Walter said, “Of course,” turned on one lamp and then another, both with twenty-five-watt bulbs, the kind Honey remembered the cheapskate always used. She felt good being with Carl. She loved show-offs who were funny-Carl saying the Nip was taking a killer aim at him. They sat together on a settee opposite Walter in his armchair with an extra cushion to let him sit higher, the filigreed back of the chair towering over him. Walter’s seat of judgment. Much bigger than his chair in their old place, Walter sitting hunched over the radio. This is what he’d be like if she’d stayed with him: wearing the same gray wool sweater buttoned up, the same Nazi haircut she called a nutsy cut; the same-no, his rimless glasses didn’t pinch on-and if she let him get close she knew he’d have the same bad breath. But not the same heel-clicker she met in front of church.

Honey said, “How’s your sister, she still a nun?”

“Sister Ludmilla,” Walter said. “She’s a Cistercian of the Strict Observance now. They never speak.”

“I thought she was an IHM sister. Doesn’t she teach school in Detroit?”

“She’s still here but left that order for a much different life, as a Cistercian. I congratulated her having the will to live a life of prayer and silence.”

“She seemed normal,” Honey said, “the times I met her. You get her to join, Walter, so you wouldn’t have to talk to her anymore? I remember her telling you Jesus is more important in your life than Hitler.”

Carl said, “Ask him about your brother.”

She was still looking at Walter. He heard Carl but Walter’s expression didn’t change. Honey said, “We saw Darcy driving out of your property with a stock trailer.”

“Yes, of course,” Walter said, “Darcy Deal is your brother. He came to the market and introduced himself, offered to supply beef for my slaughtering business. Your brother’s an outspoken fellow, isn’t he?”

“He’s an ex-convict,” Honey said. “He tell you that?”

“Yes, of course. He asked me, would I give him the opportunity to engage in a legitimate business.”

Carl said, “Where’s he get the steers?”

Walter shrugged. “At stockyards, where else? He always shows me the bill of sale.”

“I imagine,” Carl said, “the government inspectors drive you nuts dropping in the way they do.”

Walter shrugged again. “Yes, but the meat has to be graded. It’s the law, so you put up with it.”

Honey took his shrugs to mean he wasn’t concerned; they could ask him anything they wanted.

Carl was saying, “This one fella I knew in home-kill, he’d process a few head in between the inspectors coming by. Get the meat out in a hurry to hotels in Tulsa.”

Walter said, “I believe you are an officer of the law?”

“Deputy U.S. marshal, Wally. I’m not FBI.”

“But you could arrest this person if you wanted?”

“I don’t work in that area.”

“But you came here to question me, didn’t you? See if I’m selling meat on the black market?”

“No sir, I’m investigating the numbers racket in war plants. Ford Highland Park, Dodge Main in Hamtramck, Briggs Body. Organized crime, they send their guys in the plants to take bets and sell dream books. I remembered Honey lived here so I called her up.”

Honey took his arm and squeezed it with both hands, smiling at Walter. “We met on a train one time.”

Carl said, “Honey told me her brother was working for you . . . I wondered if you wouldn’t mind my taking a look at your operation. I’ve worked beef in my time. My dad has a thousand acres of pecan trees.”

“You’re not investigating me?” Walter said.

“All I’m interested in,” Carl said, “I’d like to see how you process a cow up here. I don’t mean right now. It must be close to your suppertime, but when you can spare me an hour.”

Walter kept staring at him.

“You’re none of my business as a marshal,” Carl said. “Hell, seventy percent of the people, housewives, buy a lot of their meat without stamps and pay whatever the butcher says is the price. Hell with those OPA-fixed prices. Walter”-Carl taking his time-“I’d fatten up my herd for a year, cut out a bunch and take ’em to Tulsa in my stock trailer. Stop on the way back for an ice-cream cone. My dad’s property wasn’t too far from a camp holding guys from the Afrika Korps. They said the only reason they surrendered they ran out of gas.” Carl took time to grin. “But they seemed to be doing all right in captivity. The government hired them out to do farmwork if they wanted. The government let my dad took a bunch of ’em to gather pecans, hit the branches with bamboo fishing poles to shake ’em loose. They’d bring their lunch from the camp, sit under the trees eating their sausage and pickles, cold bratwurst sandwiches. Once in a while I’d come by and get in a conversation. I’d say, ‘What’s stopping you guys from walking out of here? Wait for the guards to fall asleep. But even when you do bust out you’re back by dinnertime the next day.’ I’d say, ‘Man, all the Germans living in the U.S., you don’t have any relatives would hide you if you got away?’”

Walter said, “You tempt them to try to escape, so you can shoot them?”

“Come on, Walter, I’m fooling with them, trying to understand what they think about being locked up. You see them in the chow hall three times a day eating like wolves, you understand how important food is. It’s the reason when they do escape, get a few miles down the road from the camp, they turn around and come back.”

“There must be some,” Walter said-sounding to Honey like he was being careful, picking his words-“who escape with the intention of returning home to Germany, if they see the possibility of it.”

“I know there was a German flier back in ’42,” Carl said, “almost got to Mexico. He’s the only one comes to mind.”

Walter said, “I read in the newspaper about two officers who escaped from a camp.” Walter still careful. “I believe it was four or five months ago?”

“Last October,” Carl said. “Yeah, they were picked up.”

Honey saw Walter stopped cold.

He said, “Are you sure?”

“They broke out of Deep Fork, near my dad’s place.”

“This is in Oklahoma?”

“Yeah, the camp’s called Deep Fork, named for a creek that runs through there. The one officer had a girlfriend lived nearby. He’d slip out and visit her every once in a while-you know, to get laid-and was counting on the girlfriend hiding them. She did for a couple of days, but must’ve got nervous and blew the whistle, turned them in.”

“I must be thinking of two others who escaped,” Walter said. “The newspaper reported a nationwide search was on for these two.”

“That’ll sell papers,” Carl said, “but they’re the ones I’m talking about. They made half-ass civilian suits from uniforms and drove out of the camp in a truck delivers movies.”

Walter said, “Well,” sounding to Honey like he was giving up. But then he said in an offhand way, “Do you happen to know their names?”

“It was a while ago,” Carl said. “The girlfriend had a weird name I’d never heard before, but I can’t remember hers either.”

Walter said, “Why didn’t I read the two officers were captured?”

Not giving up if he could help it. Honey waited for Carl to explain, if he could.

“I think there was a question of whether they should prosecute the girlfriend,” Carl said, “for giving comfort to the enemy, if you know what I mean. But since she did turn them in, the U.S. attorney decided not to prosecute, keep her neighbors from throwing eggs at her and cutting off her hair. No more news about the escape was good news for the girlfriend. Pretty soon the papers stopped asking about the two guys.”

“The ones you say were captured,” Walter said. “Where are they now?”

“Back in camp. The one guy’s Waffen-SS. I think they’re the SSers in the military. The regular SS are the guys who run the extermination camps, shove live people into gas chambers. Am I right about that, Wally?”