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Hackberry pulled his gold watch from his pocket and opened the cover and looked at it. Then he looked at the river and the bluffs and the fields but not at Bishop. “Get down if you like.”
“Thank you.” Bishop stepped as gracefully from the stirrup as a man half his age, his lips pursed. It was not Bishop’s patrician airs that bothered Hackberry, or the way his long back bowed inward like a buggy whip, or the imperious cut of his profile; it was the meanness of spirit he disguised under any number of banners. There was no war he did not like, no cheap idea he did not support, no uncharitable, self-righteous cause aimed at the defenseless that he did not make his own. In moments like these, Hackberry sometimes wondered why anyone should object to a three-day open season on people in order to clean up most of the world’s problems.
“I brought you some bonbons,” Bishop said.
“You brought me candy?”
“I know we haven’t been the best of neighbors. I’d like to make that right.”
“Not on my account.”
“Would you accept this gift?”
“Would you tell me what this is about, please?”
Bishop set the tissue-wrapped box on the top step. “I’ve formally broken off my association with Mr. Beckman.” His words had held together until the mention of Beckman’s name. Then an inflection like a loose electric wire crept into his voice.
“Why would you be ending your friendship with Beckman at this particular time, Cod?”
“I made a mistake. I got into a situation I shouldn’t have.” Bishop cleared his throat. “Would you forgive me, Mr. Holland?”
Hackberry shook his head. “No, sir, I cain’t do that.”
“Your father was a saddle preacher. Would he not advise you to forgive when someone offers his apology?”
“I think you waded out too far in the creek and got scared. I also think this has to do with my son’s disappearance.”
“I know nothing about that.”
Hackberry picked up the raccoon from the porch and flipped him up on a shoulder. “Where’s my boy?”
“Sir, I’m at a loss. I’ve come here in good faith. I’m a businessman who used bad judgment, and I want to own up to it.”
“I think you know what happened to my boy. I also think Beckman hired you to spy on me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Just what is it you have that he wants?”
Bishop wet his lips and blinked.
“That shouldn’t be a difficult question,” Hackberry said.
“Representation. That’s what I was going to give him. Representation.”
“He’s an arms dealer. He’s friends with princes and kings and Mexican generals like Villa. Why does he need to come to a hole in a road like this for representation? Stop fooling yourself.”
“I shouldn’t have come here.”
“I’ve seen Beckman’s handiwork up close, Cod. You’re in bed with a snake. He staked out a campesino down in Mexico and let his men have at it. Want to hear the details?”
“No,” Bishop said, a red knot blooming on his neck.
“Cod, if I lose my son, I cain’t tell you what I’ll do.” Hackberry set down the raccoon on the porch and watched him waddle back to his bowl. He looked at Bishop again. “The thought of it scares me.”
“I’ll go now, Mr. Holland. I’ll take back the gift. It was presumptuous of me.”
Hackberry stared across the river at the willow trees on the bank and the stretch of sandy beach and the smooth, hard-packed path that led to the cave among the bluffs. “What did you tell Beckman about me? What did you do behind my back that scares you so bad?”
