House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“I said look at me.”

Ishmael shook his head again, his eyes focused on empty space.

“I don’t like repeating or explaining myself,” Beckman said. “For you, I’ll do it once. Most Christian churches are built on pagan sites. That’s why Attila the Hun didn’t sack Roman churches. He feared Odin, not a Hebrew god. Are you listening? I have the distinct feeling I’m not communicating with you.”

“You’re correct. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I don’t trouble the spirits, and they don’t trouble me,” Beckman said. “Clear enough?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You learn your manners in the army? If so, they taught you well.”

“I learned them at home. From my mother.”

“That’s a good answer. That’s why I want you to represent my company.” Beckman’s face broke into a grin as he shifted his attention to Maggie. “Ah, you’re a magnificent woman, probably the bane of us all. Payment for the screwing we’ve given women since the time of Eve. What do you think of that, Mr. Holland? Do you think we shit our nest in that pleasure park between the Tigris and Euphrates?”

“Did you ever hear anything about a burned hearse down in Mexico, Mr. Beckman?” Ishmael said. “One that was loaded with ordnance owned by General Lupa?”

The wind gusted in the silence, speckling the air with dust that was cold and shiny, like mica. Beckman untied the bandana from his neck and whipped it into a rope and retied it around his forehead, pinning his hair to the sides of his face. His eyes were elongated slits, a canine tooth showing behind the curl in his lips. “No, I know nothing of burned hearses,” he said. “Do you know there’s a tic in your face, Mr. Holland? Do you have a nervous condition? Maybe an addiction of some kind? You should do something about that.”

THE DAYS WERE growing shorter, the sun unable to warm the interior of Maggie’s house, the rugs full of electricity. It was only five o’clock, and Ishmael could feel his spirits sinking. He paced the floor and looked out the window at the shadows on the lawn and the strips of gunny cloth whipping on a farmer’s barbed-wire fence, a plowed field spiked with brown weeds. Maggie was cooking dinner in the kitchen, banging pots and iron skillets, scraping metal on metal. She had not mentioned his “medication,” a word they both used more and more often. She dropped a skillet heavily on the stove.

“What’s in the syringe?” he said from the door.

“You already know,” she replied.

“Morphine you mixed with whiskey?”

“It’s heroin. It turns to morphine inside the bloodstream. Some people smoke it. There are worse things around.”

She was frying potatoes in the pan without a cover, the grease popping on the stove.

“Why don’t you use a lid?” he said.

“Why don’t you stay out of the kitchen?”

“What did I say wrong?” he asked.

“It’s what you didn’t say. Arnold was talking to me like I was trash, and you didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t think it would help.”

“You didn’t mind bringing up hearses and guns in Mexico. Why is it that I don’t count? Get a plate out of the cupboard.”

“I’m not too hungry.”

“Oh, lovely.”

“It’s not the food, it’s my stomach.”

“Physician, heal thyself,” she said, stabbing at a piece of meat in the skillet.

“You’re talking about the medication?”

“The syringe is in the top drawer of my dresser. Make sure you get the mixture right. Or throw it in the garbage.”

“I sent another telegram to my mother’s union. She took leave. Maybe she’s coming to San Antonio.”