House of the Rising Sun

by James Lee Burke

  “I went to the cave like Sheriff Posey said and—”

  Hackberry reached through the doorway and pulled Darl inside. “We don’t need to be advertising our business.”

  “The sheriff give me that sense. Where you want me to put it?”

  “On the bed is fine.”

  “Can you tell me what it is?”

  “Maybe I better not.”

  “Your pistol and your bowie knife are on the bed, Mr. Holland. I also heard some of what the sheriff said to you on the telephone. I’m off duty today.”

  “I don’t think you can he’p on this one.”

  “I ain’t stupid, sir. Sheriff Posey don’t get upset often. You got to him. Has this got something to do with the church?”

  “Indirectly, I guess. Which church you mean?”

  “For me, one is just the same as the other. If we’re Christians, ain’t we supposed to he’p out each other?”

  Hackberry wasn’t listening. “It was you wrapped it with twine?”

  “I didn’t want it to fall loose.”

  “You didn’t look inside?”

  “I wouldn’t do that. Not without asking.”

  Hackberry opened his pocketknife and cut the twine. He lifted the cup from the bed and placed it on the nightstand, under a lamp.

  “What is it?” Darl said.

  “Probably depends on who you talk to. The gold and the jewels are most likely from medieval times. The two onyx goblets fused together might go back a bit farther.”

  “What are we talking about here, Mr. Holland?”

  “A lady who used to run a brothel and a Haitian who was a pagan priest say it was used by Jesus at the Last Supper. I found it in a hearse that was carrying a load of ordnance down in Mexico. That was right before I burned the hearse. The ordnance belonged to Arnold Beckman.”

  Darl was staring at the two goblets, fused end to end, one acting as the base. “So the gold cup set in the top was drank out of by Jesus?”

  “I don’t think a carpenter would be using gold dishware. The onyx cup is another matter.”

  “This makes me feel a little uneasy, Mr. Holland.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not exactly your ordinary day-to-day experience,” Darl replied.

  “Beckman has got his hands on my son.”

  “That’s why you’ve got your revolver and bowie knife and ammunition laid out on the bed?”

  “I wish it was that simple.”

  “How’d Mr. Beckman get holt of your son?”

  “My ex-wife betrayed me.”

  “The one people say was hooked up with the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang?”

  “That’s the lady.”

  “Sounds to me like her butt ought to be sitting in a jail cell.”

  A strand of Darl’s red hair was hanging in his face; his thin frame and wide shoulders had the angularity and stiffness of coat hangers. The blue kerchief tied around his neck was embroidered with tiny white stars.

  “I changed my mind,” Hackberry said.

  “Sir?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like for you to hang around.”

  MAGGIE PACED THE floor in her living room, her nails biting into her palms, a habit she couldn’t rid herself of any more than she could get the cold out of her bones. Dr. Romulus Atwood, who had actually been to veterinary school, had told her that a thyroid disorder was responsible for her subnormal body temperature, and it could most likely be cured by the mineral baths at Hot Springs, Arkansas, a resort for criminals of every stripe. Once they arrived there, he set about fleecing anyone he could at the card tables, using her as his shill.

  And that was what she had been, a shill for everyone: pimps, madams, opium den operators, cardsharps, and the worst of the lot, the mercenary contractors who sent passenger-car loads of gunmen to kill and terrorize the sodbusters during the Johnson County War. And now an international arms dealer. Top that.

  She put another log in the fireplace. When it didn’t catch right away, she jabbed it with the poker and stacked another one on top of the first and poked at the green bark on both of them, not raising the temperature one degree.

  When would it stop raining? She could not remember seeing a darker day. The sky was black upon black, relieved only by the fog rising from the river or a silvery quivering in the clouds that briefly illuminated the countryside, like the flickering scenes of a newsreel filmed in the trenches.

  She mustn’t think of the trenches or the war, she thought. That was all she had heard about for years. First it was the sinking of the passenger ships by the submarines, the stories about the survivors crawling like lines of ants along the hull, slipping helplessly into space, finally succumbing to the coldness of the depths. Then there were the photos of the disfigured, the amputees, and those who sported glass eyes and prosthetic faces so others would not see what they really looked like. War was bad. Who could argue with that? Why did everybody have to keep talking about it?

  But her depression and angst and guilt were not about the war or having to hear about it. She wadded up more paper and stuffed it between the logs, trying to shut down her thoughts before they got out of hand. Then she gave up and allowed herself a moment of clarity, the kind she usually avoided, and thought about the telegram and letter from Ruby Dansen to Hackberry that she had burned in the fireplace at their home on the Guadalupe.

  With forethought and design, she had destroyed any chance of Hackberry and Ruby reuniting; she had inculcated suspicion and animosity in each of them that had lasted for years. She had created a masterpiece of deceit that had ruined a large part of their lives.

  She stared wanly out the window at the hills. She could see bare trees silhouetted against the sky, like stick figures hooked together in a medieval painting depicting doomsday. No, she mustn’t think like that. As bad as her deeds were, they were understandable. She was fighting to save her home. She was Hackberry’s wife; Ruby Dansen was not. What woman wouldn’t do the same? Who were they to judge her?

