“Then let’s talk about now and not these other things. I don’t like to be cold. I don’t like to be alone.”
“I thought Beckman was joining us.”
“Forget about him. You shouldn’t be on your feet too long. Let’s go somewhere warm. You’re going to get sick. Your face looks chapped.”
“Are you upset about something?”
“Why should I be upset? I don’t want to see you get sick, that’s all. Do you think I’m abnormal because I worry about you?”
He paused, his arms stiffening on his canes. White ash was drifting down on Maggie’s hair, as soft as Christmas-tree snow. “I have to ask you something. Beckman knows a lot about Mexico and a general named Lupa. But he said Lupa may have been killed by his own men. I was at the bordello where Lupa died. General Lupa was killed by an American. The prostitutes told me they fought up in the rocks behind the bordello.”
“You were at a Mexican whorehouse?”
“I was looking for my men. Lupa hanged four of them. For no reason. Before he hanged them, he made them drop their trousers so they’d die in a shameful manner. Then he ambushed a patrol I sent to find my men.”
“Don’t talk anymore of these things, Ishmael. Let the dead go. I’m cold.”
“A hearse full of ordnance had been parked in front. Somebody set fire to it and all the weapons and ammunition inside, including machi
ne guns. Nobody in Mexico burns firearms, particularly Mauser rifles and Maxims.”
“What does this have to do with Arnold? He wants to give you a job. That’s all that matters.”
“There were bodies all around the brothel. I knew the woman who owned the brothel. She was gone when I got there, but the girls said an Austrian arms dealer was hunting for something in the ashes of the hearse. The girls also said the man who killed Mexicans all over the canyon was a Texas Ranger. I think he may have been my father.”
“I don’t want to hear this. It has nothing to do with us,” she said. “I don’t like talking about brothels, either.” Her face had hardened, as though she were examining an image a few inches in front of her face, one nobody else saw. “Look out for yourself, Ishmael. I tried to take care of my mother. Instead of getting any thanks, I got blamed for her death.”
“I see,” he said, realizing she had slipped into a place that only she knew about or understood.
“You see what?” she asked.
He shook his head neutrally.
“This place is unsanitary. I want to go and not come back,” she said, lifting a piece of ash from her hair and dusting it off her fingers. “Be nice to Arnold. He has qualities many people don’t know about. He’s fascinated with history. He has degrees from Heidelberg and Vienna. You keep staring at me. Why do you stare at me like that?”
“Sometimes you seem to have two thoughts in your eyes at the same time. Sometimes I can’t figure out who you are.”
“The person who’s going to make you rich. How’s that for starters?”
Beckman was waiting for them by the car, smoking his cheroot, not removing it from his lips, his teeth showing when he took a puff. “What kept you?”
“We thought you were coming in,” Ishmael said. “You might enjoy it. Some of the murals are still on the plaster. Somebody cut the date 1730 on a flagstone. Would you like to take a look?”
“If I wanted to, I would.” Beckman dropped his cigar on the ground and mashed it out with the sole of his boot. Then he cleared his mouth and spat.
“We’re not in a hurry,” Ishmael said.
“Are you hard of hearing?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t act like it.”
“Maggie said you’re a student of history.”
“Look at me.”
“Sir?”