Up in Honey's Room cw-2 Page 9

  Honey said, “How’s your sister, she still a nun?”

  “Sister Ludmilla,” Walter said. “She’s a Cistercian of the Strict Observance now. They never speak.”

  “I thought she was an IHM sister. Doesn’t she teach school in Detroit?”

  “She’s still here but left that order for a much different life, as a Cistercian. I congratulated her having the will to live a life of prayer and silence.”

  “She seemed normal,” Honey said, “the times I met her. You get her to join, Walter, so you wouldn’t have to talk to her anymore? I remember her telling you Jesus is more important in your life than Hitler.”

  Carl said, “Ask him about your brother.”

  She was still looking at Walter. He heard Carl but Walter’s expression didn’t change. Honey said, “We saw Darcy driving out of your property with a stock trailer.”

  “Yes, of course,” Walter said, “Darcy Deal is your brother. He came to the market and introduced himself, offered to supply beef for my slaughtering business. Your brother’s an outspoken fellow, isn’t he?”

  “He’s an ex-convict,” Honey said. “He tell you that?”

  “Yes, of course. He asked me, would I give him the opportunity to engage in a legitimate business.”

  Carl said, “Where’s he get the steers?”

  Walter shrugged. “At stockyards, where else? He always shows me the bill of sale.”

  “I imagine,” Carl said, “the government inspectors drive you nuts dropping in the way they do.”

  Walter shrugged again. “Yes, but the meat has to be graded. It’s the law, so you put up with it.”

  Honey took his shrugs to mean he wasn’t concerned; they could ask him anything they wanted.

  Carl was saying, “This one fella I knew in home-kill, he’d process a few head in between the inspectors coming by. Get the meat out in a hurry to hotels in Tulsa.”

  Walter said, “I believe you are an officer of the law?”

  “Deputy U.S. marshal, Wally. I’m not FBI.”

  “But you could arrest this person if you wanted?”

  “I don’t work in that area.”

  “But you came here to question me, didn’t you? See if I’m selling meat on the black market?”

  “No sir, I’m investigating the numbers racket in war plants. Ford Highland Park, Dodge Main in Hamtramck, Briggs Body. Organized crime, they send their guys in the plants to take bets and sell dream books. I remembered Honey lived here so I called her up.”

  Honey took his arm and squeezed it with both hands, smiling at Walter. “We met on a train one time.”

  Carl said, “Honey told me her brother was working for you . . . I wondered if you wouldn’t mind my taking a look at your operation. I’ve worked beef in my time. My dad has a thousand acres of pecan trees.”

  “You’re not investigating me?” Walter said.

  “All I’m interested in,” Carl said, “I’d like to see how you process a cow up here. I don’t mean right now. It must be close to your suppertime, but when you can spare me an hour.”

  Walter kept staring at him.

  “You’re none of my business as a marshal,” Carl said. “Hell, seventy percent of the people, housewives, buy a lot of their meat without stamps and pay whatever the butcher says is the price. Hell with those OPA-fixed prices. Walter”-Carl taking his time-“I’d fatten up my herd for a year, cut out a bunch and take ’em to Tulsa in my stock trailer. Stop on the way back for an ice-cream cone. My dad’s property wasn’t too far from a camp holding guys from the Afrika Korps. They said the only reason they surrendered they ran out of gas.” Carl took time to grin. “But they seemed to be doing all right in captivity. The government hired them out to do farmwork if they wanted. The government let my dad took a bunch of ’em to gather pecans, hit the branches with bamboo fishing poles to shake ’em loose. They’d bring their lunch from the camp, sit under the trees eating their sausage and pickles, cold bratwurst sandwiches. Once in a while I’d come by and get in a conversation. I’d say, ‘What’s stopping you guys from walking out of here? Wait for the guards to fall asleep. But even when you do bust out you’re back by dinnertime the next day.’ I’d say, ‘Man, all the Germans living in the U.S., you don’t have any relatives would hide you if you got away?’”

  Walter said, “You tempt them to try to escape, so you can shoot them?”

  “Come on, Walter, I’m fooling with them, trying to understand what they think about being locked up. You see them in the chow hall three times a day eating like wolves, you understand how important food is. It’s the reason when they do escape, get a few miles down the road from the camp, they turn around and come back.”

  “There must be some,” Walter said-sounding to Honey like he was being careful, picking his words-“who escape with the intention of returning home to Germany, if they see the possibility of it.”

  “I know there was a German flier back in ’42,” Carl said, “almost got to Mexico. He’s the only one comes to mind.”

  Walter said, “I read in the newspaper about two officers who escaped from a camp.” Walter still careful. “I believe it was four or five months ago?”

  “Last October,” Carl said. “Yeah, they were picked up.”

  Honey saw Walter stopped cold.

  He said, “Are you sure?”

  “They broke out of Deep Fork, near my dad’s place.”

  “This is in Oklahoma?”

  “Yeah, the camp’s called Deep Fork, named for a creek that runs through there. The one officer had a girlfriend lived nearby. He’d slip out and visit her every once in a while-you know, to get laid-and was counting on the girlfriend hiding them. She did for a couple of days, but must’ve got nervous and blew the whistle, turned them in.”

