Honey in His Mouth

Her purse had seven dollars in bills and some change. He took it. He had seen her hide her money too many times when she was tight to need to waste time hunting. He went directly to her best pair of slippers in the closet. It was there, in the toes of the slippers, divided about half and half. He counted it.

“Jesus!”

There was twenty-two dollars. He knew she had gotten five hundred from Brother for selling him the names of the references. Could she have blown it all? She must have. She had frittered away all but twenty-nine dollars and forty-four cents. He counted it carefully. Stupid bitch. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could she blow every cent she got her paws on?

Harsh lurched to the bed, where Vera Sue lay sleeping loudly, a succession of resonant snores coming from her lips. He reared back and socked her across the jaw with his fist. Her arms jerked and threw the covers askew. The snores stopped. He looked at his hand angrily. Skinned the hell out of his knuckles. On his way out the door, he began to suck on his knuckles.

TWELVE

Doctor Englaster came into Harsh’s room about ten the next morning dressed for the operation as is customary for surgery, white gown and skullcap, surgeon’s mask, rubber gloves. His large flexible hands looked like bunches of bananas in the yellow gloves. Mr. Hassam rolled in an operating table improvised from a massage table, and Miss Muirz pushed in a smaller service table bearing instruments and medicants and a bright light for the operation. Harsh watched the preparations with the feeling of being paralyzed. Doctor Englaster seized his face and began to pinch the skin on the left side, and Harsh lost the paralysis. He knocked the rubber-covered hands away from his face and sat up.

“Get away from me, goddamn it. The operation is off.”

“Indeed?”

“I’ve changed my mind about going through with it.”

Harsh could tell nothing from their faces. The masks gave all of them the poker faces to end all poker faces.

“Will the rest of you step outside a moment?” Brother’s voice was gentle. “Mr. Harsh and I will discuss this.”

“Goddamn it, don’t leave me in here with him!” Harsh was frightened.

No one offered to interfere. Miss Muirz, Doctor Englaster, and Mr. Hassam left the room. Brother came to the bed and looked down at Harsh. His voice was still placid. “Let me refresh your memory, Harsh.”

“I know I agreed to having my face scarred, anyway I think I did. But it’s off.”

“Harsh, do you recall I had you investigated? The detective agency from Kansas City? Do you also recall we learned a Mr. D. C. Roebuck, a photographic supply house drummer, met violent death while pursuing you to collect an unpaid account?”

“I didn’t kill the guy.”

“Don’t interrupt. A witness, a service station attendant, accepted a bribe to say you were not the man D. C. Roebuck pursued. I told you that. What I did not tell you is that the same witness, for the same bribe, if ordered to do so, will testify you were the man D. C. Roebuck pursued, and that he saw a large nickel-plated revolver in your hand. The same revolver, for your information, was found in D. C. Roebuck’s wrecked car. I need not tell you how it got there.”

Harsh eyed him, stunned. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“That I can have you tried and electrocuted for the murder of D. C. Roebuck just by going to a telephone.”

Harsh felt sick. “You think you’ve got me, don’t you?”

“I have got you, you idiot. You are right in my pocket where you belong, or you are right in the electric chair. That is your choice.” Brother went to the door and opened it and put his head out. “Harsh has chosen to go along with us.”

The time required for the operation was less than half an hour. Doctor Englaster used a local anesthetic and the most pain Harsh felt came when the needle pinked his cheek the first time. The left side of his face became numb, the knife did not hurt at all. Neither did the stuff that was sprinkled in the wound before the gauze was applied. Doctor Englaster, obviously pleased with his own work, indicated Harsh need not necessarily stay in bed, but he should keep the bandage in place. “You will like that scar, Harsh. It will be quite a distinguished scar.”

Harsh looked at him bitterly. “Distinguished my ass.” He pulled the liquor table to where he could reach it from his bed and poured bourbon into a glass.

Doctor Englaster watched him with satisfaction. “Harsh, you please me. We need a twenty-four-carat cur for this job, and you show every sign of qualifying.” He got his instruments together and pushed the instrument table to the door. “Miss Vera Sue Crosby has a badly bruised jaw this morning. I treated her.”

Harsh scowled at him. “I like you too, Doc.” The anesthetic in the side of his face made him lisp.

Mr. Hassam began language lessons that afternoon. He came into Harsh’s room carrying a book. Mr. Hassam’s sport shirt was purple with gold flowers and his slacks were pink linen, his sandals held to his feet by straps between his plump toes.

“Brother sort of got the best of you, didn’t he, Harsh?”

“Yeah, I guess. But my day will roll around.”

“Between you and I, Harsh, I hope I am on hand that day.”

“I’ll send you word.”

Mr. Hassam grinned and gave Harsh the book and asked him to read aloud from it. The book was not in Spanish, as Harsh expected, but in English. He began to read, but his efforts to pronounce the longer words caused Mr. Hassam’s expression to grow pained. Mr. Hassam took the book back.

“The truth is my cheeks are sore from that stuff this morning, and I can’t read real clear.”

“The truth is you are practically illiterate, Harsh. But no matter.”

“Well, I guess you might say I can’t read and write real good.” Harsh pointed at the book. “What’s your idea trying me out on an English book?”

“I was merely ascertaining how you put printed letters into sound. We had better stick to verbal instruction and forget the books.” Mr. Hassam pointed to the table. “La mesa.”

“Huh?”

“The Spanish word for the table. La mesa. Repeat after me. We will commence with the names of objects and things, then we will make them into simple sentences and go over and over them until they are fixed in your mind.”

“Say, couldn’t we put it off? My face hurts from that needle gunk, like I said.”

“Time is of the essence.”

“If that means it stinks, you’re so right.” Harsh lay back. “Well, shoot.”

His face continued to hurt from the scar operation, and he kept thinking the last thing he felt like doing today was learn some gook language. If he didn’t sort of like Mr. Hassam, he thought, he wouldn’t be going along with it. “El telefono en la mesa.” The concentration made his head ache, and he really did not give a hoot if he never learned to say the telephone was on the table.

“Hassam, I got it figured you folks are doctoring me up to double for somebody. What I can’t figure, is who.”

“Good grief. Hasn’t Brother told you any facts?”

“Brother tells me nothing. He hates my insides.”

“Well, I’m sure you should know.”

“How about telling me?”

“Telling you what?”

“Who am I going to double for?”

“Why, El Presidente. The president of our nation in South America.”

Harsh did not say another word on the subject. He had not believed Mr. Hassam. Sons of bitches were a bunch of kidders, he decided.