Jurgen said, “Yes, but do we look like those lost souls? I hope not.”

It took Walter ten minutes to drive several blocks past signs that refused to allow him to turn, finally coming roundabout past the corner again, Walter straining to find Otto in the crowd.

“Do you see him? No, because he isn’t there. You let him out of your sight and now he’s gone. We’ll read about him in the newspaper, escaped prisoner of war arrested by the police.”

“If he’s caught he won’t tell on you. We know you’re up to something with the lovely Vera and Dr. Taylor who doesn’t speak. Why won’t you tell us about it?”

“I can tell you,” Walter said, “but not with Otto present. I worry he’s going crazy.”

“He’s always been crazy,” Jurgen said. “It got him an Iron Cross in North Africa. I think he could get by here, with a little luck.” Jurgen believed he could tell Walter almost anything. “Otto can be charming, if he has a good enough reason. I’m not going to worry about him.”

Not with Carl Webster here.

Relentless Carl, not only knowing Jurgen would be in Detroit, but also having lunch where he and Otto were going to dine. Not the Georgian or the Early American restaurant, or the cafeteria in the basement the girl operating the elevator told him about, no, in the Pine Room.

Carl coming closer and closer.

How did he do that?

It was funny, because Jurgen wasn’t surprised to see him sitting there. Startled, yes, for a moment but not actually that surprised. He knew that Carl, sooner or later, would be on his trail.

He could see himself sitting down with Carl, talking, getting along. A bar would be a good place, the Brass Rail they passed on the way to Hudson’s. Or a nightclub he saw advertised in the paper, Frank Barbaro’s Bowery. It offered entertainment, a romantic baritone, dinners from a dollar and a half up. What else? The room was air-cooled for your comfort.

Sometime after the war.

He would have to be on his toes now, wondering where he would see Carl next.

Carl liked the way she offered him a drink when he came to pick her up, Honey saying he could have anything he wanted as long as it was rye. He liked her in the black sweater and skirt and the way the slit in the skirt opened as she walked to the kitchen. She returned with drinks and offered him a Lucky, telling him in a semiserious tone, “I’m sorry, but I seem to be out of Beech-Nut scrap.” Carl smiled, appreciating her effort, her memory even more. She paid attention to what he said.

Now they were at opposite ends of the cushy sofa with their highballs and cigarettes, both sitting back with their legs crossed: Carl showing a cowboy boot, old but polished, Honey a plain black pump hanging from her toes, showing Carl the delicate arch of her foot. She asked him if he always wore cowboy boots.

“About all my life,” Carl said.

“Because you live in Oklahoma?”

“They’re my shoes,” Carl said. He asked if she was nervous, about to see Walter again.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Honey said. “I can’t wait to see how you handle him.”

“Was he ever mean to you, lose his temper?”

“He never hit me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Does he own a gun?”

“He had a shotgun he’d take to Georgia, and go bird shooting.”

“You never went along?”

“He’d meet his friend Joe Aubrey.”

“The one with the chain of restaurants,” Carl said. “I read the sheet the Bureau has on him. He has a plane?”

“A Cessna. He’d fly up here from Georgia,” Honey said, “take Walter for rides and show him how to work the controls. That was in ’39. I don’t know if he’s been up here since.”

“He comes to see Walter a couple of times a year,” Carl said. “Or Walter takes a bus to Griffin, south of Atlanta. Saves wear on his tires. You met Joe?”

“I stayed out of his way,” Honey said. “I considered Joe Aubrey as big a lout as Fritz Kuhn. I’ve always felt Joe would love to shoot somebody.”

“Why’s that?”

“He hates colored people. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t taken part in lynchings.”

“He’s never been arrested.”

“He hates Jews and what he calls Commonists.”

“How about Vera Mezwa?”

“She came after my time with Walter. Vera and Dr. Michael George Taylor. I don’t know either of them.”

“You think they’re German agents?”

“Kevin does and he knows more about them than I do. I think they’re serious about working for the Nazis. They like the idea of sieg heiling each other and having secret meetings. But where do they get information about war production?”

Carl said, “From newspapers?”

“That’s what I think. They send information written in invisible ink and that makes them spies. I think the FBI keeps waiting for them to actually do something subversive, wishing they’d hurry up and make a move before the war ends.”

“Kevin told you about the Afrika Korps guys.”

“The ones you’re positive are here,” Honey said. “You don’t want to come right out and ask Walter about them directly. You said you want to edge around the two guys, try and surprise Walter into giving them up.”

He liked her remembering what he’d said at lunch, about edging around. “Will you stare at him?”

“Blow smoke at him. You can torture him,” Honey said, “it’s okay with me. I’ll help you.”

Carl said, “Pull out his fingernails?”

“I don’t know-he bites them down so close, gnaws on them like a squirrel. It’d be hard to get a purchase. You have a gun, don’t you? Stick the barrel in his mouth and ask him what you want to know. Walter’s the most serious person you’ll ever meet in your life. Tell him something outrageous with a straight face, he’ll buy it.”

“Kevin said you told him a couple of pretty funny jokes that sailed right by him.”

“Walter analyzes jokes. But he has no imagination, so he doesn’t think they’re funny. He won’t accept the grasshopper that goes in a bar and orders a drink. Or a guy being in love with a sheep. But there was one I did tell him-I might not’ve mentioned to Kevin-and Walter surprised me, he sorta laughed.”

Carl glanced toward the window as Honey said, “About a guy who tells his friend he’s got an excruciating pain in his bum.”

“Tell it in the car,” Carl said. “I want to see Walter’s place while it’s still light.”

They were on Ten Mile now, a narrow road that needed patches of blacktop, open fields on both sides, the Pontiac heading into the sun. Carl said, “The guy tells his friend he’s got an awful pain in his butt.”

“And the friend,” Honey said, “tells him he has piles and what kind of cream to use for it. The guy tries the cream but still has the awful pain. He runs into another friend and tells him about it. This one says no, creams don’t work. He tells the guy to have a cup of tea, then take the tea leaves and pack them up his behind like a poultice. The guy does it, has a cup of tea every day for a week and stuffs the leaves up his heinie. The guy’s still in terrible pain, so finally he goes to see a doctor. The doctor tells him to drop his pants and bend over. He looks up the guy’s keester and says, ‘Yes, I see you have piles. And I see you’re going to go on a long journey.’”

Honey grinned watching Carl, Carl laughing, smiling as he looked at her and then at the road again still smiling, saying he could see the little doctor with a flashlight, down behind the guy bent over the examining table.

“I know,” Honey said, “you can’t help picturing the doctor. I see him the same way, a little guy. I told Walter the joke and couldn’t believe it when he smiled. Then laughed-no, he chuckled a few times. I had to ask him, ‘You get it?’ Walter said, ‘Do I understand the doctor is reading the tea leaves? Of course.’”