by John Roeburt
“What’s this have to do with your secret weapon?”
Rose became mad. “You’re the one wanted to hear all this, so damn it, listen! I went up to the street, only had to stand on the corner for a few seconds. A young fellow not twenty stopped his car. My luck held, he had his own room way up in the Bronx. I spent two nights and a day with him, managed to rest and catch up on my sleep. He must have thought he was in heaven, I didn’t ask him for money or anything. He only left me to bring in food and the papers. There still wasn’t a word about Josef. While this kid was in the bathtub I scrammed, used my last dollars to taxi down to the bar where I’d worked. I was shaking as I walked in.
“The owner acted normal, wanted to know where I’d been, said the least I could have done was phoned. I told him I was sick and had to leave. He paid me the $35 I had coming. Almost as an afterthought—in fact, the owner reminded me of it—I went down to the kitchen to pick up my suitcase. I used it to hold cosmetics, a wrapper, stockings, and an old dress. The bag was far too heavy. I opened it and saw all the money. I didn’t know what to do.”
“That was the first you knew of the dough?”
“Yes. I pulled out a bill and took another cab back to the kid’s room, gave him a bull yarn about I’d gone for my things. I had him drive me to Boston the next day. Poor kid, he probably lost his job, taking off all that time—but he had what he wanted. We spent the night in a flea-bag and I gave him the slip, boarded a plane to Miami. I registered at a tourist house, bought clothes and dyed my hair. I kept reading the out-of-town papers carefully. Still not a peep about the killing. I rested up for a week. I had this money—knew this was what the police had been searching for—but I was afraid to go to the cops; they’d think I’d had it all the time because I hadn’t said anything about working at the bar. I figured I’d stay put and later try to make it to Mexico. On the ninth day I was in Miami I saw a car waiting for a light—that evil-faced guy with an eaten-away nose at the wheel. I didn’t know if he’d seen me or not. I got panicky.
“I took the bus to Key West and changed my hair color again. I had a plan, a desperate one. I bought a boat and an outboard for $580. I made certain to give the boat yard owner my real name and Josef’s address in New York. I told him I wanted to do a lot of fishing. He flirted with me, warned about going out too far. I had him paint ROSE MARIE on the bow and there was a metal plate with the name of his yard in the cockpit. I took the suitcase, some food, extra gas, and asked for fishing tips. I went out to an isolated key, turned the boat over and let it drift away. I figured in a few days the authorities would think I’d drowned and in the meantime I’d be picked up by a yacht or a fishing boat and…”
“And talk the guy into taking you to Cuba,” I finished for her.
She nodded. “There it is, the truth you wanted, Mickey.” Her hand played with the muscles of my right arm, a habit of hers. “I never lied to you. I mean, when we started, I put things on the table, face-up. I thought I’d leave you the first time you became curious, but you never did—until now. Sure, I hardly expected things to turn out as well as this, that I would fall for you. But I’m so very glad they have!”
Rose kissed me hard and it took a small struggle to get my mind back to my spinning thoughts. Holding her close, I asked, “You think this Josef was an international crook wanted by the cops?”
“I don’t know what he was, but I’m sure the police weren’t after him. He never seemed afraid of the law.”
“At no time did they accuse you of the killing?”
Rose sat up fast. “How many times do I have to tell you no? Change your record, you’re getting me nervous.”
“Honey, when I first picked you up, or you picked me up, I had to feel you were running from the law and I didn’t give a damn. What I’m trying to do now is think the way the police must have thought. And we have to talk about this, so don’t be touchy.”
“Sorry I flew off the handle, Mickey. All the police and Washington wanted was to know where the money and his letters were. I didn’t know he’d left it in my dressing room the night before. I told you, I only went there by chance.”
“The letters must be all that writing you have with the money.”
“I suppose so. I can’t read them or… How did you know about it?”
“Come on, Rose, it was a breeze to open that lock on the old Sea Princess.”
“That was almost a year ago. All this time…you could have taken off with the money any time you wished. You knew I couldn’t yell for the cops?”
“I didn’t wish.”