  “I must be thinking of two others who escaped,” Walter said. “The newspaper reported a nationwide search was on for these two.”

  “That’ll sell papers,” Carl said, “but they’re the ones I’m talking about. They made half-ass civilian suits from uniforms and drove out of the camp in a truck delivers movies.”

  Walter said, “Well,” sounding to Honey like he was giving up. But then he said in an offhand way, “Do you happen to know their names?”

  “It was a while ago,” Carl said. “The girlfriend had a weird name I’d never heard before, but I can’t remember hers either.”

  Walter said, “Why didn’t I read the two officers were captured?”

  Not giving up if he could help it. Honey waited for Carl to explain, if he could.

  “I think there was a question of whether they should prosecute the girlfriend,” Carl said, “for giving comfort to the enemy, if you know what I mean. But since she did turn them in, the U.S. attorney decided not to prosecute, keep her neighbors from throwing eggs at her and cutting off her hair. No more news about the escape was good news for the girlfriend. Pretty soon the papers stopped asking about the two guys.”

  “The ones you say were captured,” Walter said. “Where are they now?”

  “Back in camp. The one guy’s Waffen-SS. I think they’re the SSers in the military. The regular SS are the guys who run the extermination camps, shove live people into gas chambers. Am I right about that, Wally?”

  “Do you have to call me that?”

  “What? Wally?”

  “My name is Walter.”

  “You ever go by Walt?”

  “It’s Walter.”

  “I tried calling him Walt,” Honey said, “he had a fit.”

  “How about a nickname?” Carl said. “What’d your mom call you when you were a kid?”

  Honey knew but waited for Walter. He shook his head and Honey said, “His mom called him Buzz.”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “He was his sister’s little buzzer,” Honey said, “the one that quit talking. She was learning English and had trouble saying brother. He told me his dad never called him anything but Valter.”

  “I was wondering,” Car
l said, “you asked if I knew their names, the guys that escaped?”

  Walter hesitated. “Yes . . . ?”

  “What’re the names of the guys you were thinking of?”

  Honey squeezed his arm as he was raising it, slipping his hand into a coat pocket.

  She thought Walter would stall, blow his nose or start coughing, at least clear his throat.

  He didn’t, he said, “I hesitate because it’s been so long since I read about them in the newspaper. I thought if you said their names it would refresh my memory. But you offer me no help.”

  Honey watched him shrug, then look up as Carl stepped toward him, a marshal’s card in his hand.

  “This is my Oklahoma card, but I put the Detroit FBI office phone number on it. In case you remember the names of those boys. You understand I live down there. I knew ’em pretty well.”

  Twelve

  They were on Ten Mile Road again driving back to Honey’s, what was left of a red sky behind them. Carl turned on the headlights. Honey, comfortable, her legs crossed, lighted a cigarette and held it out to Carl, a trace of lipstick on the tip.

  He said, “Not right now, thanks,” and turned to look at her. “You were funny, talking to him about his sister.”

  “His sister the sister,” Honey said. “I thought we did all right.” She opened the vent window and flicked the ash from her cigarette. “I loved Walter asking if you happened to know their names.”

  “He had to ask, didn’t he?”

  “You said you didn’t remember, but they were picked up in a couple of days. Now he was confused. Wait a minute-are we talking about the same guys?”

  Carl said, “I was hoping he’d ask if I meant Jurgen and Otto. If he’d said their names I would’ve handcuffed him to that ugly chair he was sitting in and taken a look around. That’s not a bad place for the Krauts to hide out.”

  Honey was grinning now. “You threw it back asking him for the names. That was beautiful, it sounded so natural. But he got out of it and didn’t seem too concerned after that.”

  “He thought he was off the hook. He gave himself away when he asked if I happened to know their names, like he was only curious.”

  “I thought you’d tell him, get right to it. But you didn’t.”

  “If I had, what would Walter say? Never heard of ’em. But who else were we talking about, busted out of a camp in Oklahoma last October?”

  Honey said, “That doesn’t mean they’re with Walter.”

  “If they aren’t, he knows where they’re staying. The G-men’ll get a warrant that says something about suspicion of subversive activity. We’ll put Walter on the rack, stretch him out and ask about the spy ring.”

  Honey said, “You’re only interested in Jurgen and Otto, aren’t you?”

  “The Bureau thinks they could be helping the spies. It’s okay with me. We locate the two boys, I’m taking ’em back to their home in Oklahoma.”

  He glanced at Honey. “You see how Walter was looking at you?”

  “He still loves me.”

  “I could’ve stepped outside, give you a chance to reminisce.”

  “Tell him a joke?”

  “Ask him how he’s doing. His piles still acting up? You’re right, that’s why he thought your piles joke was funny. He’s dropped his drawers in the doctor’s office, knows the scene.”

  “Walter hasn’t changed one bit. He was born an old man and he’s stuck with it.”

  “You want to see him again?”

  “For what?”

  “He looks like he needs a pal, somebody he can tell his innermost thoughts to.”

  “See if I can get him to spill the beans?”

  “What do you think?”

