House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“I know who Harvey Logan was.”

“He was a card. He had your father’s number, all right. I remember him drinking a mug of beer on the porch with his feet on the railing, laughing about it.”

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“Did you hear what I said? My uncle was a member of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang.”

“I need to use the bathroom pretty bad.”

“Then you’re shit out of luck.”

“You taped my eyes. That means I might have another reason to run. If that happens, where does that leave you?”

“I don’t think you got that picture right. You got needle scabs on your arms for all the world to see. If you get turned loose, your brains will be mush. Nobody is going to care what you say. You’ll be on a street corner, drooling in your lap.”

“Walk me into the bathroom. I can’t see. I can’t go anywhere. My hands are manacled.”

“That’s right, they are. So I’m supposed to unbutton your britches?”

Ishmael squeezed his eyes shut behind the pads, his bladder about to burst. “If I develop uremic poisoning, I may die. How will you explain that to Beckman?”

“I didn’t tell you I worked for Mr. Beckman. You got that? You’re starting to piss me off, boy. I’m not somebody you want to piss off.”

“Let me explain something to you, Jessie.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your friends used it in front of me. My father is coming. After you chloroformed me, I saw him in a dream. He’s going to do something terrible to you and your friends. I don’t want that to happen, mostly for his sake. Maybe you didn’t choose the life you lead. Maybe there’s a better way of life waiting for you.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“How about this instead?”

Jessie wrapped Ishmael’s head as tightly as a mummy’s with a towel, then slowly funneled a full bucket of water in his mouth and nostrils, pausing only to ensure that none of it was wasted.

HACKBERRY LIFTED HIS watch from his vest pocket and clicked open the case and looked at it. It was gold and as big as a biscuit. Where was Andre? The moon was higher, bluer, the clouds drifting across its broken edges. In the west, the sky was flickering with electricity, the hills green and undulating and as smooth as velvet, like topography beneath a darkening sea. He thought he could smell rain. He put on his slicker and slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and began walking back toward the city. He glanced once at the windows of Arnold Beckman’s apartment, but all of them were dark, and he could see no signs of movement.

What had happened to Andre? Where was Beckman? No car had left the building. Did he go to bed this early? Hackberry walked the four miles to town and used a pay phone to call Beatrice DeMolay.

ANDRE WAS PUTTING his bag of groceries on the passenger seat of the REO when the police pulled in behind him on the side street and cut its lights. A bell was attached to the outside of the driver’s door.

The two policemen who got out wore dark blue uniforms with high collars and brass buttons. They both had mustaches, and each carried a revolver in a holster and a short, thick wooden club hung on his belt from a rubber ring. One officer looked at the broken headlight on the driver’s side, and at the cornstalks matted in the bumper and the grille, and ran his hand along the scratches and dents on the finish. “Who’s the owner?” he asked.

“Miss Beatrice DeMolay,” Andre said.

“You work for her?”

“I’m her driver.”

“Where’d you get the accent?”

“I’m originally from Haiti.”

The officer stuck his head inside the driver’s window, then withdrew it. “What were you doing inside that old mission?”

“I drove someone there for Miss DeMolay.”