Elmore Leonard - Up in Honey's Room

Bo said, “It worked, uh?”

“The amount he drank, he didn’t need the goofball.”

“It won’t hurt him. Makes him go seepy-by is all it does. Tell me what he did.”

“He gave me a check.”

“I mean in bed, what did he do? Is he a muff-diver?”

“They all are, you give them a chance.”

“So, it was painless?”

“For the first time in years and years I feel I should go to Confession.”

“‘Bless me, Father, I fucked a Grand Dragon,’ ‘You did? Tell me about it, my child.’”

“I’m too tired to scold you. No, because it was devious, a dirty trick, taking him to bed because we need money.”

“You have the check?”

“In a safe place.”

“How much did he give you?”

“I couldn’t ask for what we need. I said, ‘Put in the amount you feel you can give.’”

“Vera, please don’t say that.”

“Made out to the Bomb Victims Fund of Berlin.”

“Tell me how much he gave you?”

“I said to him, ‘Wait, I don’t think that’s the exact name of the fund.’ I won’t tell you what I was doing to him while he’s holding his pen and his checkbook.”

“You’re both completely naked.”

“Joe has his socks on. I told him, sign the check, I’d fill in the name later.”

“He wrote in the amount?”

“He was much too anxious, getting ink on my breasts, but he did sign the check.”

“Becoming groggy?”

“Not yet, but slurring.”

“And failed to write in the amount?”

“I’m going to type it in,” Vera said, “the amount, the date, and to whom it’s paid.”

“For how much?”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning. You have to get Mr. Aubrey on the road.”

“Time for Joe to go nigh-nigh,” Bo said. “You know it’s an awfully long ride out to Walter’s.”

“Stay with the plan,” Vera said. “When you come out of the driveway, make sure the surveillance car doesn’t follow you. They have the rear end of my Chrysler imprinted in their minds, they’ve tailed it enough times. I doubt they’ll follow you, but be alert, they can radio another car to pick you up.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Bo, dearest-”

“I know, stay with the plan.”

“You found the shovel?”

“A spade, but will do the job. It’s in the trunk.”

“I cleaned the Walther,” Vera said.

“Which one?”

“Your favorite, the .380 PPK.”

“You’re a dear,” Bo said. “I’d get rid of the Tokarev, that Russian piece of shit, it’s so heavy. How does one carry it, keep it concealed?”

“My, we’re testy this evening.”

“I’m anxious to be going.”

“You’re wearing your girdle?”

“I hate it, it’s so tight I can’t breathe.”

“We all have our crosses to bear,” Vera said.

One o’clock in the morning Bo came out of the driveway in the Chrysler and turned left around the median. Now he was approaching the FBI surveillance car, having a look at it through the line of trees in the median. It was Vera’s idea: go left and they would have to turn around in the street to come after him. “If anyone is in it,” Vera said. “I see it as a decoy. Sometime after breakfast an agent is dropped off to sit in the car and pick his teeth.”

Joe Aubrey was a mess, but not a problem in his rumpled suit, his shirttail hanging out. Bo had said, “I’m not sticking his shirt down in his pants.” Vera didn’t care. Joe was groggy from the goofball, still drunk but miserable, what was left of him once Vera was through. He opened his eyes to streetlights and neon signs.

“Where we goin’?”

“To Walter’s.”

“He’s way out’n the country.”

“Yes, he is,” Bo said. “Go seepy-by and let me drive.”

Aubrey reached over to lay his hand on Bo’s thigh. “You still wearin’ your skirt? I’m gonna stick my hand under it, see what you got.”

Bo said, “Mr. Aubrey, please,” and gave the hand a slap. “Let’s not be naughty.” They were driving south on Woodward, only a few miles now from downtown Detroit.

“Man, I am in pain. I think I got laid, but I’m not sure.”

“You did, after a fashion.”

“That’s the first hangover I’ve had in twenty years. I suck oxygen I keep in my airplane and it clears up my head.”

They drove in silence for a while, Joe Aubrey lying back with his eyes closed through the downtown area now, past J.L. Hudson’s, Sam’s Cut Rate, past the big open square called Campus Martius across from city hall, past the Empress and the Avenue burlesque houses, and turned left on Jefferson Avenue, on their way to the bridge that crossed to Belle Isle in the middle of the river with its recreational areas, baseball diamonds, picnic tables, a zoo, horses to ride, canoes to paddle in the lagoon, and the river to swim in during the summer. Bo could see no sense in driving all the way to Farmington, a good hour from Vera’s, when he could drop Mr. Aubrey off in the Detroit River, a popular grave for hundreds of souls during Prohibition, bootleggers bringing whiskey across from Canada, getting waylaid by the murderous Purple Gang if the police didn’t stop them. It was a rough town, used to violence. Two years ago, 1943, a Negro sailor was thrown in the river from the Belle Isle bridge and it started a race riot that went on for days, property destroyed, cars turned over, troops called in . . . He’d drop off Mr. Aubrey, turn around and take Woodward north this time to Dr. Taylor’s English-looking home in Palmer Woods, just off Seven Mile Road on Wellesley. He had not mentioned to Vera his plan to see Dr. Taylor tonight. But why not, while he was at it? He was thinking, Wouldn’t it be lovely if Dr. Taylor were here, to join Mr. Aubrey on the bridge?

And immediately thought, Turn it around. Take Mr. Aubrey to Dr. Taylor’s.

Bo U-turned on Jefferson beginning to rehearse what he’d do, ring the doorbell and say, Doctor, I’m very sorry to bother you... Mr. Aubrey desperately needs to use the toilet. We’re on our way to Walter’s. I’m afraid he’s just a bit tipsy.

Just a bit-he hoped he could keep sleepyhead on his feet.

Dr. Taylor was wearing a maroon smoking jacket with black silk lapels and wide shoulders over his shirt and tie, the doctor still dressed. He stepped back from the door, his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. Bo recited his lines and Dr. Taylor said, “Yes, the powder room’s right there.”

Bo got Aubrey inside and closed the door, Aubrey wanting to know, “Where’n the fuck are we?”

Bo told him, “You have to piss, understand? Stand over the toilet and take out your dong and aim it. Wait. Mr. Aubrey, will you please fucking wait, you’re pissing all over the floor.” There was no way to stop him now; he should have sat him on the toilet. Bo said, “Lean over it with your hands on the wall, so you don’t fall and hit your head.” He stepped out of the powder room and closed the door.

Dr. Taylor, waiting for him, his hand still in his pocket, said, “It’s a shame you didn’t come alone. I have a rare cognac we could sip while we continue our talk.”

The man was of no interest to Bohdan, his thoughts or his inclinations, the way he gave signs of intimacy but then seemed to lose his nerve. Bo said, “Do you have a gun in your hand?”

Dr. Taylor smiled bringing it out.

“You’re very observant.”

“A Luger?” Bo said.

“No, a Walther P38,” Dr. Taylor said. “In the thirties it took the place of the Luger as the German military pistol. I do have a pair of Luger 08s that date back to the first war and, if you can believe it, an MP40 Maschinenpistole .”