Honey in His Mouth

not the thing. Here’s the thing: Did you know you have O-negative blood?”

“What?”

“You have O-negative blood. Rather rare around here —only seven people out of a hundred have it. Do you know anybody we can get hold of who does? Any blood relatives in these parts?”

“Doc, I didn’t know there was such a thing as O-negative blood, whatever it is.”

“Well, you need a blood transfusion, Harsh, and we have no O-negative in our blood bank. If you know anybody that we can reach who has it, you had better tell me.”

“I can’t help you, Doc. How about just any old blood?”

The doctor shook his head. “If you’ve got O-negative, you can’t take any other type. It could kill you.” A heavy, white-haired, middle-aged nurse came into the room. She said she had been on the telephone to the Red Cross and learned they had an O-negative donor listed in a nearby town. He was a mechanic and was out at somebody’s farm fixing a tractor, but the police were sending a car over to bring him in. The doctor turned to Harsh. “You’re a lucky man, Harsh. I guess we’ll be able to get you fixed up.” But Harsh was asleep.

It was morning. He was lying on a hospital bed as naked as a jaybird under the sheet. The doctor came in and yanked back the sheet and pressed thoughtfully on his body with fingertips, then drew the sheet up to his chin.

“You’re feeling great, my boy.”

“That is one hell of an overstatement, Doc. What did you do to me?”

“The donor got here, that mechanic. You’re full of his blood now and good as new.” The doctor took a chart off a hook at the foot of the bed, looked at it, and put it back on the hook. “By the way, Harsh, there’s a city policeman out front. I’ll bring him in, so you can thank him for getting that blood donor up here for you.”

“Tell you the truth, Doc, I feel too sick to be seeing any cop.”

“Nonsense. You’re not that bad off.”

The doctor turned and went out. As soon as he had gone, Harsh tried to get out of bed. He did not want to talk to a police officer. But weakness seized him and he had to flop back on the bed and lie helpless. The blood out of that grease monkey, he thought, didn’t have much strength in it.

The policeman threw the door wide and came in. He was a big man with a bald head and an unfriendly manner, and it was immediately clear he was interested in getting more than thanks. He listened while Harsh said he understood the police had hunted up the blood donor, and thanks. Thanks a lot. Harsh wanted to get rid of him, and he was very polite.

“No sweat at all, fellow. Line of duty.” The officer got out a notebook. “Now, about that arm. What happened to it?”

“Well, a car sideswiped me, officer. Like I put in the report.”

“What report?”

“Hey! Say now, I guess I didn’t get around to that. Tell you the truth, I was in pretty bad shape. All the time I remember thinking, my arm is all smashed to hell, I got to get to a Doc, and I got to report this like the law says.”

“So those were sideswipe marks on your car?”

“Tell you the truth, officer, I wouldn’t know if my car was marked up or not. With this arm the way it was, I just couldn’t get up the steam to notice anything else.”

“How did it happen?”

“I had my elbow out the open window, the way a fellow drives along. Then like I say, here comes some bird and sideswipes me. You know something, officer, for a while there I didn’t even know I was hurt.”

“You remember anything about the car?”

“I couldn’t swear, but I think it was a green Chevy, this year’s model, a four-door, I think. The guy, he was in it all by himself, a smallish guy with a dark face, and he was wearing a tan cap. You know, that’s about all I remember. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I was crowding the center line.”

“When it happened, didn’t the other car stop?”

“Not that I saw. He high-tailed it right on down the road.”

“Where was this?”

“Officer, I wish I could tell you for exact sure, but it was south of the Iowa line a little ways, is the best I can do.”

The officer took a bite at the end of his pencil. “Your correct name is Walter Harsh. You’re from Hollywood, California. Right?”

“No. I don’t know where you got your information about me, officer, but I ain’t from Hollywood, California. I’m from Quincy, Illinois. Say now, wait—I’m the president of National Studios of Hollywood, that must have given you the idea I’m from Hollywood, California.”

“The National Studios of Hollywood, eh?”

“You got it.”

The officer put this down in his notebook. “But your name is Walter Harsh?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Now what is the address in Hollywood of this National Studios?”

“You’re mixed up, officer. There ain’t any address in Hollywood. The address of National Studios of Hollywood is in Quincy, Illinois, the same as my address.”

“Oh.”

“I hope you got it right now, officer.”

The policeman pulled a chair to the bedside and put one foot on it to make a desk for his notebook. “Harsh, are you a movie guy?”

“Motion pictures? Me? Oh brother, did you miss it again.”

“Well, what are you?”

“I’m nothing but a photo drummer.”

“What is that?”

“I take pictures of people house-to-house. Which reminds me, officer, in my car. My box. I mean my camera, did you notice was it still in my car?”

“The hospital people had your camera and suitcase brought in and put with your other stuff in a locker here at the hospital.”

“Say, that’s all right. I was afraid somebody would make off with it. That camera set me back.”

The policeman’s eyes were not leaving Harsh. The creases in his uniform were very neat, as if this was the first time he had worn the uniform. There was the faint smell of gun oil about him, and his brass and leather were shiny.

“Now, Harsh, let’s get one more thing. Who do we notify at National Studios of Hollywood. I mean who do we notify that you are laid up with an accident?”

“Well, I guess it won’t be necessary. I am the company.”

“How is that now?”

“I am National Studios of Hollywood. I am all of it.”

The officer removed his foot from the chair, put his notebook away, buttoned the pocket flap, then straightened his coat by giving little tugs at the skirts. He took a deep breath, causing his leather harness to squeak audibly. “Well, now.” The officer inflated his chest again, as if he liked the sound of the leather when it squeaked. “If this checks out, I guess you’re all in the clear.”

If this checks out. You’re not out of the woods yet, Harsh thought. The cop was going to do some prying around.

The policeman had his hand on the doorknob when the door opened and the doctor came in. The doctor grinned. “How did it go, John? Get the information you needed?”

The officer patted a spot on his coat over the notebook. “I guess he told me enough to start on.”

The doctor pointed to a chair. “Stick around a minute, John.” The doctor took Harsh’s pulse and patted him on the chest. “Nothing to keep you down, my boy.” He turned to the policeman. “I have a pleasant little surprise for you, John.”

“How’s that, Doc?”

The doctor produced a postcard from his pocket and handed it to the officer. “Read that, John. Better read it