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FREE HARDBOILED AND CRIME FICTION FROM DGP
SMELL OF HONEYSUCKLE by CHRIS LEVIN
he honeysuckle covers a side of what was left of a house. Or maybe it wasn’t honeysuckle. Didn’t really matter. It smells sweet and this is country and here is a white house, the paint chipped, and three steps leads up to a shaded porch. The place is obviously vacant, obviously not lived in for long enough time for the suckle to cover most of the window, which, I would put money on, let light into a kitchen where upon a time a woman would’ve peeled potatoes the way I might slide something into a microwave. Maybe she still lived, but in another shack with a roof that held back the rain. What did I know, this is country.
“Jonah, come out.”
I wipe some sweat off my face just before a drop would’ve stung my eyes. The day is hot and the honeysuckle is sweet and the running around, with or without this suit, has caused me to sweat rivers. But maybe because of this vacant white house and the scent, I find I’m relaxed. Maybe suckle does that to people. Slows ‘em down. Maybe suckle makes ‘em talk that way, drawling words in these one-story houses with a shaded porch. Maybe suckle is country.
I’ve heard bees get drunk on the stuff.
“Jonah, I’m not interested in chasing you.”
No, I’m interested in sitting on that porch, in the shade, barefoot. Maybe even sitting with Jonah, breathing in the scent and slowing down, talking — drawling about old times.
“Carlyle?” From the house, from behind a door that maybe can’t even be shut, but hell if it needs to be locked. You know why.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
He is, truly, and I know it. If I were in his position I’d be sorry myself. There’s no helping being sorry. Screwing up is one thing, getting caught, though, gives one the sorrys every time. Very few heave that guilt around before they’re found out. And what happens then? The sorrys, of course. If you’ve seen it once you’ve had your fill. I once hoped one person would stand up and just say, “Well, damn, you got me,” and be done with it. Responsibility. Big word. I can’t tell you how many people understand it. “I got you.” Those words they know.
“I know you’re sorry, Jonah. We’re all sorry.”
A breeze from nowhere washes over me — washes, a beautiful, and here, very accurate word — and dries my skin, momentarily dries my shirt and, above this, above all this, surrounds me, unbelievably, in the scent of suckle. I could close my eyes and sit, lie back in this grass, which I just notice, and soak the scent in, will the honeysuckle into every pore, each stitch of clothing. I take off my jacket, drop it onto the ground.
“Hey, Jonah, suppose there are any bugs in this grass?”
“Huh?”
As if I expected any other response.
“Come on out, Jonah. Let’s talk.”
I kick one shoe off and set a hot foot onto the grass. I stand on coolness, like some miracle. The second shoe comes off. My socks.
“Do you smell that, Jonah, the honeysuckle? Have you ever smelled anything like it?”
He answers no in a confused way and I realize he hasn’t even noticed the scent. At first I’m angry because it’s overbearing, it’s a wave of sweet and if I got closer it would suffocate me and here he is, so close to it that he can reach out that window, touch it — but no, he’s not even aware.
But then I remember our positions and I can’t blame him, not at all.
“I don’t want to die, Carlyle.” He yells this and I am caught off guard, laugh an honest laugh. But then I remember and I understand him.
“Jonah. You’re not thinking right. I don’t want your life, man, I want the books you took with you.”
Not that he has them with him, but he knows where they are. A breeze again, and this time I close my eyes and let my head drift back.
“That’s all?”
I don’t answer at first, don’t want the moment disturbed, but the breeze is short-lived so I straighten up.
“That’s all.”
“Right.” He stretches the word, but in sarcasm, not country. “I give you the books and you let me go.”
It is a very reasonable question. It had to be asked.
“Jonah, come out.”
I wipe some sweat off my face just before a drop would’ve stung my eyes. The day is hot and the honeysuckle is sweet and the running around, with or without this suit, has caused me to sweat rivers. But maybe because of this vacant white house and the scent, I find I’m relaxed. Maybe suckle does that to people. Slows ‘em down. Maybe suckle makes ‘em talk that way, drawling words in these one-story houses with a shaded porch. Maybe suckle is country.
I’ve heard bees get drunk on the stuff.
“Jonah, I’m not interested in chasing you.”
No, I’m interested in sitting on that porch, in the shade, barefoot. Maybe even sitting with Jonah, breathing in the scent and slowing down, talking — drawling about old times.
