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“You never play on your enemy’s terms, Ruby. The day you accept Beckman’s word about anything is the day he’ll rip out your throat.”
“I can’t believe this is happening. What is it he wants so badly?”
“I said Beckman thinks I have something of his. I’m coming back to San Antonio. I’ll see you at your hotel this afternoon.”
“What about the men who put Ishmael in the cage?”
“What about them?”
“I told the police and the sheriff’s office what they did to Ishmael at the carnival. They said they couldn’t do anything about it unless the victim filed a complaint.”
“I found the men who hurt Ishmael.”
“What did they say?”
“Not much. They’re probably filing assault charges against me today. But recently I shot and killed an IWW organizer. He was also a Medal of Honor recipient. So in terms of my legal troubles, those fellows at the carnival aren’t high up on the scale. I’ll be there directly.”
“A policeman told me about the shooting. It must have been an accident. I know you would not deliberately kill a union organizer.”
“But I did. And I cain’t undo it. And that’s the way it is.”
He hung up before she could reply.
ARNOLD BECKMAN HAD summoned Maggie to his office. And “summoned” was the word. The times he had physically intimidated her were few. She felt safe inside her beauty and intellectual superiority and the uncomfortable levels of desire she caused him that he did not easily hide. But she knew that many of his emotions were infantile, and when he didn’t get what he wanted, he was capable of destroying everyone and everything around him, including the objects of his affection. She also knew he delighted in witnessing others’ pain.
When she entered his office, he was sitting behind his desk with a shot glass of what she suspected was tea; he never drank alcohol while he attended to business. Five other men she had never seen were sitting on the chairs made of animal hides and antlers and shellacked driftwood. One of them was Asian. She had no doubt about the kind of men they were. They wore clean work clothes and sat with their hats on their knees as though posing for a photographer, but they were unshaved and had profiles cut out of sandstone; the iniquitous light in their eyes was only the outer edge of their cruel nature. They were the type of men who wore their body odor as a weapon. Their self-worth was measured by the degree to which they could inspire fear in others. The woman who fell into their hands was never the same again.
From his vest pocket, Beckman took a bejeweled pocket watch no larger than a twenty-five-cent piece and looked at it. “Naughty girl,” he said.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night, Arnold,” she replied.
“Unfortunately, none of us did, due primarily to one individual’s negligence,” he said. “Meet Jim and Jack and Jessie and Jeff. I call them the J Boys.”
The smiles of the four white men were lascivious, their eyes lingering on her face and throat and breasts, one of them licking his bottom lip, each enjoying his moment in the magic kingdom, which to them was Beckman’s offic
e.
“And this is Mr. Po,” Beckman said.
The Asian man bowed his head deferentially, his tan pate shining in the lamplight. He had a small mouth like a guppy’s, and tiny hands, and small shoulders that he didn’t try to disguise inside his tight-fitting suit. He also wore button shoes, although they had been out of fashion for many years.
“How do you do, Mr. Po?” she said.
The Asian man rose partway from his chair, his eyes lowered, then sat down again. Perhaps he smiled, perhaps not. He didn’t speak. No one had asked her to sit down.
“Where is Ishmael?” she said.
“Snug as a bug in a rug, thanks to some friends of ours in the city,” Beckman said.
“May I see him?”
“Miss your laddy, do you?” Beckman said.
“I don’t know why you called me here. Would you please tell me? I would appreciate that very much.”
“A bit out of sorts?” he said.
“Maybe I should leave,” she said, trying to ignore the amusement in the faces of the J Boys, who were staring at her as though she were on a burlesque runway.