  The answer was no one. And that was because no one else knew what she had done.

  The thought was not a comforting one. By the river, she witnessed a phenomenon she had heard of but never seen. A streak of lightning struck a hill, and instead of disappearing inside the darkness with a clap of thunder, it rolled in a yellow ball across a meadow and exploded at the base of a tree with the rippling brilliance of a Klansman setting fire to a kerosene-soaked cross, burning brightly in the great blackness that seemed to cover the land.

  She stepped back from the window, swallowing, waiting for the thunder. But none came. Instead, a motorcar pulled up in front, one wheel sinking into her lawn, and two men got out, grinning, even though the rain was blowing in their faces. She felt her stomach curdle and her buttocks constrict.

  THEY COMPRISED HALF of the group Arnold referred to as his J Boys. What were their names? It didn’t matter. They represented a group that had been poured into a single mold from the same mix, like primeval ooze that had been separated from the rest of the gene pool and couldn’t be disposed of in any other fashion.

  She opened the door, the wind blowing inside. “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “Mr. Beckman wants you protected,” one of them said.

  “From what?”

  “Someone who might hurt you. Like they done to Jessie.”

  “I can’t begin to understand your English.”

  “He got a hat pin rammed in his mouth and out his cheek. Right now he’s spitting blood and whiskey in a pail. He’s not having a lot of laughs about it. We’ll just step inside, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, it’s what Mr. Beckman says. You have a right nice place here.”

  Then they were inside, one of them pushing the door shut, their eyes roaming the walls and framed pictures and paintings and bookcases and mantel and furniture, everything that was hers, that told her who she was.

  “Want us to take off our shoes?”
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  She didn’t answer. She stared at them, her thoughts concealed. Don’t fight or argue with them. Don’t play on their terms.

  “Do you like working for Arnold?” she asked.

  “Mr. Beckman? It’s all right.”

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  “He don’t hire men that’s afraid.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Do you want a drink?”

  “We’re not supposed to do it on the job. But in this kind of weather?”

  “That’s a good attitude. Sit down at the kitchen table.”

  “We won’t argue,” the second man said. Unlike his friend, he had the upper body of a hod carrier and walked with a slouch, the way recidivist convicts did, and smelled of earth and damp wool. His work boots were smeared with bluish-green clay. “I better take them off.”

  “The cleaning lady is coming tomorrow,” she said.

  “I could tell you was looking at them.”

  “She’s a thinker,” his friend said. “Right, Miss Maggie? That’s what Mr. Beckman says. You’re always thinking.”

  That’s right, imbecile. That’s why getting even is so much fun. A little planning, a little application of superior intelligence, and people like me turn people like you into weapons and do damage that gets worse by the day. I hope you enjoy the ride, you stupid shit.

  “Would you like wine or bourbon?” she said.

  “How about both?” the man in work boots said. “That’s what winos call ‘wine spodiotti.’”

  “Maybe I can freshen up and join you,” she said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m Jim,” the first man said. “This here is Jack. You got to watch Jack. He’s bit randy. Just kidding.”

  “I think I can handle you fellows.”

  “Ma’am?” Jim said. He had removed his hat when he entered the house, revealing a pointy bald pate combed over with hair that resembled mop string.

  “You think I’ll be up to it?” she said. “Come on, tell me. I’m not shy.”

  The two men were looking across the table at each other. “Who are we to comment on a lady such as yourself?” Jim said.

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “You can count on it,” said Jack, wiping his nose on his wrist.

  She went into her bedroom and closed and locked the door, easing the bolt into place as softly as possible. She undressed and shook out her hair and put on a pair of eggplant-colored high heels, decorated with a steel-cut bronze-bead design, and turned sideways in the mirror, running her fingers along the flatness of her stomach, letting them trail off her appendix scar.

  Want to play, boys? Want to see what it’s like to stick your pathetic penises in the light socket?

  She took a nickel-plated .32-caliber revolver from her dresser, then walked naked to the door and unlocked it, snapping the bolt loudly. She raised her left arm against the jamb and leaned on it, her right hand holding the revolver behind her hip. “See anything you like?”

  They stared, openmouthed, obviously unable to assimilate what they were seeing.

  “You’re not bothered by the scar on my tummy, are you?” she said.

  “No, ma’am,” Jim said.

  “Are you boys hungry?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jim said.

  “How about you, Jack?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” she said.

  “Long as it’s me first,” Jack said.

  Jim looked at him. “Where you get off with that?”

  “I got my standards,” Jack said.

  “Will y’all tell Arnold?”

  Jim made a cross over his heart. “You got our word.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

  She placed her left hand behind her neck and rotated her head. “I get such a crick back there. Can you take it out for me?”

  “In ways you wouldn’t believe, lady,” Jack said.

  “You say you have your standards?” she said, her gaze not meeting his.

  “I don’t take sloppy seconds.”

  “Stand up for me,” she said. “Both of you.”

  “That may not be easy to do at the moment,” Jim said, grinning.

  “I have my standards, too. Let’s have a look at you.”

