Elmore Leonard - Up in Honey's Room

Jurgen said, “Who’s John Wilkes Booth?”

“And will be remembered longer,” Walter said, “than the name of the man who murdered ten million. I say this not in a boastful way.” Walter paused and said, “What was his name again?” Walter smiled and turned it off.

“Who was the one he’ll be as well known as?”

“Booth,” Vera said. “He shot Abraham Lincoln. Ask Walter how he’s going to do it.”

Joe Aubrey was already saying to Walter, “How you gonna get near him with Secret Service and marines all over the place? You know Rosenfeld’s been going there for twenty years? See if that warm mineral water-why they call it Warm Springs-always eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit day or night. See if it’ll help his poliomy’litis ease up. You know he wears steel braces on his legs, has ’em painted black, or he wouldn’t be able to stand up, like he does from the ass end of a train, the observation car. There’s a lot of people go down there for the water. I been to the springs, it isn’t fifty miles from Griffin, up on Pine Mountain.”

He said to Walter, “Even before you told me, I had an idea you were after Rosenfeld. You come visit and get me to fly down there. All this time you’re scouting the area.”

He said to the others, “You can get in trouble you fly over the Little White House. They warn you, get out of here. You don’t leave fast I’m told they shoot you down.”

Joe Aubrey turned to Walter again. “How you gonna do it, buddy, show up in an iron lung? You don’t halt when they tell you, you’ll hear machine-gun rounds dingin’ off your breather. Walter, tell us how you plan to assassinate the man.”

“I’m going to rent a small plane,” Walter said, “fill it with dynamite, light the fuse, dive straight down like a Stuka into the Little White House and blow it up.”

No one in the room spoke.

Jurgen and Vera were sitting up now. Jurgen said to her, “He’s going to kill himself.”

Vera raised her voice. “Walter, why do you wish to end your life?”

“It’s my gift to the Führer.”

“Please, what has the Führer done for you?”

Joe Aubrey said, “I taught Walter to fly in my Cessna after he pestered me to death. Now he tells us he wants to be the only Ger-man-American kamikaze pilot in World War Two, so people will remember him, Walter the Assassin. Walter, you ever hear about the Jap kamikaze pilot that survived? Chicken Nakamura?”

Vera said to Jurgen, “What’s today, the eleventh,” and to Walter, “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll fly down with Joe. I’m counting on my friend to get me the dynamite and rent a plane, since I don’t have a license.”

Vera got up from the sofa and went to Walter, wanting to touch him. She put her hand on his shoulder. Walter staring at her through his pince-nez, submissive, sad? Perhaps confused. She said, "Walter, if you could fly your plane to Moscow and use it to kill the Evil Dwarf, ahhhh, it would be a gift for humanity. The world would rejoice, even the Bolsheviks. Trust me, Walter, it’s true. But to kill the president of the United States, now, the war in its final, what, weeks? What would be the good of it?”

“I told you,” Walter said, “it’s my gift to the Führer.”

“You want him to show his appreciation?”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“Give you the Knight’s Cross posthumously. Or to a member of your family, your sister who never speaks?”

“Knowing I’ve served the Führer will be enough,” Walter said.

“But will Adolf appreciate your gift, the Red Army about to descend on him? What happens to your meat business, your slaughterhouse?”

Bohdan said, “Vera?”

She looked at him sitting with Dr. Taylor.

“What Walter might consider,” Bo said, “develop an act where he does Himmler monologues in an SS uniform, the hat, the one with the skull and crossbones on it.”

Vera gave him her cold stare.

“I’m serious,” Bo said. “The material’s way overdone, and with funny punch lines where you least expect. Walter does it without cracking a smile.”

Vera said, “Yes . . . ?” Thinking about it now. “Walter does it for American audiences?”

“Who else? After they win the war. You could represent Walter, act as his agent.”

“He’s serious,” Vera said to Walter, Walter frowning at her. She gave his cheek a pat and turned to Jurgen on the sofa, Jurgen with raised eyebrows showing her an open mind. Vera moved to him with a faint smile thinking, Thank God for Jurgen.

The front doorbell rang with a ding-dong chime.

Then again.

It stopped Vera at the sofa. She looked at Bo. Bo looked back at her but didn’t move from Dr. Taylor’s side. Vera gestured toward the door. She watched Bo give the doctor’s hand a pat as he got up from his chair.

“Vera, are we expecting anyone?”

Now Joe Aubrey was on his feet.

“Lemme handle it. Nobody comes in this house without a warrant signed by a federal judge.”

Vera was thinking if it was the police, the FBI, all right, it was over, out of her hands. She watched Aubrey go to the front entrance, release the double lock and open the door.

Walter said, “My God, Honig?”

Joe Aubrey turned to Vera, not sure what to do.

Honey walked past him into the foyer.

She had a nice smile ready for the faces staring at her, picking out Vera Mezwa, the head German spy Kevin had told her about, and the young guy in the sport coat-not the one wearing a skirt- who must be Jurgen, the German POW watching her with a pleasant expression; he seemed calm for a guy on the run. Joe Aubrey looked familiar, from the Bund rally in New York years ago. The other two must be Dr. Taylor and the houseman, the one Carl had called Bohunk, but the guy didn’t look bad in the gray sweater and skirt. Weird but kind of attractive. They didn’t look to Honey like a ring of German spies having a meeting, but that’s what they were.

She stuck out her right arm in the Nazi salute to show she’d come in peace, with no intention of causing trouble, and said, “ Sieg Heil, y’all. I’m Honey Deal.”

"I have no reason to deceive you,” Honey said. “A federal marshal dropped me on your doorstep and left, not wanting to disturb you or with authority to do anything else. But I risked being denied entrance knowing that Walter Schoen, my former husband, was here and I’m anxious for Walter to hear what I have to say. Seeing him again the other evening, after so many lost years, I remembered how thoughtful he was during the year we were married.” She turned her gaze on Walter saying, “What I’ve come to do, Walter, is tell you I’m sorry, deeply sorry for the rude, unforgivable way I walked out of your life.”

She waited. No one said a word.

Do it, Honey thought and crossed the room to Walter, arms at her sides in the trench coat, saucy beret snug on her blond hair, Honey suppliant, going to Walter for his forgiveness, Honey hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. She reached out to him with both hands and he took them in his, his calloused, meat-cutter hands, his pince-nez catching flashes of light as he looked at his people and brought his gaze back to Honey. She would tell Carl sometime tomorrow, in a quiet tone, I saw the lost years welling in his eyes, Honey leaving herself open for Carl to say . . .

Walter sniffled before bringing out his white handkerchief, sniffled again, took hold of his nose and blew it, wiped his nose and looked in the handkerchief. He hasn’t changed, Honey thought and said to God, Please don’t let him cut one, I don’t play being shot anymore.

To Walter she said, “Would you like to introduce me to your friends?”