House of the Rising Sun: A Novel (38 page)

Hackberry pulled his gold watch from his pocket and opened the cover and looked at it. Then he looked at the river and the bluffs and the fields but not at Bishop. “Get down if you like.”

“Thank you.” Bishop stepped as gracefully from the stirrup as a man half his age, his lips pursed. It was not Bishop’s patrician airs that bothered Hackberry, or the way his long back bowed inward like a buggy whip, or the imperious cut of his profile; it was the meanness of spirit he disguised under any number of banners. There was no war he did not like, no cheap idea he did not support, no uncharitable, self-righteous cause aimed at the defenseless that he did not make his own. In moments like these, Hackberry sometimes wondered why anyone should object to a three-day open season on people in order to clean up most of the world’s problems.

“I brought you some bonbons,” Bishop said.

“You brought me candy?”

“I know we haven’t been the best of neighbors. I’d like to make that right.”

“Not on my account.”

“Would you accept this gift?”

“Would you tell me what this is about, please?”

Bishop set the tissue-wrapped box on the top step. “I’ve formally broken off my association with Mr. Beckman.” His words had held together until the mention of Beckman’s name. Then an inflection like a loose electric wire crept into his voice.

“Why would you be ending your friendship with Beckman at this particular time, Cod?”

“I made a mistake. I got into a situation I shouldn’t have.” Bishop cleared his throat. “Would you forgive me, Mr. Holland?”

Hackberry shook his head. “No, sir, I cain’t do that.”

“Your father was a saddle preacher. Would he not advise you to forgive when someone offers his apology?”

“I think you waded out too far in the creek and got scared. I also think this has to do with my son’s disappearance.”

“I know nothing about that.”

Hackberry picked up the raccoon from the porch and flipped him up on a shoulder. “Where’s my boy?”

“Sir, I’m at a loss. I’ve come here in good faith. I’m a businessman who used bad judgment, and I want to own up to it.”

“I think you know what happened to my boy. I also think Beckman hired you to spy on me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Just what is it you have that he wants?”

Bishop wet his lips and blinked.

“That shouldn’t be a difficult question,” Hackberry said.

“Representation. That’s what I was going to give him. Representation.”

“He’s an arms dealer. He’s friends with princes and kings and Mexican generals like Villa. Why does he need to come to a hole in a road like this for representation? Stop fooling yourself.”

“I shouldn’t have come here.”

“I’ve seen Beckman’s handiwork up close, Cod. You’re in bed with a snake. He staked out a
campesino
down in Mexico and let his men have at it. Want to hear the details?”

“No,” Bishop said, a red knot blooming on his neck.

“Cod, if I lose my son, I cain’t tell you what I’ll do.” Hackberry set down the raccoon on the porch and watched him waddle back to his bowl. He looked at Bishop again. “The thought of it scares me.”

“I’ll go now, Mr. Holland. I’ll take back the gift. It was presumptuous of me.”

Hackberry stared across the river at the willow trees on the bank and the stretch of sandy beach and the smooth, hard-packed path that led to the cave among the bluffs. “What did you tell Beckman about me? What did you do behind my back that scares you so bad?”

“I don’t remember particulars. He bears you a grudge about something that happened in Mexico. I told him—” Bishop wiped his mouth, his eyes misting.

“Go on,” Hackberry said.

“He said not to worry about you. That eventually you would fall on your own sword. He said you’re one of those men who actually seeks his own death.”

“He’s probably right,” Hackberry replied. “But it won’t happen today. And when the time comes, I might have a lot of company for the trip across.”

Bishop mounted his horse, his left hand shaking on the reins. He turned his horse in a circle, his face white. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“Tell who what?”

“Beckman. About our conversation. I ask this one favor of you.”

“You’re on your own, Cod. I’d better not find out you’ve held on to information about my son.”

“Sir, can you show me a little respect? Just a little. We’re both gentlemen.”

“Tell that to the darkies you burned out of their homes.”

Hackberry went back into the house just as the phone rang. It was Ruby.

S
HE TOLD HIM
of everything that had happened at the clinic in the Mexican district. She also said she had gone to the police and the sheriff’s department.