  “How would I approach him?”

  “He still loves you, tell him you’re sorry for the way you walked out, not saying anything, not giving him a reason. You were just a kid, still immature.”

  “Do I have to kiss him if he wants to?”

  “I think once you two’re alone you’ll know what to say. Keep talking, it’ll come to you.”

  “Where does this take place, in his meat market?”

  “Find out when he’s out here and drop in. You don’t have to ask him for a date.” Carl stared at his headlight beams on the country road. “We can have supper if you want. Get hold of Kevin, see what he’s doing.”

  Honey said, “Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

  He looked over. She was taking a cigarette from the pack. “You want me to come right out and tell you?”

  She said, “Of course,” and flicked her lighter.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, you and I start keepin’ company.”

  She snapped the lighter shut and drew on her cigarette before saying, “If that’s how you feel, okay, let’s call Kevin.”

  It was quiet in the car for a couple of minutes, Honey waiting for Carl to say something. It was his turn.

  He surprised her.

  “When you told Walter we met on a train-”

  “I thought of it as I said it.”

  “You ever meet somebody on a train?”

  “I sat in the club car on the way to New York, for the Bund rally. Walter stayed in our seat to take a nap. He can sleep sitting straight up, like he’s at attention. I had a cocktail and began thinking of myself as a mystery woman, the guys in the club car wondering who I am. I’m wearing sunglasses and a nifty cloche down on my eyes, I must be somebody. A couple of different guys offer to buy me a drink, I say no thank you. I’m reading Newsweek. Finally a guy sits down next to me I think is interesting. He’s in his forties, not bad-looking. He’s wearing an expensive pinstriped suit. He tells me he’s a real estate investor in New York City, and for the next couple of hours he buys me cocktails, whiskey sours in the afternoon, while he guesses what I do and why I’m going to New York.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “He wanted to see me. I told him to stop by the German-American Bund rally at the Garden, he’d get to hear Fritz Kuhn talk about Jews and Communists.”

  “The real estate guy’s Jewish?”

  “Yes, he is. So then I had to tell him about Walter and the reason I married him.”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “He still wanted to meet me, so we did. We met for a drink and talked. He wanted me to leave Walter and stay with him in New York.”

  “He’s married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “You trusted him?”

  “He said I woke him up. Made him feel alive again.”

  “I imagine so,” Carl said and waited while Honey took her time.

  “I went back to the Garden to see Walter sieg heiling Fritz Kuhn and I thought, What’s wrong with me? Outside of being young and dumb.”

  They were quiet again.

  She said, “You know Kevin’s had his supper by now.”

  Carl said most likely, his eyes on the road.

  “Are you taking me to supper or dropping me off home?”

  “We’ll stop somewhere.”

  “I ask since you don’t care to have fun with women other than your wife.”

  “If I can help it,” Carl said.

  Thirteen

  Jurgen watched the Pontiac creep past the front of the house, a green four-door, out of his view for several moments, now it appeared on the far side of the house and the trees in the yard, turning onto the road Darcy had made coming through the field with his trailers of cows. Jurgen watched the Pontiac coming across the barn lot now to creep past the stock pen. Then stop and back up. So the ones in the car could look at the cows? He watched the window come down on the passenger side and saw a young woman’s face, quite a lovely face, smoking a cigarette. He couldn’t see the man who was driving. Only his hat.

  He remembered a green four-door Pontiac at the camp in Oklahoma. Watching through the fence to see who was in it. As he was doing now, watching from the cattle entrance to the barn, the chute where the cows and heifer in the pen
would be prodded inside later tonight to lose their hides, their heads, their hooves, and finally all their parts.

  He watched the Pontiac make a wide turnabout and leave the yard in Darcy’s tracks across the field, turn on to the main road and come this way, again out of view on the front side of the house. Jurgen waited. The Pontiac didn’t come past the house. It must have turned into the driveway that circled and came out again. But the car didn’t appear. It told Jurgen they had looked over Walter’s cows and now they were going to drop in for a visit.

  He didn’t think they were friends of Walter’s.

  Walter had only three friends he ever talked about: Vera Mezwa, the Ukrainian countess, and her houseman Bohdan; Michael George Taylor, the doctor who supplied Vera with invisible ink; and Joe Aubrey, the official of the Ku Klux Klan who owned restaurants and a light plane. Months ago he had asked Walter, “You’ve told them about Otto and me?”

  Walter said, “You know what happened to Max Stephan and the Luftwaffe pilot.”

  Jurgen said, “‘Loose lips sink ships.’”

  Walter said, “What?”

  The girl in the car was too young to be Vera Mezwa. The guy driving, only his hat visible on the other side of the lovely girl, but something familiar about the way he wore it-of all the ways there were to shape a felt hat-and thought of the marshal, Carlos Huntington Webster, Carl at the table in the department store with another man and a girl who could, yes, very possibly be the girl in the car smoking a cigarette. He liked her beret. If this was the same girl, the one driving could very well be Carl, Carl coming closer each day. He had thought earlier, Where will you see him the next time?

  Here, where he was standing at the chute entrance to Walter’s slaughterhouse. Jurgen stepped inside.