House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“She’s a friend of mine.”

The sheriff pulled on his ear. “Mealy gave you the name of this Belloc fellow?”

“Yes, he did. He also acted like he was standing on the edge of his grave.”

“When was this?”

“About seven hours ago.”

“He was,” the sheriff said.

“Was what?”

“Standing on the edge of his grave. He hanged himself in his closet.”

Hackberry stared straight ahead, his hands propped on his knees, his ears ringing. Then he gazed at the floor and at the dirt grimed into the grain of the wood, the cigar burns, the chewing-tobacco stains, the wisps of dried manure and horse hair that had fallen from someone’s boots or spurs. “That doesn’t make sense. Mealy was fixing to leave town.”

“The coroner is putting it down as a suicide. Let it go at that. Stay away from this woman. These people are gutter rats. That includes the man you shot. At the inside, he was a whoremonger.”

“I don’t believe Mealy killed himself. I think Arnold Beckman is behind all of this.”

“Could be. But bad-mouthing others isn’t going to he’p you.”

Hackberry looked at the floor and the way the leather was worn around the points and sides of his boots from sticking them into stirrups. When he closed his eyes, he saw the verdant land along the Guadalupe and bluebonnets blooming in the spring, bending and riffling in the wind, electric blue as far as the eye could see.

“Did you hear me?” the sheriff said.

“I’m not feeling too good right now.”

“What’s that stink on you?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to go now. Do you mind?”

“Hell, no, I don’t mind. Take your weapon with you. Get out of the goddamn country. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

“You don’t have to get your quills up.”

“I’m doing this only because I remember the old days.”

“That’s good, because I wouldn’t want you to do anything on my account. Don’t let that dead man out of his cell, either.”

“Say again?”

Hackberry went out the door, his face tight and numb with hangover, his gun belt and holstered revolver looped over his shoulder. The dirt street was empty, the stores and bordellos and saloons and gambling houses closed. His right ear was still partially deaf from firing the Peacemaker in the closed room, and the ground seemed to shift from side to side, as though he were on board a pitching ship. The rain had stopped, and the air was cold and smelled of wood smoke and somebody baking bread. Was a bakery about to open its doors? If so, would he be allowed inside? He had just killed an innocent man, a labor organizer, a decorated soldier, not unlike his son. If an unkind voice had told Hackberry he was the worst of men, absolutely alone and friendless, he would not have argued.

When he returned home later in the day, dehydrated and sick, trembling with fatigue, the boxlike phone on his living room wall was ringing. He picked up the listening piece from the hook and put it to his ear. “Hello?”

“How does it feel?” a merry voice said.

“Beckman?”

“Did you have an enjoyable evening in San Antonio?”

“I’ll never give you what you want.”

“This is just for openers.”

“Have at it.”