Лестер Дент - Honey in His Mouth

Better have the lawyer soft pedal that to the jury, he thought, the jury might not understand quite how it was, on the bum, hitchhiking, pearl-diving for handouts, even panhandling. He had been in the pokey three or four times; he had not told the policeman the truth about that. What the hell, he thought, it was none of the town law’s business.

He wondered if the cop had shared that twenty-five bucks around. He would bet not. The town cop was just like anybody else, give them a whiff of easy money, put the golden odor in their nose, and they went haywire. Free money was the worst. Take the big free prize National Studios of Hollywood offered the marks over the telephone, it was not much, just three portraits that cost twenty-five cents apiece to turn out. But it was free, something for nothing, and common sense went flapping out of the window. Like Vera Sue, he thought, and that five thousand dollars she was chasing with her tongue hanging out. All she had to go on, some guy she had barely met had said somebody was paying him five thousand dollars for something that didn’t make sense. And Vera Sue was hard at it, trying to grab the five thousand as if it was right there in front of her. The smell of money had her wild.

But maybe the worst was, he could smell it a little himself.

Early in the afternoon the nurse came in. “Mr. Harsh, a letter for you.”

“For me? Who would be writing me?”

It was a large plain envelope with his name on it, a special delivery stamp, and the name of the hospital. Inside was a photograph. Nothing else. Harsh had a look at the photograph. He put it under his pillow in a hurry.

“Nurse.”

“Yes.”

“If you will close the door when you go out, I guess I will have me a nap.”

The nurse did not take the hint right away, but fussed around a while longer with the sheets, put out a fresh glass of water with the bent glass straw in it, and put the bedpan where he could reach it. Finally she left, closing the door.

Harsh got the picture out and had a long look at it. The thing was as close a likeness to him as he could imagine, except for the scar, which began at the left eye corner and ran down and forward, a scar about three inches long.

He was smearing scrambled egg on toast and taking slow bites when Vera Sue came in the next morning. It was ten o’clock. Vera Sue wore a grey sweater, tight-fitting, a shiny wide black belt, and a charcoal skirt with enough material in it for several skirts. She had a pert and jouncy new charcoal hat with a feather. She came to him and began kissing him. He held her and kissed back. Presently an embarrassed smile came to the nurse’s face, and she left the room.

“Walter, did you get my letter?”

He feigned surprise. “What letter was that?”

“You didn’t get it? A special delivery I sent you?”

“Never heard of it.”

Vera Sue slapped her forehead with her palm. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Walter, something went wrong.”

“Well, somebody did send me a picture of myself, or my almost-self.”

She leaned over and damn near bit the end off his nose. “There! That will teach you to joke.”

“Sure I got your letter and I must say it convinced me I was wrong about there not being any picture. Ouch! Goddamn, you could ruin the end of a man’s nose that way.”

“Walter, you scared me. I thought that cop had got wise or something and headed it off.”

“How did you get the picture?”

“Off of Kansas City. I picked his pocket.”

“That’s okay, as long as his pants weren’t hanging on the bedpost when the pocket got picked.”

“Walter, you know me better than that.” She slapped her forehead with her hand again. “Walter! For God’s sake, your face!”

“Huh?”

“What did you do to your face?”

“This? Oh, that’s an experiment.” What he had done was take a teaspoon, the one out of the medicine glass on the table by the bed, and place the edge of the handle across his cheek about where the picture showed the scar to be. Then he had lain on the spoon handle. He had been lying on the spoon handle nearly an hour, and it had made a groove in his face. “Let me have the mirror out of your purse, so I can check on the results.”

“Walter, why did you do that?”

“You took your time noticing it. Let’s see the mirror.”

She fished in her purse, found the mirror, and he held it in front of his face, moving his head from side to side to view the results of his experiment. There was a deep crease on his cheek. It looked somewhat like a scar. He was stunned at the resemblance he now bore to the picture.

“I wish you hadn’t fooled with your face, Walter.”

“This really makes me the double for the guy in the picture, though, don’t it? That’s what I wanted to find out.”

Vera Sue began to walk around the room. “I’m not so sure. You may have fouled things up.”

“How is that?”

“A man’s here.”

“Who? Your guy from Kansas City?”

“No, a man from New York. A new man. Mr. Brother, he said his name is.”

“Mr. Brother? I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Well, he’s here now.”

“How in the name of creeping Jesus did he happen to show up, and what does he want?”

“That John What’s-his-name, the city policeman, sent him a telegram.”

“Oh, that. The O-Negative Blood Foundation thing. Twenty-five bucks reward for everybody connected with getting that blood except the guy who needed it, which is me. The cop was supposed to telegraph to get the reward. If you ask me, it’s as cockeyed as the rest of this. You say this Mr. Brother is here? Here at the hospital?”

Vera Sue nodded quickly. “He’s in the waiting room now.”

“Right outside?”

“Yes.”

“Oh what a stupid trick, bringing him here now.”

Vera Sue’s face became sullen. “Don’t call me stupid.”

Harsh was angry that she hadn’t consulted him. If she were standing a little closer, he thought, he would give her one with his fist, smack her across the room. He would teach her to talk over a move with him before she made it. Then he felt shaky inside, realizing he was helpless here in bed, and if Vera Sue walked out on him, he would really be up the creek.

“Vera Sue, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you dumb. I guess I said it because I’m sick.”

She took the mirror away from him and put it in her purse. “You’re a no good son of a bitch, did you know that?”

“Yes, I’m no good, and I’m sorry and I love you.”

“The hell with you, Walter.” She adjusted her new hat. “I’m going to bring in Mr. Brother.”

Just wait until he got up and around, he thought, and he would show her a couple of things.

Brother was a soft-looking man in an extremely neat brown suit. He had a straight slender nose with no flare at the nostrils, a nose like a hatchet blade. He had thick lips, oversize brown eyes. His skin was tanned a trifle lighter shade of brown than his suit, which was a ripe tobacco leaf. He carried a leather briefcase, the folder type without a handle that closes with a zipper. He kept the case under his right arm.

“Mr. Harsh?” He had a pronounced accent which Harsh identified at once as Spanish.

“That’s me.”

The man stepped to the bedside and took a close look at him. The effect on him was violent. His hands tightened convulsively on the briefcase. Harsh got the impression the man wanted to leap upon him and strike him, that the man hated him utterly and irrationally at first sight.

“Mister, the scar ain’t real, if that’s what startled you.”

“El hermano, por Dios!” The man’s eyes protruded. They were shiny and brown like the eyes of a choked dog.