Carl turned left onto Seven, not many cars on the road, held it at thirty and pretty soon the Model A was behind him, hanging back. He remembered the police precinct on the right, came to it and turned into the parking lot. The Model A stopped on Seven Mile. Carl came out of the precinct lot and turned left. Now he was heading toward the Model A, staying in his lane, wanting to see who was in the car, still a couple of hundred feet away when the Model A took off and flew past him going the other way.
One guy in the car.
Carl tried to concentrate on how much of the guy he saw, the way the guy was hunched behind the wheel. He wanted the guy to have slick black hair like the kid gangster Vito Tessa had and he’d know, okay, the guy’s here, the Avenger with the big nickel-plate automatic, and he’d know who to look for. But the guy in the Model A didn’t have slick black hair, it was a lot lighter.
He turned left on Pontchartrain Drive, the way through Palmer Park, fairways of the public golf course on the left, grass and picnic tables and trees on the right. He saw the Model A way back-but coming, gaining on him. Carl pulled his .38 and laid it on the seat close to his thigh. Looked up at the mirror and the Model A was coming fast, closing on him and, Christ, shooting at him. The only thing to do-Carl braked hard, covering the sound of gunfire with screaming tires. The .38 flew off the seat. It didn’t matter, Carl was going down anyway, flat against the seat cushion, down there getting his hand on the .38 as the Model A came around to pass him and hammered away at the Pontiac, rounds shattering the side windows above him, through one and out the other, making frosted-looking circles on the windshield, with a machine gun. It was. It was a goddamn machine gun, but didn’t sound like a Thompson. He thought of Louly saying she’d have to fire a Browning for him, “rip off a few rounds.”
The Model A was making a U-turn a hundred yards ahead, getting in behind an Olds that went past, staying close, using the Olds for cover. Carl opened his door, stood up and laid the .38 on the top part of the doorframe, aimed at the front end of the Olds coming toward him, let it pass and opened up on the Model A, fired five rounds double-action at the hood and the car windows, certain he either hit the driver or changed his mind from shooting it out.
Carl got his car turned around and went after the Model A, got close when it had to slow down before turning onto Seven Mile. Now it was flying toward Woodward. Carl made the turn and gunned it, gained on the Model A going past the police precinct, coming to the golf clubhouse now, the first tee, and the Pontiac engine blew with the sound of gears grinding, steam pouring from the hood vents, Carl watching the Model A approaching a red light at Woodward. Carl, his dead car rolling to a stop, had to watch through spiderweb gunshots in the windshield and steam rising to see the speed demon run the light, weaving past cars braking and swerving to miss the nut in the Model A and somehow he made it. The Avenger gone, out of sight on a gloomy April afternoon.
The Tulsa Police lieutenant said, “I’m surprised, Carl, there must be somebody else don’t like you.”
“Vito Tessa from Kansas City,” Carl said, using the phone on the table behind the staircase that came down in a curve toward the murder-scene living room. “Vito told Virgil he was coming up to see me.”
“I love Virgil,” the Tulsa lieutenant said. “The first thing he ever said to me-we’re in that bar in the basement of the Mayo. He says, ‘You ever been in a pissing contest?’ I said no, what do you go for, height or distance? He says, ‘No, we piss on the ice in urinals and bet on whose pile of cubes gets melted down the most.’ But the thing about your dad, he didn’t piss on any kind of regular basis. He could hold it.”
“That’s why he’s still one of the great pissers,” Carl said, “he can hold it as long as he wants, which you don’t find at all in men his age. I’ve been in that bar with my dad, but I can’t say I ever pissed next to him. Go in the woods with him hunting, I don’t think I ever saw him piss, not wanting to leave his sign.”
“That’s your dad,” the Tulsa lieutenant said. “Who’d you say, Tessa? He’s out on bond. No, wait a minute, I got the latest here. He was out on a five-hundred-dollar bond till his hearing. He was out. Tessa and some other punk held up the wrong poker game. Both of ’em got shot in the ass going out the door, with the pot they scooped into a hat. So I was right, it’s somebody else wants to shoot you.”