“You told them about the motorcar with the bell on it?” he asked.

“Yes, the police said they don’t go beyond the city limits. A deputy at the sheriff’s department said their motorcars don’t have bells.”

“You’re sure the car had a bell? On the driver’s side?”

“Yes.”

“Then someone is lying,” he said.

“You believe the police or the sheriff’s department abducted Ishmael?”

“I think it was somebody who works for Arnold Beckman.”

“That’s the second time you mentioned that name.”

“He buys and sells arms all over the world. He believes I stole his property down in Mexico in 1916.”

“What were you doing in Mexico?”

“Looking for Ishmael.”

“You stole something from this Beckman man and he’s holding Ishmael until he gets it back?”

“I cain’t say that for sure, but I suspect he’ll be getting in touch.”

“Hack, I’m really upset by what you’re telling me. Our son’s life is in the balance because of some stolen property you won’t let go of?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“It doesn’t sound complicated at all,” she said. “It sounds like your stubbornness at work.”

“You don’t cut deals with a man like Arnold Beckman.”

“Not even to save your son?”

“You never play on your enemy’s terms, Ruby. The day you accept Beckman’s word about anything is the day he’ll rip out your throat.”

“I can’t believe this is happening. What is it he wants so badly?”

“I said Beckman
thinks
I have something of his. I’m coming back to San Antonio. I’ll see you at your hotel this afternoon.”

“What about the men who put Ishmael in the cage?”

“What about them?”

“I told the police and the sheriff’s office what they did to Ishmael at the carnival. They said they couldn’t do anything about it unless the victim filed a complaint.”

“I found the men who hurt Ishmael.”

“What did they say?”

“Not much. They’re probably filing assault charges against me today. But recently I shot and killed an IWW organizer. He was also a Medal of Honor recipient. So in terms of my legal troubles, those fellows at the carnival aren’t high up on the scale. I’ll be there directly.”

“A policeman told me about the shooting. It must have been an accident. I know you would not deliberately kill a union organizer.”

“But I did. And I cain’t undo it. And that’s the way it is.”

He hung up before she could reply.

A
RNOLD BECKMAN HAD
summoned Maggie to his office. And “summoned” was the word. The times he had physically intimidated her were few. She felt safe inside her beauty and intellectual superiority and the uncomfortable levels of desire she caused him that he did not easily hide. But she knew that many of his emotions were infantile, and when he didn’t get what he wanted, he was capable of destroying everyone and everything around him, including the objects of his affection. She also knew he delighted in witnessing others’ pain.

When she entered his office, he was sitting behind his desk with a shot glass of what she suspected was tea; he never drank alcohol while he attended to business. Five other men she had never seen were sitting on the chairs made of animal hides and antlers and shellacked driftwood. One of them was Asian. She had no doubt about the kind of men they were. They wore clean work clothes and sat with their hats on their knees as though posing for a photographer, but they were unshaved and had profiles cut out of sandstone; the iniquitous light in their eyes was only the outer edge of their cruel nature. They were the type of men who wore their body odor as a weapon. Their self-worth was measured by the degree to which they could inspire fear in others. The woman who fell into their hands was never the same again.

From his vest pocket, Beckman took a bejeweled pocket watch no larger than a twenty-five-cent piece and looked at it. “Naughty girl,” he said.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night, Arnold,” she replied.

“Unfortunately, none of us did, due primarily to one individual’s negligence,” he said. “Meet Jim and Jack and Jessie and Jeff. I call them the J Boys.”

The smiles of the four white men were lascivious, their eyes lingering on her face and throat and breasts, one of them licking his bottom lip, each enjoying his moment in the magic kingdom, which to them was Beckman’s office.

“And this is Mr. Po,” Beckman said.

The Asian man bowed his head deferentially, his tan pate shining in the lamplight. He had a small mouth like a guppy’s, and tiny hands, and small shoulders that he didn’t try to disguise inside his tight-fitting suit. He also wore button shoes, although they had been out of fashion for many years.

“How do you do, Mr. Po?” she said.