“Carlyle?” From the house, from behind a door that maybe can’t even be shut, but hell if it needs to be locked. You know why.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
He is, truly, and I know it. If I were in his position I’d be sorry myself. There’s no helping being sorry. Screwing up is one thing, getting caught, though, gives one the sorrys every time. Very few heave that guilt around before they’re found out. And what happens then? The sorrys, of course. If you’ve seen it once you’ve had your fill. I once hoped one person would stand up and just say, “Well, damn, you got me,” and be done with it. Responsibility. Big word. I can’t tell you how many people understand it. “I got you.” Those words they know.
“I know you’re sorry, Jonah. We’re all sorry.”
A breeze from nowhere washes over me — washes, a beautiful, and here, very accurate word — and dries my skin, momentarily dries my shirt and, above this, above all this, surrounds me, unbelievably, in the scent of suckle. I could close my eyes and sit, lie back in this grass, which I just notice, and soak the scent in, will the honeysuckle into every pore, each stitch of clothing. I take off my jacket, drop it onto the ground.
“Hey, Jonah, suppose there are any bugs in this grass?”
“Huh?”
As if I expected any other response.
“Come on out, Jonah. Let’s talk.”
I kick one shoe off and set a hot foot onto the grass. I stand on coolness, like some miracle. The second shoe comes off. My socks.
“Do you smell that, Jonah, the honeysuckle? Have you ever smelled anything like it?”
He answers no in a confused way and I realize he hasn’t even noticed the scent. At first I’m angry because it’s overbearing, it’s a wave of sweet and if I got closer it would suffocate me and here he is, so close to it that he can reach out that window, touch it — but no, he’s not even aware.
But then I remember our positions and I can’t blame him, not at all.
“I don’t want to die, Carlyle.” He yells this and I am caught off guard, laugh an honest laugh. But then I remember and I understand him.
“Jonah. You’re not thinking right. I don’t want your life, man, I want the books you took with you.”
Not that he has them with him, but he knows where they are. A breeze again, and this time I close my eyes and let my head drift back.
“That’s all?”
I don’t answer at first, don’t want the moment disturbed, but the breeze is short-lived so I straighten up.
“That’s all.”
“Right.” He stretches the word, but in sarcasm, not country. “I give you the books and you let me go.”
It is a very reasonable question. It had to be asked.
“I admit they pretty much wanted you dead and buried. You’ve got to admit this has to have been quite a headache for them. I convinced them that with the books recovered, you wouldn’t be a danger, so, simply ‘gone’ would be better.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Think about it. If I promised to kill you, you wouldn’t hand over the books. I know it, you know it, and, eventually, they knew it. This makes more sense. The books are the main thing, we get them and you go away. Simple.”
I could buy the place, it occurs to me, pay in cash and just stop by on an occasional summer day, by myself, and sit here or on the porch and have no worries. I’d just leave everything behind, my eyes closed in some dream until the house all comes down. I’m going to get away for a while, Mr. Dereyna, I’m going country. I smile then, to myself, and sit by my jacket. The grass is cool.
Jonah sticks his head out. He looks ragged, unshaved, tired, and he’s scared. He’s not been sleeping well, if at all, just been running to here, this place and now. He wants to believe me, have the running done with. I pity him and my smile goes.
“You don’t look well.”
“Someone will see the cars by the road, Carlyle, and the police will come.”
I shake my head. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Yeah.”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
Good question. It’s a question that makes a person stand up and surrender his life. But it’s less important than the answer.
“No.”
“Well, then.”
What if he had said yes? I haven’t lied to him, but what if he had said yes?
He stepped out but held the door open.
“I don’t even have a gun.”
“As if you’d need one.”
“Touché.”
“Do you smell it now, the honeysuckle?” I ask this just as I would before, as if things had never changed. He breathes in, deep, through his nose, and coughs. He recovers after a moment, says, “It’s a bit thick, isn’t it?”
“Like a wall.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Think about it. If I promised to kill you, you wouldn’t hand over the books. I know it, you know it, and, eventually, they knew it. This makes more sense. The books are the main thing, we get them and you go away. Simple.”
I could buy the place, it occurs to me, pay in cash and just stop by on an occasional summer day, by myself, and sit here or on the porch and have no worries. I’d just leave everything behind, my eyes closed in some dream until the house all comes down. I’m going to get away for a while, Mr. Dereyna, I’m going country. I smile then, to myself, and sit by my jacket. The grass is cool.