She let out a kind of shrill laugh and gave me a big kiss. “You’re the boy for me, all right! This only proves how much we love each other.” She gave me another quick kiss, slipped out of bed, and said, “Are you hungry? Can I fix anything?”
“No, but I’ll buy a few hours of shut-eye. Tell me one last bit: it seemed the Feds didn’t want you to go to a lawyer. They let you go when you mentioned calling one. Since you had nobody to turn to, why didn’t you see what a mouthpiece could have done?”
“I told you one lawyer threw me out.”
“But there are others?”
“I was flat, and lawyers mean money, especially if they’re expected to fight City Hall. After, when I found the money, I was too scared to stop running. Now, you get your sleep. I’m going to take a wash-swim, read some of the papers on the boat.”
I watched her slip into an old red bathing suit, and put on her sneakers, blow me a kiss, and run out. I lay spread-eagled on the hot bed and tried to think. Was Rose handing me a snow job? It seemed that way. Still, the part about missing me, loving me, that had to be real: she’d said it before I’d asked about her past. The trouble was, her story sounded nutty—but so crazy I couldn’t see her making it up. And she didn’t have to tell me a word, could have let things stand as they were.
I went to the John and through the window screen saw Rose sunning herself on the deck of the Sea Princess, reading a newspaper. I moved the bed and raised a cracked floor board. She had the money in a fireproof metal box under the floor. Naturally I knew the combination. I took out the letters. There were about a hundred pages of ruled paper, the writing precise and stingy. Old Josef sure must have a steady hand. I couldn’t make out a word—the pages seemed to be a combination of German and some other language. I could show a single page to Ansel, he knew a few languages, see what the letters were all about. But that was risky. I thumbed through the papers and didn’t see any diagrams or figures. I had an idea it might be stuff about an invention, a new atom bomb or something. I wrapped them back in oilskin and put the box away.
I started a cigar and went back to bed. Weird as the story was, somehow seeing the letters again clinched things. I had to go along with the idea Rose was leveling with me.
I concentrated on my cigar for a few minutes, waiting for my alleged brains to settle down. I told myself, “You have to read between her lines. Maybe she really went for this Josef and became hysterical, thought the whole world was after her. Or if she didn’t care for him, she was hysterical because it meant the end of her meal ticket. But what was Josef’s real racket? He had to be doing something beside reading foreign papers all day. All this dough. Suppose he had cased and held up a bank? And how come not a line about Josef’s death in the papers? But you never know what the cops want to keep under wraps. Could be Josef and this Sauerkraut did the bank job and the cops were afraid Sauerkraut would hole up if the papers had it?
“Hell with all this guessing; let’s stick to Rose. They didn’t have a thing on her or they wouldn’t have released her. She’s shocked, broke, bewildered…and then she finds the loot Josef stashed in her dressing room. Rose has only one idea—to run. Suppose the cops do get her—if they’re even looking for her now. What could they charge her with? The money was her husband’s and he’s stiff, so it’s hers. And if it was stolen loot, Rose had no way of knowing that. They didn’t tell her a thing. Worst could happen to us would be she’d h
ave to return the rest of the money. Little chance of even that. All this was over a year ago, longer, and she’s Rose Whalen now, a boat bum. And the trick she pulled in the Keys—wasn’t so corny as it sounded—after all these months they might think she drowned, close the case. We’re safe. That’s the big deal—we’re safe.”
I killed my cigar and stood up and flapped the sheets to cool them off. Then I jumped back in the sack and went to sleep.
I awoke late in the afternoon and felt so good I took a shave. I swam out to the boat, the salt water a bracer on my face. Ansel was sitting with Rose, both of them busy reading the magazines and papers I’d brought. Ansel’s pot-belly was hanging over an old worn pair of khaki trunks almost the color of his skin.
Rose looked great, her big body relaxed, hair blowing slightly with the little breeze. She had this habit of moving her lips as she read. I was swimming out to a great boat—which was mine—and to a babe who was also mine, and probably one of the most beautiful women in the world. What more could I ask of life?
