Sheldon Lord - A Girl Called Honey

“Must,” said Gil, who couldn’t imagine a man living with a whore and not pimping for her.

“Good for him,” the cop said. “At least he’s making an honest living. It’s guys like you who give this town a lousy reputation.”

Gil smiled — an infinitely patient smile — and filled the cop’s cup with more black coffee.

The hell of it was that he had read all of the books and magazines in the room.

That’s what made it so impossible. Seven hours in an empty hotel room is a bore, whatever way you look at it, but it would have been a lot easier to bear if he had a book or magazine to read. As it was, the room was full of books and magazines but he had read every last one of them.

He couldn’t go out of the room. That much was obvious. He couldn’t go out, not even to the drugstore to buy himself something to read, not even down to the Canarsie Grille later on for another cup of coffee. There were candy bars at the hotel desk, but he was too petrified to chance going downstairs again, so he did nothing but sit in his room in the hotel, going quietly out of his mind.

Newport was not safe anymore. In his mind he saw every policeman in the town studying his picture with interest and devoting every minute of his time to a careful search for Richie Parsons, Deserter. Just as it never entered his mind that the deserter could be anyone but him, it never occurred to him that the Newport police couldn’t care less about an out-of-state deserter, that they got a notice like that every day of every week, and that the cop had mentioned it solely to show what a bore the day was.

Richie knew only that he was a hunted man.

The fact that he remained for seven-and-a-half terror-stricken hours in room 26 of the Hotel Casterbridge is striking testimony to the hold Honour Mercy Bane had upon him. If it were not for her, he would have been on the first bus or train out of Newport. No, that’s not right — he wouldn’t have chanced recognition at the bus or train station, fearing that the police would be watching such areas of escape. He would have hiked clear to the city limits of Cincinnati and then hitched a ride.

But not now. Now he had to wait for Honour Mercy because he could not possibly leave without her.

He got the deck of cards, shuffled them and began to deal out a hand of solitaire. He had to cheat once or twice, but he won three games straight before it became so boring that he couldn’t stand it. Then he ran through the deck and observed the positions of the men and women on the back of each card, trying to take some vicarious interest in their obvious celluloid joy, but they left him cold.

He put the cards down and sat in a chair facing the door. At any moment he expected a knock, but after a half-hour his fear changed its manifestation from nervousness to a strange calm. Instead of fidgeting, he sat stiff as a board and waited for time to pass, waited for it to be eight-thirty and for Honour Mercy to come home so that they could get the hell out of the town of Newport.

He barely moved at all. Periodically he lit a cigarette, periodically he ducked ashes on the rug, periodically he dropped the cigarette to the floor and stepped on it.

And periodically he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

Honour Mercy Bane was tired.

She was tired because, for an early shift, there had been one hell of a lot of action. It had been a back-breaking day which had culminated in a thirty-five-dollar trick at five minutes to eight, and now that she was out of the place she felt she would be happy never to see the inside of a house again.

She was hungry but she didn’t stop for a bite to eat, preferring to wait and have supper with Richie. She didn’t forget to buy magazines and books for him, but she was in such a hurry to get home that she remembered the books and magazines and passed the drugstore anyhow, figuring that she could get them later.

She had to get back to the hotel room in a hurry. She didn’t know why, but she had a strange feeling that the faster she saw Richie, the better.

When she opened the door of the room he straightened up in the chair and his eyes were wide. Before she could say anything, he stood up and motioned for her to shut the door. She did so, puzzled.

“We have to leave,” he said.

She looked at him.

“They’re looking for me,” he said, “and we’ve got to get out of town.”

She nodded. She thought that Madge would be disappointed when she didn’t show up at the house the following day, that Terri would miss her and that some of her steadies would grumble when they discovered she was literally nowhere to be had. But the thought of remaining in Newport never entered her mind.

“Better start packing.”

She got her ratty cardboard suitcase from the closet and spread it on the bed and began filling it with clothes. At the same time, he packed his own suitcase, and the first thing he put into it was his uniform.

She had, fortunately, quite a lot of money. There was good money to be made at a Newport whorehouse and she had been making it. Neither she nor Richie could be classed as a big spender and she had over four hundred dollars in her purse. That, she thought, ought to be enough to last them quite a time.

She packed up her dresses and they were much nicer than the clothing she had carried with her from Clearwater. She didn’t have room for everything in the little suitcase and had to leave some of the dresses behind, but she managed to take along the ones she liked best.

They packed in a hurry. It didn’t take them more than fifteen minutes all told before both suitcases were jammed and lay ready to go. Then she went to Richie and he took her in his arms and held her very close and kissed her several times, his arms holding her firmly and tenderly. When he held her like that, and kissed her like that, he didn’t seem scared at all.

And when he did that, the memory of that last thirty-five-dollar trick was washed out of her system. She completely forgot about it.

Then he let go of her. There would be time later to make love, plenty of time when they were out of Newport and out of Kentucky and away someplace safe. She picked up her suitcase and he picked up his suitcase and they walked out of the room and down the stairs and out of the hotel. If Richie skulked as he walked, his thin body hugging the sides of the buildings they passed, Honour Mercy Bane didn’t notice it.

He would not hitchhike, not with her along, and they were walking to the bus station. She wondered what it would be like where they were going. She had not asked him where they were headed and did not have the slightest idea whether he was taking her north or south or east or west.

She was like Ruth in the Bible that Prudence and Abraham Bane read from every day of their lives. Wherever he took her she would go.

It was well after midnight, and the bus, mumbling to itself, rolled steadily northward, toward Cleveland, leaving Cincinnati far to the south behind it. Ohio is built something like a grandfather clock. At the top is Cleveland, the clock-face, and at the bottom is Cincinnati, the pendulum-weight, and in between there isn’t very much of anything. In the middle of the night, there’s even less.

Most of the people on the bus were asleep. Honour Mercy was asleep, her head, in a mute declaration of alliance, resting comfortably against Richie Parsons’ shoulder. Only three people in the whole bus were awake. One of them, fortunately, was the driver, up front there. The second was a soft guitar-player, sitting way in back and singing quietly to himself: “You will eat, you will eat, by and by; In that glorious land in the sky, way up high; Work and pray, live on hay; You’ll get pie in the sky when you die. That’s a lie.”