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
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
Bo said, “A Schmeisser?”
Dr. Taylor smiled at him again. “Where did you get that, from a comic book? Americans can be very ignorant. They call it a Schmeisser, but Hugo Schmeisser had absolutely nothing to do with the design or creation of the weapon, nothing.”
Bo said, “May I see the Walther?”
The doctor extended it holding the barrel.
“Be careful, it’s fully loaded. The safety is on the left side of the slide. It’s on.”
Bo shifted the P38 to his left hand. He raised the hem of the gray cashmere and brought out his Walther PPK from the band of the girdle he was wearing as sort of a holster and now had a pistol in each hand, his Walther not looking anything like Dr. Taylor’s Walther.
“I see we both hold dear the law of self-preservation,” the doctor said. “Do you know how many times my life has been threatened? Do you think I would dare answer the door at night without a pistol in my hand?”
“How many times?” Bo said.
“In letters I receive in the mail. In notes I find, here and at my office. In phone calls-I’m talking about actual threats against my life. Some might be from the same person, it’s difficult to tell. One of the recent letters said, ‘I am a little guy in that I am short, but I have a big gun. Quit spouting off about Jews or you will pay with your life.’”
“How interesting,” Bo said, “he tells you he’s short.”
“Yes, isn’t it strange?” The doctor said, “Oh, I see you’re still wearing your skirt. You’re so chic, but at the same time you make a delightful Buster Brown.”
Bo said, “Thank you, Doctor,” with a coy smile and bounced his hair.
He had decided how he would do the job.
He slipped the PPK again into the girdle beneath his skirt and could feel it against his tummy, Bo turning to the powder room with the doctor’s P38 in his right hand now. He snicked the safety off, opened the door, and shot Joe Aubrey in the back of the head,
The doctor stood rigid in his maroon silk smoking jacket, his eyes stuck wide open, his eyes raising then to the sound of a wom-an’s voice calling from upstairs.
“Michael?”
Bo looked toward the staircase. It would be the doctor’s wife, though he didn’t see her yet, the upstairs dark.
“Answer her,” Bo said. “Aren’t you all right?”
The doctor called out, “I’m okay, Rosemary.”
Bo saw her now, a pale nightgown coming out of the dark, her hand sliding along the round banister, Rosemary joining the party, and Bo revised how he’d finish the job. She reached the bottom of the stairs and saw him in the lamplight. Now he turned, extending the pistol, and shot Dr. Taylor in the chest, shot him through the chest, a china lamp behind him shattering as his wife screamed and Bo shot him again.
Now she’ll throw herself on his body and wail in anguish, Bo thought, the way the women of Odessa wailed running to the wall, their men lying dead and the fucking Romanians eyeing the women as they walked away. But this one has not had the experience of people killed by gunfire. She seems unsure if he was alive or dead. Really? A nine-millimeter parabellum slug having torn through his chest? Two of them. What did she expect him to do, sit up? Ah, now she crept to her husband lying on the floor and went to her knees saying his name, crying, confused.
