House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“What’s this for?”

“You need it. I’m going to walk you back to the hotel now. I’d like for you to stay in your room until I return.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“See Beckman.”

“What will that accomplish?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.” He blew out his breath, his strength gone. “Ruby?”

“What?” she said, setting down her fork.

“I admire you. I always did. I admire everything about you. You and Ishmael are the best human beings I ever knew. You know what remorse is? It’s losing your family and knowing you’re to blame. It’s why I’ve killed people all these years.”

The people at other tables stopped talking, their silverware suspended over their plates, their mouths frozen in midsentence.

LIFE CHEATED A man in many ways. The secrets of Creation remained the secrets of Creation. A man’s worst experiences were not healed by time but waited for him like a dark cocoon breaking open when he closed his eyes at night. And the comforting virtues of patience and charity often held no sway over irascibility and fear of death. But the greatest cheat, the one a person never got over, was betrayal by a friend and the subsequent loss of faith in one’s fellow man.

After Hackberry

took Ruby back to the hotel, he hired a jitney to drive him to Arnold Beckman’s office and told the driver to wait while he went inside. The secretary was a small Asian woman who wore big glasses and made Hackberry think of a smiling goldfish. “He’s not here right now.”

“Do you know where he is?” Hackberry asked.

“Are you Mr. Holland?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Mr. Beckman said you might be here this morning. He left this for you.”

On the piece of notebook paper were an address near the brothel district and the words “See me.” Hackberry folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket. “How did Mr. Beckman know I was on my way?”

“He’s a very intelligent man. He always tells me to anticipate the needs of my friends. He says a good businessman is a good listener. He says the client or customer will always tell you what he needs if you will listen.”

“You like working for Mr. Beckman?”

“Yes, he is an old friend of my grandfather, Mr. Po. Do you know Mr. Po?”

Where had he heard the name? Something to do with the West Coast. Maybe the Tongs. “Is your grandfather in the export-import business?”

“Yes, perfume and exotic fish and teakwood furniture. He is very famous in the Orient.”

“It was nice meeting you. If Mr. Beckman calls, tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“I will call him right now.”

“That would be fine,” he replied.

Hackberry went out the door and replaced his Stetson on his head and got inside the jitney, handing the driver the slip of paper given him by the Asian woman. “Know the neighborhood?”

“Yeah, but I usually don’t take people down there at this hour of the day. You’re sure that’s where you want to go?”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, he arrived at a paintless two-story building with wood cornices left over from the 1870s, located on a brick street that was cracked and sunken through the center and pooled with rainwater. Dirty children with rickets played on the sidewalks; the garbage cans had been knocked in the gutters. The day was bright and sunny and cool, but the air smelled of excrement and garbage and damp alleyways. Two black women without coats stood against a wall on the corner, overly made up, wearing straw hats with cloth flowers sewn on them, staring out of the shade and cold into the sunlight, their expressions a study in despair.

A waxed midnight-blue four-door car was parked in front of the building, the driver sleeping with his slug cap pulled over his eyes. Hackberry’s jitney pulled in behind. Hackberry took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. He tore it in half and handed one half to the driver. “If I don’t come out in fifteen minutes, come in and get me. I’m often forgetful about the time.”

“The kids fill garbage cans with water and throw them off the roofs. It’s like getting hit with a piano. This street is called ‘Micks and Spicks Avenue.’ You ever hear the expression ‘You can lead an Irishman to water, but you can’t make him take a bath’?”