“Was he packing that big nickel-plate?”
“Yeah, but didn’t get off a shot. Had a full magazine.”
“It didn’t seem to me he was gonna make it in his trade,” Carl said and thanked the lieutenant.
Now Kevin Dean was coming across the living room.
“You back already?”
“I haven’t gone yet where I’m going. I just spoke to Tulsa Police asking about Vito the Avenger. Remember the kid gangster I told you about, with a brother? It wasn’t him shooting a machine gun at me in Palmer Park, he’s laid up, handcuffed to a hospital bed. So the one shooting at me was a local guy. He knew who I was, driving away from here. He had light-colored hair, like Bohdan’s.”
“As long as his?”
“I couldn’t tell. The guy fired at me with a machine gun that wasn’t a Thompson. I can hear a Thompson in my head. This one had a different sound.”
“Upstairs in the doctor’s bedroom,” Kevin said, “a cabinet was pried open. Nothing in it but a box of nines. But now Nadia the maid says with her accent the guns are missing. A Walther, two Luger pistols and a Maschinenpistole 40, like the ones she saw at the War Souvenir Show at Hudson’s. You recall we missed that show?”
“Having lunch with Honey.” He could see her working on her salad, then wiping a roll over the empty plate, picking up any dressing that was left.
“You know what Walter calls her, Honig, the German word for honey, Honig Schoen.” Kevin said, “Tell me what happened in the park.”
Carl took him through it to where the Pontiac engine blew and he watched the Model A make it through the Woodward intersection.
“And you left your car?”
Carl said he stopped at the Palmer Park Precinct, the Twelfth , and sent them after a shot-up Model A, a black one, and told them where Bo lived. “They towed my car out of the street and said they’d have their mechanic look under the hood.” Carl said, “I hate to lose that car,” and said, “You wouldn’t happen to have one I can borrow, do you? Or maybe the Bureau’ll let me have one?”
Maybe. But what Kevin wanted to know, “If Bo’s shooting people who can testify against him and Vera, why’s he want to shoot you?”
“I don’t know, I only met him this morning,” Carl said. “I did speak loud to him. I might’ve hurt his feelings.”
“You going to Honey’s?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“You don’t have wheels, I can take you, tag along.”
Carl didn’t need Kevin with him. He said, “You’re on this case-don’t you want to get hold of Bohdan quick as you can?”
“You sent the cops after him.”
“When your superior asks you what you were doing, you tell him you were visiting a young lady?”
“Don’t you want Bo?”
“I’d rather have Jurgen,” Carl said. “Homicide wants Bo. You could drive down to Vera’s with one of those boys and let me have your car. How’s that sound?”
What Bo did, he ditched the Model A on a street of workingmen’s homes, walked a block to Woodward Avenue and around the corner to the 4-Mile Bar, a block and a half from the cathedral. He had a shot of whiskey before he called Vera.
“Are you sober?”
“I’m glowing,” Bo said. “I can’t come home. I think the police are looking for me. When they come, tell them I’ve gone up north. It’s what people around here do, they go up north. Two women at the market. ‘What’re you doing this weekend?’ ‘We’re going up north.’ Northern Michigan. I don’t have an idea what’s up there.”
Vera said, “Bo...?”
“I saw Carl, driving around in his Pontiac like
he had no idea where he was going. He turned to go through Palmer Park, the road’s wide open there, hardly any traffic, and I got excited and went after him, fired almost thirty-two rounds, an entire clip. I don’t know if I got him or not.”
“Did he shoot at you?”
“When I turned around, yeah, he was ready for me.”
“Then you didn’t get him. But why do you want him, because he insulted you? That’s settled with a duel, not shooting at him with a machine pistol. What about your car?”