I went below for a sandwich and cold beer. The trouble was I did want something else. I wanted to know if Rose’s story was true. I told myself I had to know because of the way she’d acted on my return, all the tender mush. I’d probably be living with her for the rest of my life. Before I’d figured Rose would run out on me, sooner or later. But if she wanted to make it forever, that was fine, except I had to know the truth. Of course I was aware I was kidding myself. All this was mixed with my yen to see New York with Rose. It would be a rugged deal to ask of her, and her terror, but the answer was too simple: I’d insist we go. If she was lying she’d flatly refuse. But if she’d told me the truth, I could convince her she had nothing to fear or…
I went on deck. Rose grinned at me from behind the fashion mag she was reading. Ansel cut open the last of the drinking nuts I’d tied to the rigging in Haiti. In his usual talkative mood he slipped off into a lecture on how history books under-rated the poor coconut. They called bread the staff of life while the coconut not only provided food for a good portion of the peoples of the world, but also clothing, plates, oil, boats, mats and building material.
Ansel was knocking himself out. I wasn’t listening; I was watching Rose…my favorite hobby. Not studying her directly but staring at her reflection in the calm water. Schools of tiny chrome colored anchovies raced by now and then, making it a cracked mirror. Rose was in a happy mood, commenting on the new movies—which should reach the island theatres in about ten years—laughing at the fashion news.
The trouble was, if I told her about going to New York it would be obvious I didn’t trust her and she might be mad enough to walk out on me. That I didn’t want—ever. I might work the motor repair deal as an excuse for returning to the States. But if I was a clever fellow—and I wasn’t—I’d work things around so it would seem as if New York was her idea.
I watched the water, pleased with what I saw. Then the sky clouded and it grew muggy. What breeze there was died. I turned on my back, stared up at the thin clouds. Ansel announced it would rain before morning. Rose said we’d better start ferrying the stuff to the hut. While she was busy in the cabin, Ansel helped load the dink and managed to get some stuff I’d brought for him into his battered rowboat. As he was about to shove off he asked if I was interested in hunting pacas before supper? Some had been seen in a nearby swamp. A paca is about the size of a small dog, sort of large rat with brown and white spots. It’s very tender when roasted and I like it, but Rose won’t touch it because it’s a rat. I told Ansel I was too tired. The islanders are so crazy about it that when one was known to be around so many people went hunting a guy could get himself shot. It would be a dumb accident like that to keep me from seeing New York City.
After Ansel left, Rose started ferrying the stuff ashore. I washed down the decks, cleaned out the cabin, and made the Sea Princess ship-shape. I took care of the engines and the sails, then I helped Rose. It was twilight and the air was thick with heat by the time we got everything into the hut. We were both sweating and as we started for the water and a final swim, the rain hit. We stripped and took a freshwater shower.
I thought it was going to be a long rain but in the morning, or rather at noon, when we awoke, the sun was out bright. I still hadn’t caught up on my sleep. Rose started opening cans and we stuffed ourselves with tins of tongue and beef, even caviar, along with fancy cakes, corn—anything else we felt like eating. We went back to bed and slept some more. Some time in the middle of the night we got up and took a dip. The sky was lousy with stars and we returned to the hut and started playing the new records, keeping the sound down, drinking a little. We awoke in the middle of the next afternoon. It was hot and sunny and we did a lot of swimming and some spear fishing. Rose decided she wanted pancakes so we cooked and ate stacks of them, finished with ice cream, and went through the records again. Rose sang with some of the older numbers, told me about the time she lost twenty-six pounds in a week for a part she never got. She didn’t eat a thing but drank coffee all day long and by the end of the week her nerves were so raw she was ready to be put away. She said, again, “I sure was a simple broad, in those days.”
When we got up the following morning it was raining, hard. It rained steadily for the next five days. I didn’t mind; I can sleep fine in the rain. Rose started playing her records, but the hi-fi set would hardly work: too many people were using the island current. At Ansel’s store you had to play the rundown jukebox during the day, when the single island generator didn’t have much of a load.
