House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

Just remember, Little Bessie,

None will love you like I do.

Where had he heard the song? It was a soldier’s lament, one that went back to the Civil War, one his father used to sing. He thought of Ishmael in the trenches of France. He thought of his poor wounded boy and the fact that he might never learn his father loved him.

He reached the top of the stairs. The hallway was long, with a series of doors on either side, a single low-wattage unshaded bulb at the end. He slid the Peacemaker from his holster and lifted it free of his coat, his arm cocked at a right angle, the barrel pointed up. He opened the first door and pushed it back on its hinges. The room was empty, the bed made. He opened a second door. A light-skinned, flat-chested girl in a shift was sitting by herself on the side of a mattress, her bare feet hardly touching the floor. Her eyes looked as small as seeds. “The blackberry got the sweet juice,” she said.

“Where’s the burned man, missy?”

“Trick, trade, or travel, Daddy. What you doin’ wit’ that big gun? Bring it over here. I’ll take care of it for you.”

He smelled an odor like brown sugar spilled on a woodstove. “You been smoking opium, girl?”

“I ain’t no girl. Ain’t been one since I was twelve. That’s how old I was when I got turned out. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Where is he?”

“The burned-up man? Wit’ Corrine. He used to like me. Now he say I’m too young. That show how much he know.”

“Where’s Corrine’s room?”

“Last one on the hall. You missing out on a good t’ing.”

He stepped back into the hallway and closed the door to the girl’s room. The carpet on the floor was so thin, it felt like straw under his boots. A white man in a strap undershirt, his suspenders hanging at his sides, stepped out of a doorway, stared starkly at Hackberry and the gun in his hand, and retreated into the room, closing the door softly. Hackberry unscrewed the bulb by the window at the end of the hall, then stood next to the last door, his back pressed against the wall. He turned the knob and let the door swing back on its hinges.

There was no sound from the room. He stepped inside, his arm still cocked at a right angle, the barrel of the Peacemaker still pointed upward. A fat black woman was pouring a pan of dirty water into a bucket, her breasts hanging like watermelons out of her robe, a razor scar down one cheek that puckered her eye. “What you want?” she said.

But his attention was not focused on her. The man in the bed was sitting upright without a shirt, a coverlet pulled to his waist, his chest and shoulders wrinkled like pink rubber curdled by flame, his face a bowl of porridge with eyes, nostrils, and a mouth that had no lips.

“Step out of the bed and get your britches on,” Hackberry said. “Keep your hands on top of the covers.”

The man took a long time to speak. An object like a woman’s brooch hung from a leather cord around his neck. “I really don’t feel like it.”

“I’m interested in the man you work for. Not you. We can talk in the alley. What’s that around your neck?”

“My Purple Heart. I stubbed my toe on a dead Flip.”

“You shouldn’t have taken out your problems on Beatrice DeMolay.”

“Who?”

“Get your pants on.”

“I lost them,” the man in the bed said. He looked at the woman. “You ever see this guy?”

“Maybe. Do what he say,” the woman said. “Miss Dora gonna take care of this.”

“Tell me what you want, chief,” the man said. “I’m late for work. I’m the greeter at Delmonico’s. Kids love me. I’m a real howl.”

“Feel sorry for yourself on your own time,” Hackberry said. He approached the bed and slowly pulled the coverlet off the mattress, letting it drop to the floor. The burned man was wearing undershorts and socks. The lower half of his body was white and completely unscarred.

“Get up,” Hackberry said.

“No.”

“Why make it hard on yourself? Why make it hard on the colored lady?”

“I ain’t no lady,” the woman said. “Get yo’ ass out of my bedroom. I’m fixing to throw this bucket on you.”