Jonah sticks his head out. He looks ragged, unshaved, tired, and he’s scared. He’s not been sleeping well, if at all, just been running to here, this place and now. He wants to believe me, have the running done with. I pity him and my smile goes.
“You don’t look well.”
“Someone will see the cars by the road, Carlyle, and the police will come.”
I shake my head. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Yeah.”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
Good question. It’s a question that makes a person stand up and surrender his life. But it’s less important than the answer.
“No.”
“Well, then.”
What if he had said yes? I haven’t lied to him, but what if he had said yes?
He stepped out but held the door open.
“I don’t even have a gun.”
“As if you’d need one.”
“Touché.”
“Do you smell it now, the honeysuckle?” I ask this just as I would before, as if things had never changed. He breathes in, deep, through his nose, and coughs. He recovers after a moment, says, “It’s a bit thick, isn’t it?”
“Like a wall.”
He steps away from the door.
“Just the books?”
“Just the books.”
He moves to the edge of the porch, his hands buried in his pockets. “I don’t suppose it would matter if you were lying.” He looks at me then, as if, to him, it honest to God wouldn’t.
“Sure it would,” I tell him anyway. I’d like to think it would, but it’s probably just pride.
He walks down the steps.
“We’ll be going to that motel room you got?”
“You know about it? Yeah.” He’s still standing there, looking at me and I’m shoeless and sitting in the grass. I imagine I look as out of place as this confrontation here, two of the city’s finest at this shack. I bring my jacket to me. “Guido’s already there, then.”
He doesn’t move, not in the least, but grows smaller, less significant.
“Guido?”
Neither of us like Guido, don’t even call him his real name. And Guido doesn’t like either of us. He’s Russian and worked with the Italians before we took him. He’s big and stereotype but manages to get the job done.
And me working with Guido means I’ve lied to him. He knows.
I take my gun from my jacket, point it at him. Neither of us speak. He shows neither surprise nor anger. He doesn’t try to run, to hide or bury himself somewhere in the house like a child playing some game. He stands, looking at me or past me, suggesting, Oh, well, seems it’s over.
I like him, always did.
Bang.
I have three in him before he hits the ground and after a moment he is quiet and the echoes of each shot have faded away. I put the gun back into the jacket and just sit there, alone on the grass.
The nearest person might be a mile away because this is country. I like that and lie back and rest my head on my hands, breathe deeply of the honeysuckle and wonder where I should hide Jonah before discussing terms to some realtor. It doesn’t have to be this place, just a broken house and a wall covered in honeysuckle that slows one down, that one gets lost in.
This is a nice place to die. I envy him, really. I’m fated to be found in an alley.
“Just the books?”
“Just the books.”
He moves to the edge of the porch, his hands buried in his pockets. “I don’t suppose it would matter if you were lying.” He looks at me then, as if, to him, it honest to God wouldn’t.
“Sure it would,” I tell him anyway. I’d like to think it would, but it’s probably just pride.
He walks down the steps.
“We’ll be going to that motel room you got?”
“You know about it? Yeah.” He’s still standing there, looking at me and I’m shoeless and sitting in the grass. I imagine I look as out of place as this confrontation here, two of the city’s finest at this shack. I bring my jacket to me. “Guido’s already there, then.”
He doesn’t move, not in the least, but grows smaller, less significant.
“Guido?”
Neither of us like Guido, don’t even call him his real name. And Guido doesn’t like either of us. He’s Russian and worked with the Italians before we took him. He’s big and stereotype but manages to get the job done.
And me working with Guido means I’ve lied to him. He knows.
I take my gun from my jacket, point it at him. Neither of us speak. He shows neither surprise nor anger. He doesn’t try to run, to hide or bury himself somewhere in the house like a child playing some game. He stands, looking at me or past me, suggesting, Oh, well, seems it’s over.
I like him, always did.
Bang.
I have three in him before he hits the ground and after a moment he is quiet and the echoes of each shot have faded away. I put the gun back into the jacket and just sit there, alone on the grass.
The nearest person might be a mile away because this is country. I like that and lie back and rest my head on my hands, breathe deeply of the honeysuckle and wonder where I should hide Jonah before discussing terms to some realtor. It doesn’t have to be this place, just a broken house and a wall covered in honeysuckle that slows one down, that one gets lost in.
This is a nice place to die. I envy him, really. I’m fated to be found in an alley.