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

Author:James Lee Burke [Burke, James Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Historical, Literary, United States, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, Historical Fiction, Literary Fiction, Thrillers
Amazon: B00V3L92DG
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2015-12-02T06:00:00+00:00

THE SHERIFF’S SUBSTATION was located inside an ancient one-story brick building that smelled like stagnant water. It once served as the county jail and now contained two cells, neither of which had plumbing; they were used only to lock up drunks overnight.

Hackberry sat in a chair by a chain-locked gun rack lined with shotguns and Winchester lever-action rifles. The door to one cell was open, the other empty. The sheriff stood inside the open cell, looking down at a man in a plain oblong wood box; the dead man’s body had been sprinkled with chunks of blue ice that a deputy had carried in a bucket from the saloon next door. “His name was Eddy Diamond,” the sheriff said. “He did two years in Yuma for syndicalism.”

“‘Syndicalism’? Meaning what?”

“Stirring up union trouble in Arizona Territory. You all right?”

“I heard inmates go crazy in the cells at Yuma.”

“Most people do when you lock them in an iron box in hunnerd-and-twenty-degree heat.”

“How’d he get burned?”

“Some shit in the Philippines. Or Nicaragua. I forget which.” The sheriff came out of the cell and closed the door behind him, shaking it to make sure it had clicked shut.

“You’re sure his name was Diamond?”

“It was the only one he used.”

“Did he have an alias? Like Jimmy Belloc or Jimmy No Lines?”

“Not to my knowledge.” The sheriff had a drooping mustache and a lined face and a purple bump on the ridge of his nose. He had gotten out of bed to take care of the shooting and kept looking at the clock on the desk. “Don’t study on this, Hack. You didn’t have no choice.”

“I got his name from Mealy Lonetree. I think he was the one who threw acid at Beatrice DeMolay.”

“That’s one woman I wish would move to Mars.”

“That man in yonder is the one who attacked her. It had to be him.”

“Diamond was in jail for disturbing the peace the night she says somebody threw acid at her.”

“She says?”

“You in the habit of believing ex-whores?”

“She’s a friend of mine.”

The sheriff pulled on his ear. “Mealy gave you the name of this Belloc fellow?”

“Yes, he did. He also acted like he was standing on the edge of his grave.”

“When was this?”

“About seven hours ago.”

“He was,” the sheriff said.

“Was what?”

“Standing on the edge of his grave. He hanged himself in his closet.”

Hackberry stared straight ahead, his hands propped on his knees, his ears ringing. Then he gazed at the floor and at the dirt grimed into the grain of the wood, the cigar burns, the chewing-tobacco stains, the wisps of dried manure and horse hair that had fallen from someone’s boots or spurs. “That doesn’t make sense. Mealy was fixing to leave town.”

“The coroner is putting it down as a suicide. Let it go at that. Stay away from this woman. These people are gutter rats. That includes the man you shot. At the inside, he was a whoremonger.”

“I don’t believe Mealy killed himself. I think Arnold Beckman is behind all of this.”

“Could be. But bad-mouthing others isn’t going to he’p you.

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