House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“Don’t be dragging me into trouble with this man from Austria,” Mealy said. “Thi

s Hun. That’s what he is, a Hun, right? We just fought a war with those guys. What are they doing over here?”

“Give me a name.”

“Jimmy Belloc. Some people call him Jimmy No Lines. Get the picture?”

“He’s in New Orleans?”

Mealy’s face had turned gray, his yellow tie crooked on his coat, like a snake with a broken back. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s still in town.”

“You’re a little emotional this evening. How do you know this?”

“I saw him two days ago. On the street, right by Alamo Plaza. He recognized me. I kept going.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He was in a fire. Maybe when he was a little kid. He’s been stuck with the same face all his life. Mr. Holland, I don’t like being caught between people. Don’t tell anybody what I told you, suh. We got us a deal on that?”

“I would appreciate you not mentioning I was here, Mealy.”

“You were here, Mr. Holland. And maybe I got to pay for it.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“It ain’t the way I feel. It’s the troot’.” Mealy looked seasick.

Hackberry took a jitney across town to Beatrice DeMolay’s apartment building. This time she was home.

HER APARTMENT COULD be entered only through a brick-paved courtyard. The beds were weedless and sprinkled with wood chips and planted with hibiscus and hydrangeas and banana stalks that grew in thick clumps, and windmill palms and caladiums and orange trumpet vine and blood-red bougainvillea that reached to the Spanish grillwork on the balcony. Her face showed no surprise when she opened the door. Inside the confines of the courtyard, the air felt suddenly cold and dank. A light rain had started to fall, and raindrops were ticking on the elephant ears and philodendron, the sun buried like a mean red eye inside a bank of dark clouds. “Heard you had some trouble,” Hackberry said.

“Really?” she replied.

“Thought I’d drop by.”

She smiled. “I thought you might be around.”

“Pardon?”

“Come in.”

God save me from lightning, earthquakes, flash floods, and women who can make you feel like a snail on a hot sidewalk, he thought, trying to keep his face empty, removing his hat as he stepped inside. “Why did you think I’d be around?”

“Because you’re a thoughtful man, even though you pretend you’re not.”

The windows of her apartment were ceiling-high, the rugs probably woven in Persia, the hand-carved antique furniture wiped and polished, darkly reflective.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

“There was no moon. Someone knocked. I turned on the outside light and opened the door. The lightbulb had been unscrewed. I saw a jar in his hand. I slammed the door just as he threw it.”

“You saw his face?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe he was wearing a mask.”

“What kind?”

“One that people might wear on Halloween or during Mardi Gras. Sit down, Mr. Holland. It’s good of you to look in on me. But you shouldn’t be disturbed by this.”