“It’s full of bullet holes. But listen, Vera? He could’ve been going to Honey’s.”
Vera said, “Yes?”
“And I could’ve followed him. Honey’s there, Jurgen’s there, and Carl.”
Vera said, “You want to shoot Carl because he called you a Bohunk?”
“He knows as much about you as they do. I could’ve gotten the three of them in her apartment.”
Vera said, “If that’s where he was going.”
“I’m so fucking glad you listen. You always listen and remember. Vera, if we could get them to all be there tomorrow I could do it then. Set it up. Carl, Honey and Jurgen’s Lotion. Zap.”
Vera said, “Bo, I don’t want to be in this house anymore. Please get me out of here before I become an alcoholic.”
“You already are.”
“I count my drinks,” Vera said. “I never have more than twenty-five in a day.”
“We’re going away tomorrow,” Bo said. “If we can think of a way to get all three of them at Honey’s apartment again. You want to say good-bye. Or you want to leave each one of them something.”
Vera said, “You have to do this, don’t you.”
“If I don’t,” Bo said, “the FBI will wring you out and hang you up to dry. You like that saying? We’ll make it sometime in the evening, but not too late. We arrive last. The ones I want are there.” He turned from the pay phone on the wall and looked down the bar at the patrons, a few men and one woman, blitzed, talking loud, a guy at a table reading a dream book. “I’ll slip in the house tonight. Leave the back door unlocked.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Whiskey, they don’t have vodka.”
“They ran out of it?”
“They don’t have it, Vera, ever.”
“I’m glad we’re leaving.”
“We’ll each take a bag. Any treasures you can’t leave behind, as long as they’re small. The umbrella, that big black one like Neville Chamberlain’s.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“I haven’t thought about it yet.”
Honey jumped hearing the buzzer. She answered, pressed the button to open the door downstairs and said to Jurgen, “It’s Carl.”
Jurgen waited, standing in the living room, dressed now.
“I think you’d better stay in the bedroom,” Honey said.
“He doesn’t know I’m here?”
“I don’t see how he could.”
“But you don’t trust him now,” Jurgen said, showing his grin.
“Because we’re lovers? Talk to him, see what he’s thinking about.”
“He’ll ask about you, I know.”
“Lie to him, it’s okay. Or tell him I’m here and I’ll come out and talk to him. It’s up to you.”
“He’ll wonder why I’m nervous,” Honey said.
“You don’t seem nervous to me. Listen,” Jurgen said, “I know what you’re going through. You have a feeling for me, but I’m the enemy. My being here could be enough to put you in a federal prison. If you want to tell Carl I’m here, do it, I’ll understand.”
She wished he didn’t smile at her-not a big smile, almost a sad smile, but still a smile-saying things like that to her. He went in the bedroom and closed the door. Honey put “Gee, Baby, Ain’t I Good to You” on the Victrola, Honey letting Billie Holiday’s baby-doll voice set a mood for her, and Jurgen appeared in the hallway, smiling at her.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
Carl came in wearing the dark suit she liked and stood looking at Honey looking at his dark tie on a white shirt, the white against his weathered look that she liked. He paused to listen and said, “Billie Holiday. I should’ve known you like blues.”
“How could you tell?”
“You’re hip.”
“I don’t jitterbug,” Honey said.
“I didn’t think you did.”
“I like slow dancing, get in there close.”
Now he showed a smile, the same way Jurgen did.
“I believe that,” Carl said. “Did you see Jurgen last night?”
Sneaking it in, the smile gone.
“Yeah, I did.”
“You talk to him?”
“I asked him if he wanted to see you. Since you can’t grab him till the FBI says it’s okay.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did.”
“I did, didn’t I? Will he see me?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You know where he is?”
Honey shook her head.
“Are we still friends?”
“I’ll make you a drink if you want.”
“But you won’t tell me where he is.”
“Uh-unh.”
“You like Jurgen and don’t want to be a snitch.”
