House of the Rising Sun

  “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.

  SHE 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.

  ARNOLD 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 offic
e.

  “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.”

  “We are not breaking any laws. Mr. Po’s transactions take place overseas. The vendors in this country will receive from him. The product grown in the Orient will be sold by him. And he will pay us for the guns we ship to friendly countries or democratic insurgencies.”

  “I’m confused. I don’t want to talk anymore about this.”

  “You are not confused about anything, Maggie. You understand the nature of power. There are two kinds of people; those who have it and those who do not. Think back on what it was like when men such as those who just left here were your clients. No, don’t put that pout on your face. The world fucked you, just as it did me. Now it’s our turn.”

  “I want to see Ishmael.”

  “Listen to me,” Beckman said. He lifted his chin and used one finger to trace the chain of scars that ran down his cheek and neck into his collar. “I got this in one of the early mustard-gas experiments. It involved putting the gas in an exploding shell. I also lost my sense of smell. The scientists who did this to me could not have cared less.”

  “Mr. Beckman say profane words but is a visionary,” Mr. Po said.

  “Time to make a choice, Maggie. You’re on board the Pequod or not. But we’re going to kill the great white whale with or without you, girl,” Beckman said. “Think back to when you were nineteen and scared to death and glad to be offered a bare mattress and a water pan in a straddle house for the kind of roach bait that just walked out of here. Did you like their hands on you, their breath on your skin, their fingers knotted in your hair?”

  Her cheeks were flaming, her hands clenched in her lap, her mouth so dry and her face so tight that she couldn’t swallow or even blink.

  AFTER COD BISHOP left his house, Hackberry called the sheriff and asked a favor.

  “You want Darl Pickins to drive you back to San Antonio?” Willard asked.

  “Somebody has got hold of my son. I need to get him back.”

  “I just got two calls from the authorities in Bexar, Hack. Guess what they were about.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Three security workers at the carnival got tore up by some wild man.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “The wild man who attacked them said he was a deputy sheriff in Kerr County. About six and a half feet tall. Maybe a little more. An older man. He said his son had been wounded in France.”

  “These were full-grown men, I assume. Not children or paraplegics?”

  “Most likely.”

  “I think I know who they might be. The same ones who put my boy on display in the geek cage. I cain’t i
magine somebody putting the boots to them. That’s a heartbreaking story.”

  “I swore you in as a peace officer. You don’t have permission to beat the hell out of whomever you feel like.”

  “They had it coming.”

  “Your badge goes in your dresser drawer today, Hack. I’ll pick it up the next time I’m out.”

  “I think I did the right thing.”

  “It might have been the right thing twenty-five years ago. You know what got Wesley Hardin killed?”

  “A bullet through the brain. It does that sometimes.”

  “It’s what his kind look for. From the day their parents throw them out with the slop jar. You’re always skirting the edge of it. That’s what I don’t understand.”

  “Darl cain’t drive me to San Antonio?”

  “They’re going to put you away, Hack. In Huntsville or an asylum or some other shithole you’ll never come out of. Why do you let them do it to you?”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “I give up.”

  The line went dead.

  THE PITY THAT flowed in the veins and the cup of mercy that could fill the heart in a second had always remained mysteries to Hackberry. Their power was so great and disarming that he often feared them.

  Of all people to cause these emotions in him, it had to be Cod Bishop. As Hackberry was trying to find somebody to take him to San Antonio, he looked out the window and saw Bishop walking through the pasture along the riverbank, toward Hackberry’s house, without a hat or coat, staring furtively at the bluffs and the sky as though they contained either an omen or a threat. Even his gait seemed out of sync with the world; he walked as though his feet were sinking in snow or ice.

  Hackberry went out on the back porch, hoping Bishop had finally decided to tell the truth about his relationship with Arnold Beckman. More important, maybe he knew where Ishmael was being held. Maybe Cod Bishop was on the verge of starting a new life.

  Vanity, vanity. If ever Hackberry had seen a man in the midst of a nervous breakdown, it was Cod.

  “What’s going on, partner?” Hackberry said.

  “I was digging in the ash, cleaning and stacking the bricks,” Bishop said. “I’m not bad with a trowel and cement. I’ve worked right alongside many a tradesman.”