Father, I fucked a Grand Dragon,’ ‘You did? Tell me about it, my child.’”
“I’m too tired to scold you. No, because it was devious, a dirty trick, taking him to bed because we need money.”
“You have the check?”
“In a safe place.”
“How much did he give you?”
“I couldn’t ask for what we need. I said, ‘Put in the amount you feel you can give.’”
“Vera, please don’t say that.”
“Made out to the Bomb Victims Fund of Berlin.”
“Tell me how much he gave you?”
“I said to him, ‘Wait, I don’t think that’s the exact name of the fund.’ I won’t tell you what I was doing to him while he’s holding his pen and his checkbook.”
“You’re both completely naked.”
“Joe has his socks on. I told him, sign the check, I’d fill in the name later.”
“He wrote in the amount?”
“He was much too anxious, getting ink on my breasts, but he did sign the check.”
“Becoming groggy?”
“Not yet, but slurring.”
“And failed to write in the amount?”
“I’m going to type it in,” Vera said, “the amount, the date, and to whom it’s paid.”
“For how much?”
“Let’s talk about it in the morning. You have to get Mr. Aubrey on the road.”
“Time for Joe to go nigh-nigh,” Bo said. “You know it’s an awfully long ride out to Walter’s.”
“Stay with the plan,” Vera said. “When you come out of the driveway, make sure the surveillance car doesn’t follow you. They have the rear end of my Chrysler imprinted in their minds, they’ve tailed it enough times. I doubt they’ll follow you, but be alert, they can radio another car to pick you up.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Bo, dearest-”
“I know, stay with the plan.”
“You found the shovel?”
“A spade, but will do the job. It’s in the trunk.”
“I cleaned the Walther,” Vera said.
“Which one?”
“Your favorite, the .380 PPK.”
“You’re a dear,” Bo said. “I’d get rid of the Tokarev, that Russian piece of shit, it’s so heavy. How does one carry it, keep it concealed?”
“My, we’re testy this evening.”
“I’m anxious to be going.”
“You’re wearing your girdle?”
“I hate it, it’s so tight I can’t breathe.”
“We all have our crosses to bear,” Vera said.
Twenty-one
One o’clock i
n the morning Bo came out of the driveway in the Chrysler and turned left around the median. Now he was approaching the FBI surveillance car, having a look at it through the line of trees in the median. It was Vera’s idea: go left and they would have to turn around in the street to come after him. “If anyone is in it,” Vera said. “I see it as a decoy. Sometime after breakfast an agent is dropped off to sit in the car and pick his teeth.”
Joe Aubrey was a mess, but not a problem in his rumpled suit, his shirttail hanging out. Bo had said, “I’m not sticking his shirt down in his pants.” Vera didn’t care. Joe was groggy from the goofball, still drunk but miserable, what was left of him once Vera was through. He opened his eyes to streetlights and neon signs.
“Where we goin’?”
“To Walter’s.”
“He’s way out’n the country.”
“Yes, he is,” Bo said. “Go seepy-by and let me drive.”
Aubrey reached over to lay his hand on Bo’s thigh. “You still wearin’ your skirt? I’m gonna stick my hand under it, see what you got.”
Bo said, “Mr. Aubrey, please,” and gave the hand a slap. “Let’s not be naughty.” They were driving south on Woodward, only a few miles now from downtown Detroit.
“Man, I am in pain. I think I got laid, but I’m not sure.”
“You did, after a fashion.”
“That’s the first hangover I’ve had in twenty years. I suck oxygen I keep in my airplane and it clears up my head.”
They drove in silence for a while, Joe Aubrey lying back with his eyes closed through the downtown area now, past J.L. Hudson’s, Sam’s Cut Rate, past the big open square called Campus Martius across from city hall, past the Empress and the Avenue burlesque houses, and turned left on Jefferson Avenue, on their way to the bridge that crossed to Belle Isle in the middle of the river with its recreational areas, baseball diamonds, picnic tables, a zoo, horses to ride, canoes to paddle in the lagoon, and the river to swim in during the summer. Bo could see no sense in driving all the way to Farmington, a good hour from Vera’s, when he could drop Mr. Aubrey off in the Detroit River, a popular grave for hundreds of souls during Prohibition, bootleggers bringing whiskey across from Canada, getting waylaid by the murderous Purple Gang if the police didn’t stop them. It was a rough town, used to violence. Two years ago, 1943, a Negro sailor was thrown in the river from the Belle Isle bridge and it started a race riot that went on for days, property destroyed, cars turned over, troops called in . . . He’d drop off Mr. Aubrey, turn around and take Woodward north this time to Dr. Taylor’s English-looking home in Palmer Woods, just off Seven Mile Road on Wellesley. He had not mentioned to Vera his plan to see Dr. Taylor tonight. But why not, while he was at it? He was thinking, Wouldn’t it be lovely if Dr. Taylor were here, to join Mr. Aubrey on the bridge?
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