On the second day of the rain, the lights were too dim for reading. Also gnats and other bugs came to life in the muggy weather and made us miserable. We ate up most of the canned goods—all the fancy stuff making us slightly sick—so we got a little drunk and went back to the damp bed. It was raining just as hard when we awoke early in the morning, and I could see Rose was getting the blues. She never can get accustomed to being cooped up. Twice a day we ran to the water to check on the boat, take a bath, and get some fresh vegetables and fish at Ansel’s house. Then we’d return home, our feet covered with mud. There wasn’t enough juice to read by or even play the radio. I wanted to go out to the boat, run the motors and get some music, but Rose said the bay looked too dreary. Instead we went up to Ansel’s and by candlelight played whist. Mrs. Ansel acted like she had a fortune going on every card, which made a dull game even duller.
On the way home Rose slipped in the mud and cursed when I laughed. We took a swim and she was still in a bad mood, snapping at me. Sleeping was a Turkish bath and when I suggested I go out to the boat to sleep, she said she didn’t want to be alone. I told her on the next trip I’d see if I could pick up a generator for our own use, but Rose wasn’t listening. In the middle of the night I heard her get up and kill a bottle, then reread the papers by the light of a single candle.
Most times I could bring her out of these moods but now I didn’t try. I had a plan going for me and the rain was my sidekick. I wished it would rain for a month, as it did in the rainy season.
Instead of keeping out of her way, I yelled back at her, acted like a real pain. I was waiting for her hysterical tears, a sign she was truly down in the dumps. It made me feel like a heel, but I had to do it—or so I sold myself. The next morning she got into a huff and we didn’t talk all day. I thought that would do it but Rose didn’t seem to mind. The thing that broke her up was this: Mrs. Ansel came to the hut and Rose whispered to me she wasn’t going to play another boring game of whist or checkers. But Mrs. Ansel only asked if we had some cotton to spare. The baby had the measles. Rose said we must immediately sail the kid to a doctor in Georgetown: but Mrs. Ansel said nonsense, she wanted the cotton to rub the boy down with bay rum and keep the fever from rising. She was quite calm, said to let nature take its course and the sooner the kid had the measles and got over them, the happier he would be.
We went up to the house and Rose helped her sponge the kid, who was running 102 and looked sick. I smo
ked a cigar with Ansel and said maybe I should get a doctor. He said it was nothing, the spots and sores were coming and in a week it would be all over. In the kid’s room I could hear Rose arguing with Mrs. Ansel, their voices growing louder. Ansel winked at me as Rose screamed—Mrs. Ansel didn’t know or care what she was doing—and ran out of the bungalow. I left a few minutes later. I found Rose sitting on the steps of the hut, wet and muddy…and crying loudly. I took her inside and undressed her, toweled her down, and turned on the gas boiler for a hot bath. She took a big shot of whiskey and in the faint light from the gas range I started reading the night club ads from one of the old New York papers, innocently asking if she’d ever been in this and that club, what did it look like, how was the food and music, and all the rest of the jive. I read most of the ads and nothing happened. Then all of a sudden she became hysterical and savagely tore the paper to bits.
This was the right time to pull the string. I told her to relax and she told me where to go. I asked, “Honey, how about getting away from here? For a few weeks? Be a change.”
Running a hand over her wet face Rose mumbled, “What’s the diff? Raining all over these goddam islands.”
“I don’t mean island-jumping. I mean a real change. How about sailing north, putting in at cities like Jacksonville, Charleston, Atlantic City, or even New York?”
“Are you punchy? I can’t show my face anywhere.”
“Listen, we’ll only spend a few days in each town. Buy us some new domes, live in hotels, see all the shows and movies we…”
“You want to get me killed?” she asked coldly, forgetting the tears. “I told you…”
“Rose, honey, we haven’t a thing to worry about, if what you told me is true.”
“If?” she screamed, picking up a kitchen knife and viciously sticking it into the table top.
That was okay, it was merely the first thing she could put her hands on. “Take it easy, Rose; if I didn’t believe you I wouldn’t suggest this. Island living is great, but it takes time to get used to the slow pace. It’s fine for Ansel; he was born here. It works out for us—except for a few short days like now. If we could spend several weeks each year in a big city, get the…the desire for excitement out of our systems, we could live here the rest of our lives and do it well. But if we don’t—we have nothing here if we blow our tops.”