  “What’s the joke?” Jim asked.

  “I just want to see if your expectations are rising. It’s a vanity of mine. You’re sure you’re not going to tell Arnold about this?”

  “You got our word,” Jim said.

  “Come on, big boy. Stand up.”

  They rose from their chairs, hunched slightly forward, waiting, their fingers touching the tabletop. She brought the revolver from behind her hip and pointed it at them.

  “Now get your worthless asses out of here,” she said.

  Both men averted their eyes from the muzzle.

  “You’re gonna regret this,” Jim said, breathing heavily.

  Maggie lowered the pistol barrel slightly. “Say one more word and I’ll shoot your dick off.”

  They edged through the living room, their hands in front of them, as though pushing back the air. Then they skittered sideways like crabs out the door and ran for their motorcar. She locked the door after them and went back into the bedroom and called Arnold Beckman’s office, still in the nude. She heard the motorcar drive away.

  Beckman picked up the telephone. “Beatrice?”

  “No, it’s Maggie, you bastard. You’re dealing with Beatrice DeMolay?”

  “She’s putting together a big shipment of Mausers for some friends in South America.”

  “I give a fuck about your business deals after you sent these two animals to rape me?”

  “Sent whom to rape you?”

  “Jim and Jack. They didn’t give their last names. They were too busy tearing off my clothes.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I just chased them out the door at gunpoint. If I hadn’t gotten to my pistol, I would have been raped. Why would you do such a thing to me, Arnold? I can’t believe you’d do that.” She began to cry into the receiver.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here. They wouldn’t dare. They know I’d have them ripped apart. With machines and chains, joint and seam.”

  “You think I made it up. They were going to sodomize me. They were describing what they were going to do to me. In detail.”

  “Stop crying. I know you, Maggie. You could lie the paint off a battleship.”

  “Why would I lie? The thought of them touching me makes me sick to my stomach.”

  “You’re up to something.”

  “You cheap motherfucker. I hate you. I know we’ve both done loathsome things in our lives, but I didn’t believe you were capable of this.”

  “I’ll talk to them.”

  “You’ll talk to them? I have their scratches all over me. I can feel their breath on my skin. The one named Jack put his tongue on my appendix scar. Ask him, you son of a bitch, and see what he says.”

  Then she hung up and began drawing her nails down her breasts and arms and shoulders and thighs, her eyes closed, her chin lifted, as though she were at prayer or offering up a sacrifice on an altar dedicated solely to her.

  ISHMAEL LAY ON his side on the cot, his eyes still taped, the cool, damp, moldy odor of stone surrounding him, comforting and restorative in its way, a touch of a netherworld that contained no pain. Another blessing had come to him, one he had not anticipated. Either through fear or stress or physical exhaustion, or maybe surrender to his fate, his body seemed purged of the withdrawal symptoms that were the plague of every intravenous addict. The nausea and night sweats were gone, and so were the flashes of light behind the eyes, the heart palpitations, the shortness of breath, the vertigo, the ache in the joints and the fire in the connective tissue, the premonitions of doom, the conviction that a fissure was opening under one’s feet.

  Maybe all these things would return. But at the moment, t
hey were gone, and he breathed the smell of the stone that reminded him of the cave across the river from his father’s ranch and a time in his life when spring was eternal and bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush covered the riverside. Something else had occurred that he could not explain, a dream or a moment on the edge of sleep that he associated with hope and a belief that he was not alone, no matter the degree of adversity imposed upon him.

  During the rainstorm, he had drifted off, and inside the darkness, he saw himself as a little boy standing in front of a hill that was struck by lightning. But the lightning did not disappear with the strike. It gathered into a churning ball and rolled up a grassy slope and exploded on a tree that was cruciform in shape, setting it afire. The radiance it gave off was as bright as liquid gold and so intense it made his eyes water. Then he saw his father walk into the light and kneel in the grass and gather his son in his arms.

  When Ishmael woke, he didn’t know where he was. “Big Bud?” he said to the darkness.

  “Who?” Jeff replied.

  “Didn’t mean to bother you,” Ishmael replied.

  “Bother me? You’re the one with the problem, kid.”

  That was no longer the case. The man named Jessie had gone away, then had returned to the basement, hardly able to speak, making gargling sounds and spitting into a tin bucket.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Jeff said.

  “She rammed a fucking hat pin down my throat, that’s what.”

  “Who did?”

  “That crazy Dansen bitch.”

  “Why did you let her do that?”

  “Let her? You think I let her? I swallowed a pint of blood. I’m lucky she didn’t put out my eyes.”

  “You let her get away?”

  “What’s with you? Are you listening? Have you ever got stabbed through the mouth? She tried to pack a hat pin down my throat. It had a knob on it big as a walnut.”

  “You don’t look so bad. Quit whining.”

  “Whining? You said whining?”

  “She saw your face?”

  Jessie gargled and spat again. Ishmael could smell whiskey and hear it slosh in the bottle.

  “It was dark in the room,” Jessie said. “She couldn’t see my face. I’m sure of it. I knocked her on her ass, too.”