Honey in His Mouth

safe.

Mr. Hassam conveyed his favorable impression to the others in emphatic terms. “I vote for this man. I tell you, I have had my doubts about the sanity of this project from time to time. But not now. This man can pull it off. We will never find a better candidate.”

Miss Muirz nodded. “I am sure.”

Doctor Englaster hesitated. “There is the matter of the broken arm the fellow has.”

“It will mend.”

“Suppose it does not?”

Mr. Hassam shrugged. “Then El Presidente will just have to break his arm when he flees into exile. A broken arm will be believable, I imagine. He will be fortunate if he does not collect a hide full of bullets.”

“I hope not.” Brother’s eyes were suddenly nasty. “I want to shoot the bastard myself.”

Miss Muirz looked away suddenly. Her eyes focused rigidly on nothing in particular.

Doctor Englaster eyed Brother. “You are sure of the blood type?”

“Positive. The same as El Presidente, O-negative. I checked it twice.”

Doctor Englaster waved his long cigarette holder. “You know, I think the bounder might do.”

Harsh had never been fingerprinted by the police. His encounters with the punitive side of the law either had not been on charges sufficiently serious to warrant printing or had been in smaller communities where the police did not go in for promiscuous printing. He had been fingerprinted when taken into the army, however. He assumed his prints were on file with the Pentagon or the FBI or wherever they kept them. He thought of all this quickly when Mr. Hassam asked him to put his fingerprints on a card. By the time he decided not to object, Mr. Hassam had the card and ink pad ready, and he took hold of Harsh’s hand.

“Hey, Mr. Hassam, let’s see the card. That’s kind of a funny-looking fingerprint card, ain’t it?”

Mr. Hassam smiled faintly. He gave Harsh the card. Harsh had never seen a similar card, having had no occasion to truck with banks handling large deposits, but the printed matter told him it was a bank identification card for filling out by a depositor.

“Mr. Hassam, I put my fingerprints on this thing, what am I getting into?”

“I would not mislead you, Harsh. As soon as your fingerprints are on this card, some money is going to be deposited in the bank using the card for future identification.”

“Yeah? How much money?”

“A useful sum, Harsh.”

“Will my name be on the card?”

“No. Just your fingerprints.”

“Then the money won’t be for me?”

“No.”

“How much money, Mr. Hassam?”

“Harsh, I do not think I am supposed to tell you that.”

“Goddamn it, you want my fingerprints on that card, don’t you?” Harsh turned wheedling. “Look, you and I are hitting it off pretty good, Mr. Hassam, so why don’t you go all the way?”

“One million three hundred and ninety-four thousand dollars.”

Harsh lay back on the bed. He felt he was going to be sick.

“May I take your fingerprints, Harsh?”

“Jesus Christ,” Harsh had difficulty breathing. “Go ahead.” He let Mr. Hassam take his limp fingers and roll them on the ink pad, then on the card.

“Thank you, Harsh.”

“Mix me another slug, will you?” Harsh’s voice was ragged. “You people are going to ruin my health, did you know that?” He closed his eyes, did not open them when Mr. Hassam placed a glass half full of bourbon in his fingers.

Mr. Hassam carried the card into the solarium. He waved it under the noses of his confederates.

Doctor Englaster frowned. “Didn’t Harsh object to giving you his fingerprints?”

“I gave him a verbal anesthetic.” Mr. Hassam smiled.

Harsh was sitting up in bed, another drink in his hand, looking at the wall safe when Doctor Englaster came into his room.

This is the stuck-up son of a bitch, Harsh thought.

“What do you want, head-picker?”

“I have a piece of information for you, Harsh.”

“I wish you had sent Miss Muirz in to tell it to me.”

“Miss Muirz is busy.”

“I bet she could be kept busy, all right.” Harsh was somewhat drunk. “How about you taking Miss Muirz a little message from me saying that if she wants to get real busy, she should come in here and see me.”

Doctor Englaster’s cheeks were beginning to flatten out. “Miss Muirz will visit you at her own convenience, I imagine.”

“Is that so? Well, is that a sample of the goddamn hospitality around here? Is that what it is?”

“If you wish anything in the way of food or drink, I imagine you can get it by ringing.”

“Just ring, huh, Doc? Okay, I’ll ring or rub the lamp, or something. I would rub you, only I can see you’re not Aladdin’s lamp.”

“You do that.”

“Doc, you snoot-up bastard, what’s with this Muirz?”

“I do not believe I understand.”

“Oh, you understand me. Between us boys, what’s with that babe? To start with, who does she climb into the hay with around here?”

“Mr. Harsh!”

“Can it, Doc. You can Mr. Harsh! me all you want, you won’t convince me you haven’t eyed that piece yourself. And if she’s off limits, I bet you know who it is that’s keeping her that way.” He took another swallow of his drink. “You know what I think? I think he may not be packing enough for her, whoever he is.”

“May I suggest you are drinking and talking overly much, Harsh?” Doctor Englaster controlled his anger. “You need to be in good physical condition for your operation tomorrow.”

“I know it ain’t you that’s disappointing her, Doc. It ain’t you because I don’t think you pack enough to even start the disappointment.” Harsh paused and blinked his eyes carefully. “What was that last?”

“Tomorrow morning I am going to put that scar on your face.”

“You are? On me?” Harsh rolled his eyes. “Old Scarface Wally Harsh, I’m to be knowed as, huh?” Suddenly Harsh sat up yelling. “You ain’t goin’ to cut on my face, you son of a bitch. Not until I get that money back in my hands!” He endeavored to throw his glass of whiskey at Doctor Englaster but it slipped out of his fingers and fell on the bed where he could not find it in the covers.

ELEVEN

Harsh lay quietly on the bed. For almost an hour he hardly moved. Then the liquor stimulated his kidneys and he got up and went to the bathroom. He was still tipsy enough to be sure that he had to be very precise about each thing he did, and he made the decision that he was precisely scared, that was what he was. His face even looked scared in the bathroom mirror. That sweat on his upper lip was not from the heat.

He addressed himself in the mirror. “What did you put your damn fingerprints on that card for?” His voice sounded scratchy and dry. “Man, you didn’t think, that’s what you didn’t do.” He cleared his throat of phlegm and spat it in the sink. “One million three hundred ninety-four thousand dollars.” He looked at himself. His mouth was hanging open. “Dumb bastard. Somebody’s kidding you, you dumb bastard.”

He laid his fingers against his left cheek and pulled the skin down then pushed it up. He decided the face suited him the way it was, without a scar. He did not want any scar on his face. Someone must be kidding him