Honey in His Mouth

“A body in the limousine?” Mr. Hassam gripped Harsh’s arm. “Man, are you making that up? Is it true?”

“It’s true.”

“Who did you murder, Harsh?”

“I didn’t murder him.” Far ahead Harsh could distinguish a cluster of lights that would be the U.S. 1 intersection. “The guy got killed, sure, but it was an accident. He was a guy who was snooping around the car—a cop, I think. I had this locksmith in town make me a duplicate key for the wall safe, and this cop somehow got wind of it. This afternoon I was supposed to meet the locksmith to get the key while you were looking at suits in Leon’s, but when I went outside, it was the cop waiting in the limousine. He was all bundled up to disguise himself but I recognized him from the day before. And to be honest, I think he recognized me, too—he seemed to know my face, anyway, and seemed sort of shocked to see it. And he was full of questions, like what were we plotting—that was the word he used—and when I wouldn’t answer his questions, he tried to pull his gun on me. Then we scrapped over the gun, and he got shot. I left his body in the limousine and took his gun, the one that killed him, and on the beach I traded it for the one Brother packed. The reason I swapped them, the guns looked a lot alike to me, that’s all. I figured it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Better Brother gets nabbed with the murder weapon than me, right? Then to make sure he did get nabbed, I fixed up the rest, tipped the Highway Patrol to grab the limousine. And that’s why I didn’t want you to get in that car. Not with a dead man in the back.”

Looking over, Harsh saw that Mr. Hassam had a horrified expression on his face. “Harsh, the gun Brother had in his hand just now, when he got into the limousine...it didn’t just look similar, it looked identical. And it’s not a gun you can buy just anywhere. It’s only made custom, for collectors.”

Suddenly the station wagon went nearly out of control. Two wheels left the pavement, and it rocked crazily, bounced off a curb, began to skate from side to side. Mr. Hassam yelled and flung himself forward, reaching over both the driver’s seat and Miss Muirz’s shoulders to seize the steering wheel and straighten them out.

Miss Muirz spoke over the roar of engine and tires. “Thank you, Achmed. Now I can handle it.” Her voice was even more odd than before.

The limousine, traveling very fast into the intersection ahead, now had all four wheels locked with the brakes, and it was veering slowly broadside in a skid. It was not out of control, however, because suddenly it shot south out of the intersection.

Harsh muttered close to Mr. Hassam’s ear. “What’s the matter with Miss Muirz? I thought she was gonna wreck us.”

“Don’t you know who you killed, Harsh?”

“Sure, some cop who was on our tail.”

“No.” Mr. Hassam shook his head heavily. “No, it was El Presidente.”

A Highway Patrol car moved southward out of a service station at the highway intersection, gathering speed, siren going, winking two red spotlights.

Moments later, the station wagon approached the intersection. There were four large gasoline service stations, one at each corner, each adorned with vari-colored neon lighting, and the effect was somewhat like plunging toward a miniature sunrise.

With a stomach-wrenching shock, Miss Muirz threw on the brakes and sent the station wagon into the same kind of skid the limousine had made. The car yawed wildly. Harsh and Mr. Hassam were pitched against the front seat, their breath driven from them. Harsh closed his eyes for the crash...

However the station wagon, with a hard thrust from the engine, recovered in the turn and veered south. Harsh got a glimpse of pale scared faces watching them from the service stations. The police car and the limousine were ahead. And he got, for the first time, a brief glimpse of the pearl-colored sports car farther on.

“Oh, Jesus!” Harsh pushed himself back on the seat. “I thought we were goners.” He tried to lick his lips and found his tongue felt numb. “What was that you said before we hit the corner?”

“You killed El Presidente, Harsh.” Mr. Hassam’s voice was shrill with shock and nervousness.

“Nah, it couldn’t be. I tell you it was a cop, some guy hired to snoop around.”

“No. I am sure. The guns are identical.”

“So what? Factories all make guns of the same model alike.”

“I tell you, these are custom made, the only ones of their type. I’d recognize them anywhere. They were a diplomatic gift to El Presidente years ago. His brother took one, but he retained the other. Both men have always kept them.” Hassam reached out a hand, palm up. “The Uruguayan ambassador had El Presidente’s initials engraved on the underside of the butt. Look for yourself if you won’t hand it over.”

“One of us is nuts.” But Harsh turned the gun in his hand, and with a terrible sinking feeling saw the monogram engraved on the bottom.

“Look!” Miss Muirz’s voice was a bell pealing out horror. “Gunfire!”

The Highway Patrol was traveling very fast. On the right side just under where the spotlight was mounted, muzzle flame from a firearm was winking redly.

Beyond the patrol car, the limousine veered slowly to the left and began riding the highway shoulder; it rode the shoulder a short distance. It had been hit by the gunfire. Suddenly, like a running animal scared off its path, it plunged into a field. The limousine abruptly vaulted into the air, swapping ends as it went, the headlight hurling bursts of brilliance about like lightning flashes. Then the headlights suddenly went out and it was dark in the field.

The Highway Patrol car overran the spot where the limousine had left the road. It went on about two hundred yards before it halted.

The pearl-colored sports car, ignored by everyone, went on and soon its lights were no longer discernible.

TWENTY-TWO

Miss Muirz brought the station wagon to a stop. It stood on the highway just about where the limousine had left to go tumbling into the adjacent field. A soft and fragrant breeze cooled their faces and around them it had become very quiet. The Highway Patrol car, which was backing up, seemed in no hurry. Harsh suppressed an urge to get out of the station wagon. Mr. Hassam was leaning back on the seat with his face upraised and his mouth wide open.

Miss Muirz’s hands moved slowly as if caressing the steering wheel rim while she stared straight ahead at nothing.

“Well, I guess we’re all in one piece.” Harsh cleared his throat. “I never thought we would make it.” He looked at the approaching police car. “You people are crazy to stay parked here, you know that don’t you?”

Mr. Hassam exhaled heavily and held out his hand again to Harsh. “Give me the gun. We must prevent El Presidente’s body from being identified.”

“Are you nuts?” Harsh pushed his hand away. “The cops got their eye on us right now. That’s why they’re backing up so slow.”

The Highway Patrol car swung sharply and came to a stop crosswise on the highway pavement a few yards ahead of the station wagon, blocking the way. There were two officers in the patrol car. One alighted, service revolver in hand, and approached carefully.

“You folks get out and lie on the ground.” The officer sounded very nervous. “Whoever’s in that car that just went off the road is armed. They were shooting at us.” There was the web-like pattern of a bullet hole in the Highway Patrol car windshield.

Harsh spoke quietly. “Okay, officer. We just stopped to see what had happened. We didn’t know what was going on.”

The patrolman stepped toward Harsh, his eyes narrowing. “Do I know you? Your face looks familiar.”

At that moment, the officer who had remained in the patrol car switched on a spotlight. It produced a long white rod of light with which he poked about in the adjacent field until he found the limousine. “Hey, Dick, look!”