The Asian man rose partway from his chair, his eyes lowered, then sat down again. Perhaps he smiled, perhaps not. He didn’t speak. No one had asked her to sit down.

“Where is Ishmael?” she said.

“Snug as a bug in a rug, thanks to some friends of ours in the city,” Beckman said.

“May I see him?”

“Miss your laddy, do you?” Beckman said.

“I don’t know why you called me here. Would you please tell me? I would appreciate that very much.”

“A bit out of sorts?” he said.

“Maybe I should leave,” she said, trying to ignore the amusement in the faces of the J Boys, who were staring at her as though she were on a burlesque runway.

“No, leaving is not a good idea,” Beckman said. He looked at his fingernails. “We need to get ourselves more tightly organized so we don’t have a problem like this again. We can’t have our war hero turning into a walkabout, can we? He doesn’t appear to want his medication. Maybe you can do something about that.”

“I’m not going to talk on this level with you, or in this environment, either,” she said. “Maybe you didn’t offer me a chair because this collection of white trash has already sat on all the furniture and you didn’t want me to touch any of it. At least that’s what I would like to believe. Regardless, I’ll leave you to your friends and be on my way.”

Beckman leaned back in his chair, grinning, lifting his hand to the four white men. “I’ll see you gentlemen at the café at noon,” he said. “Stay away from the whiskey and the ladies. I have a job for you.”

They filed out of the room, their eyes straight ahead, their boots heavy on the floor, their odor sliding across her skin. Each waited until he was outside the door before he put on his hat.

“You never cease to surprise me, Maggie,” Beckman said. “I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of that bunch.”

“Why are they here?”

“If they didn’t work for me, they would be working for my enemies. Now sit down and let’s talk business.”

“Where is Ishmael?”

“Receiving the medical care he needs. We found him in a clinic across the river that’s full of dying influenza patients. We probably saved his life. Do you know who Mr. Po is? From what I know about your history, you should.”

“No, I’m sorry, I know nothing about Mr. Po, other than the fact that he seems to be the only gentleman in the room.”

Beckman rubbed his eyes. “You’re an absolute curse, Maggie. You’re going to punish me because I was a little flippant with you? Why do you think I keep you around? Yes, you’re beautiful, but I hired you for your brains and your willingness to do bloody near anything to accomplish your goals. We’re alike more than we’re different. We know how the world works, and we don’t buy in to the rot that turns men into sheep.”

“Mr. Beckman telling truth. You are beautiful lady,” Mr. Po said, as though reading the words one by one off a card.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I speak French but not English so well.”

“You speak fine,” she said.

“Mr. Po has been a longtime friend of the British and the French in South Asia,” Beckman said. “Soon he will be a facilitator for us.”

“You’re arming Orientals?” she said.

“Not just yet,” Beckman said. “But their day in the sun is coming. Right now the issue is currency. As you probably guessed, they have none.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers on his desktop.

She waited. “Yes? Go on.”

“So they’ve created a ‘currency’ of their own. You know what it is, don’t you?”

“No,” she said.

“No idea?” Beckman said. “Comes from a lovely red flower? Oceans of red flowers bursting from green husks? The Brits transported the seeds from India to China. We’re actually getting in on things a bit late.”

“You’re going into the opium trade?”

“No, I’m an arms trader. I’m simply opening up my parameters regarding payment. I don’t expect a goatherd to pay me in British pounds or American gold eagles. You’ll be my liaison with Mr. Po. You’ll probably have to travel overseas.”

“I don’t know about this, Arnold. I don’t like it.”

“You’re telling me you never smoked opium?”

“I tried it.”

“And you’re still here, aren’t you? Not only here, but you seem to have found the Fountain of Youth. Maggie, the potential with Mr. Po is unlimited. America’s cities are filled with wretched, unhappy people. A man who cannot find fifty cents to feed his family will find five dollars to buy alcohol. Think of the amounts he will find in order to buy heroin.”

Maggie’s head began to throb, a nest of veins gathering in her temple. She was sitting in a chair framed out of elk antlers, the horn pinching into her back. “I have no knowledge of these matters. You’ll be breaking the law. You’ll be undoing your own enterprises. You’re a smarter businessman than that.”