House of the Rising Sun: A Novel by James Lee Burke Page A

both trying to ignore him. Romulus Atwood had hung up his slicker, exposing his white dress shirt with balloon sleeves and a neckerchief a dandy might wear and a vest as bright as a freshly sliced pomegranate. Atwood glanced sideways just briefly, no longer than it takes to blink, and pulled the cuff of his right shirtsleeve down to the knuckle on his thumb.
    When Hackberry finished eating, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and let the napkin drop to his plate. He got up from his chair and walked to Maggie and Atwood’s booth, his Stetson hanging by the brim from his left hand. “You’re looking mighty squirrel, Maggie,” he said.
    She set down her teacup. The color of her eyes changed from dark green to brown with the light and seemed to have no white areas. “Thank you,” she said. “Are you doing all right, Hack? I worry about you sometimes.”
    “You know me. I try to stay out of the rain and not step on the cat’s tail.”
    “Have you been introduced formally to Dr. Atwood?”
    “Oh, yes, the Undertaker. That’s quite a nickname. I heard you used to carry a cut-down under your duster.”
    Atwood grinned. “Not so, but pleased to know you just the same. Wes Hardin made mention of you on a number of occasions.”
    “What did you think of Wesley, Dr. Atwood?”
    “People said he could read people’s thoughts. That’s why I never let my thoughts wander too far when I was around him.”
    “Did you know he headed up a lynch mob in Florida that burned a colored man alive?”
    “Yes, I believe he referred to some hijinks in his youth. You and he had a go at it yourselves, didn’t you?”
    “I didn’t quite get that.”
    “I think he said you spooked his horse while he was drunk. Then you put the boots to him before he could get off the ground.”
    “It went a little bit beyond that. I stomped his face in and broke his ribs and chained him in a wagon and nailed the chains to the floor. I busted him across the face with a rifle butt and took great pleasure in doing it. I guess you could say I flat tore him up before I came to my senses. I’ve always regretted that.”
    “We all get religion at some point in our lives,” Atwood said.
    “I wish I’d shot him. I wish I had shot a few of his friends, too. The world would be a better place for it.”
    Maggie Bassett’s apprehension was obviously growing. She tried to signal the waiter for the check. Atwood began eating a slice of apple pie with a wood-handled fork, filling his jaw as a chipmunk would, a gleam in his eyes, as though injurious words had no effect on him.
    Across the street, steam was rising from the back doors of a Chinese laundry. “You know why Chinamen get ahead of most white men?” Hackberry asked.
    “Hack—” Maggie began.
    “No, why is it that Chinamen are superior to the white race, Marshal Holland?” Atwood said.
    “Because they work from cain’t see to cain’t see and take in stride all the abuse that white trash heap on them.”
    “I’m not following you.”
    “They’re not human tapeworms. They don’t sell ignorant people fraudulent medicines. They don’t graft goat parts on a poor fool who cain’t get his pole up.”
    “Hack, don’t do this,” Maggie said.
    “Let him talk,” Atwood said. “He’s the law. And it looks like I might be his huckleberry.”
    “You know there’s an ordinance against carrying a firearm inside the city limits?” Hackberry said.
    “You’re the only person I see carrying a gun, Marshal.”
    “Put your weapon on the table and stand up.”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “Maybe it’s my eyesight. Or I imagine things. Can I have a taste of that pie? I’ve always loved apple pie.”
    “Hack, please,” Maggie said.
    “He’s all right,” Atwood said. He set down the fork and pushed the plate to the edge of the table. “Here, let me wipe off the fork for you.”
    “You ever shoot a man in a poker game?” Hackberry said. “When he was raking in his winnings and about to head