Elmore Leonard - Up in Honey's Room

“Important works of art?”

“Some, but it’s all marketable.”

“This is what you do, you fence stolen goods?”

“I find art collectors who look at my catalog and get a hard-on. I sell paintings that hung in the Louvre to people living in New York and Palm Beach, at a discount. I still make a pile of money and the collectors give me a big hug.”

“How do you get into this business?”

“My dad got it going. He was a captain in the merchant marine, retired now, he’s almost seventy. I called him to see if we should buy a play by Brecht, one that’s still unknown to the world. Dad said he’d check with book collectors, see how much any of them were interested. I could tell he liked the idea. He said, ‘Offer Pete five hundred, but don’t go over a grand.’”

Otto said, “You got it for . . . ?”

“Two-fifty. I told Pete we’d be happy to give him a percentage if we get any interest in it. You play it straight with this guy.”

“If you’re going to sell it,” Otto said, “why do you want a translation?”

“I’d like to know what it’s about.”

“You could go to prison.”

“Everything I sell comes out of Europe. Good luck trying to trace it back. Pete’s guys bring it into the country. I don’t do any of that.”

“And now you go home?”

“What I’m thinking,” Aviva said, “you ought to come with me. You could start doing the translation on the boat.”

Otto said, “The boat?” He loved this girl already.

“A forty-foot Chris-Craft. It’s tied up at the yacht club on Belle Isle.”

“You have a crew?”

“I’m the skipper,” Aviva said. “I have a gook-excuse me-a Filipino boy who handles the lines and serves drinks in a white jacket. We head down the Detroit River past Ford Rouge and the steel mills to Lake Erie and we’re almost home.” Aviva said to Otto grinning at her, “Have you ever been to Cleveland?”

The first thing Walter said to Jurgen getting in the front seat, “Where is Otto?” Walter anxious, looking for Otto in his homburg in the crowd waiting for the light to change. Now cars behind them were blowing horns. Walter didn’t move. He looked at the rearview mirror and said, “Be quiet!” But now he did put the Ford in gear and began to crawl past the block-long front of Hudson’s.

“We were separated,” Jurgen said.

“How could that happen? You were careful?”

“He got on an elevator without me,” Jurgen said.

“You were arguing?”

“The door closed before I could get on. There’s nothing to worry about, Walter. He’ll be along. Circle the block, I’m sure we’ll see him.”

“I knew something like this would happen,” Walter said. “Why I was against you going out in public, your pictures in every post office in the country.”

Jurgen said, “Yes, but do we look like those lost souls? I hope not.”

It took Walter ten minutes to drive several blocks past signs that refused to allow him to turn, finally coming roundabout past the corner again, Walter straining to find Otto in the crowd.

“Do you see him? No, because he isn’t there. You let him out of your sight and now he’s gone. We’ll read about him in the newspaper, escaped prisoner of war arrested by the police.”

“If he’s caught he won’t tell on you. We know you’re up to something with the lovely Vera and Dr. Taylor who doesn’t speak. Why won’t you tell us about it?”

“I can tell you, ” Walter said, “but not with Otto present. I worry he’s going crazy.”

“He’s always been crazy,” Jurgen said. “It got him an Iron Cross in North Africa. I think he could get by here, with a little luck.” Jurgen believed he could tell Walter almost anything. “Otto can be charming, if he has a good enough reason. I’m not going to worry about him.”

Not with Carl Webster here.

Relentless Carl, not only knowing Jurgen would be in Detroit, but also having lunch where he and Otto were going to dine. Not the Georgian or the Early American restaurant, or the cafeteria in the basement the girl operating the elevator told him about, no, in the Pine Room.

Carl coming closer and closer.

How did he do that?

It was funny, because Jurgen wasn’t surprised to see him sitting there. Startled, yes, for a moment but not actually that surprised. He knew that Carl, sooner or later, would be on his trail.

He could see himself sitting down with Carl, talking, getting along. A bar would be a good place, the Brass Rail they passed on the way to Hudson’s. Or a nightclub he saw advertised in the paper, Frank Barbaro’s Bowery. It offered entertainment, a romantic baritone, dinners from a dollar and a half up. What else? The room was air-cooled for your comfort.

Sometime after the war.

He would have to be on his toes now, wondering where he would see Carl next.

Carl liked the way she offered him a drink when he came to pick her up, Honey saying he could have anything he wanted as long as it was rye. He liked her in the black sweater and skirt and the way the slit in the skirt opened as she walked to the kitchen. She returned with drinks and offered him a Lucky, telling him in a semiserious tone, “I’m sorry, but I seem to be out of Beech-Nut scrap.” Carl smiled, appreciating her effort, her memory even more. She paid attention to what he said.

Now they were at opposite ends of the cushy sofa with their highballs and cigarettes, both sitting back with their legs crossed: Carl showing a cowboy boot, old but polished, Honey a plain black pump hanging from her toes, showing Carl the delicate arch of her foot. She asked him if he always wore cowboy boots.

“About all my life,” Carl said.

“Because you live in Oklahoma?”

“They’re my shoes,” Carl said. He asked if she was nervous, about to see Walter again.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Honey said. “I can’t wait to see how you handle him.”

“Was he ever mean to you, lose his temper?”

“He never hit me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Does he own a gun?”

“He had a shotgun he’d take to Georgia, and go bird shooting.”

“You never went along?”

“He’d meet his friend Joe Aubrey.”

“The one with the chain of restaurants,” Carl said. “I read the sheet the Bureau has on him. He has a plane?”

“A Cessna. He’d fly up here from Georgia,” Honey said, “take Walter for rides and show him how to work the controls. That was in ’39. I don’t know if he’s been up here since.”

“He comes to see Walter a couple of times a year,” Carl said. “Or Walter takes a bus to Griffin, south of Atlanta. Saves wear on his tires. You met Joe?”

“I stayed out of his way,” Honey said. “I considered Joe Aubrey as big a lout as Fritz Kuhn. I’ve always felt Joe would love to shoot somebody.”

“Why’s that?”

“He hates colored people. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t taken part in lynchings.”

“He’s never been arrested.”

“He hates Jews and what he calls Commonists.”

“How about Vera Mezwa?”

“She came after my time with Walter. Vera and Dr. Michael George Taylor. I don’t know either of them.”

“You think they’re German agents?”

“Kevin does and he knows more about them than I do. I think they’re serious about working for the Nazis. They like the idea of sieg heil ing each other and having secret meetings. But where do they get information about war production?”

Carl said, “From newspapers?”

“That’s what I think. They send information written in invisible ink and that makes them spies. I think the FBI keeps waiting for them to actually do something subversive, wishing they’d hurry up and make a move before the war ends.”