“I like you too,” Honey said. “I still don’t want to talk about it.”
He paused, looking at her, before saying, “You don’t want to tell me what you know about an escaped German prisoner of war?”
Honey smiled. “You’re serious?”
Carl had to smile.
“Let’s have a drink,” Honey said.
She saw him glance at the hallway to the bedroom as they went in the kitchen.
She said, “You drink beer? You never ask if I have any.”
“Do you?”
“No, you’re lucky I have rye.”
She made a couple of drinks and handed him one. Honey was about to sit down. Instead, she picked up her cigarettes from the table saying, “Let’s be comfortable,” and took Carl back to the living room to sit in the cushy sofa and light cigarettes, not more than a foot of space between them.
Carl said, “Honey, I’m gonna tell you something. Right now I don’t give a rat’s ass where Jurgen is or what he’s doing. All I can think about is going to bed with you.”
The man quiet in there behind his eyes, Honey seeing him always as a man, before adding on famous and usually married, but not today.
“You want to take me to bed.”
“I don’t think about much else,” Carl said.
“In the bedroom?”
“If that’s where the bed is.”
“Or we can do it right here.”
Honey stood up. She pulled her blouse out of her skirt and unbuttoned it.
“You want to do it on your sofa?”
She took off her blouse.
“I’ll put a sheet over it.”
“When you have a big bed in there?”
Honey put both hands behind her back to unhook the bra.
She said, “Carl, do you want to fuck me on the sofa or see if Jurgen’s in the bedroom? One or the other.”
She unhooked the bra and let it drop.
Twenty-six
Honey opened her apartment door and picked up the morning Free Press, Thursday, April 12, and brought it to Jurgen at the kitchen table having his coffee. She said, “A hundred and forty-two thousand of you surrendered to the Reds in East Prussia,” handing the paper to him. She went to the stove to pour herself a cup. It was 8:20. They were both dressed, Honey in her black sweater and skirt that Jurgen liked.
“Your marines are engaged in savage fighting in Okinawa. Tell me, where is Okinawa?”
“I think it’s the last stop before Japan,” Honey said.
“Kamikazes attacked Task Force Fifty-eight, seriously damaging the Enterprise, the Essex, and six destroyers. Meanwhile,” Jurgen said, opening the paper and loo
king at story headlines, “a German communiqué announces the garrison commander at Konigsberg has been sentenced to death. You know why? He allowed the Russians to take the city. And that, my dear girl, is why we’re losing the fucking war. We don’t hesitate to kill our own people.”
“When you’re not killing other people,” Honey said, coming to the table with her coffee.
“We have to remind ourselves that we aren’t enemies, you and I,” Jurgen said. “Though last night, I must tell you, I wasn’t sure.”
The phone rang.
“We’re all right,” Honey said.
The phone rang.
“But you weren’t the same,” Jurgen said.
Honey went to the counter and picked up the phone. It was Madi, Walter’s aunt, calling from the farm and looking for Jurgen.
“Can you tell me where he is?”
Honey said she didn’t know. “If I happen to run into him I’ll tell him you called. Okay?”
“Don’t act smart with me,” Madi said. “I have a telephone number for Jurgen. From his comrade the Nazi. Are you ready?” She recited the long-distance number and Honey wrote it on the pad by the phone.
“I’ve got it, thanks.”
“Try to be civil when you speak to people,” Madi said and hung up.
Honey turned to Jurgen. “Did I sound uncivil to you?”
“Who was it?”
“Walter’s aunt. Your comrade, the Nazi, wants you to call him. In Cleveland, the number’s over there.”
Jurgen was up from the table, dialing the operator before Honey sat down.
“Who’s the Nazi?”
“Otto.”
“Otto?”
“Hi, Jurgen? This is Aviva. Let me get Otto for you.” Chopin playing in the background, Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise, Jurgen wondering who the pianist was.
Otto came on saying, “Jurgen?”
“Otto, what are you doing in Cleveland?”
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