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“You ever meet my son, Ishmael?”
“I have heard Mr. Beckman speak of him, but I do not know him.”
“I cain’t find him anywh
ere. I was hoping Mr. Beckman could he’p me. With all his resources and such.”
“I am sure he would be happy to.”
“My boy was hurt in France and gets confused about where he is. He had the notion he was going to work for Mr. Beckman. Sometimes I wonder if he wandered into one of Mr. Beckman’s warehouses or storage places and got himself locked in.”
“I will make a note of this. But I don’t think that is likely. The employees would have told us.”
“Maybe he wandered off to a hunting or fishing camp or a boathouse. I bet your boss has a mess of them.”
“No, Mr. Beckman is not a hunter or fisherman or sportsman. His interest is history. He wanted to buy the Spanish mission by the river, but the owners would not sell it. Mr. Beckman was very disappointed.”
“Why would he want a run-down mission?”
“Possibly to restore it. This is a very historical area. He and my grandfather do many civic-oriented works. Did you know this site was once a prison?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Ask Mr. Beckman about it.”
“I might do that,” Hackberry said.
DARL PARKED IN front of the restaurant, cut the engine, and got out, his slicker blowing in the wind. Hackberry stepped up on the curb and stood beside him. From where they stood, they could see both the Alamo and the upper stories of the Crockett Hotel, the windows lit against a black sky. The window of the restaurant was painted with the words CHOPS*STEAKS*FISH, steam or fog running down the glass. The rain was driving almost sideways in the street, the sewer grates clogged with flotsam.
Andre had not gotten out of the car. Hackberry tapped on his window. “Let’s go.”
Andre rolled down the glass. “People of color are not allowed here.”
“They just had a change in policy. Now get out.”
Andre stepped out on the sidewalk, his bare head beading with rain. “I’m beginning to understand why you do not have many friends, Mr. Holland.”
“Why is that?”
“It is very dangerous,” Andre replied.
Hackberry opened the restaurant door and walked in first. The interior was warm and brightly lit, the tables crowded, the walls lined with framed photos of cattle drives and drovers gathered around campfires and buffalo hunters posing with cap-and-ball weapons and squaws whose faces had been cut for infidelity. Hackberry wondered how many of them he had known and how many lay in unmarked graves.
It took about thirty seconds for everyone in the restaurant to take notice of Andre. The maître d’ came from the back in a tuxedo, walking quickly, his menus tucked under his arm. “Sir, we cain’t serve Negroes here.”
“I’m looking for Arnold Beckman. We’re not asking to be served,” Hackberry said.
“This man cannot come in here. Unless you’re an officer of the law, we do not allow firearms in the restaurant, either.”
“If you’ll notice, it’s in full view. That means I’m in compliance with the law. Tell me where Arnold Beckman is, or I can just whip a knot on your head. Which would you prefer?”
The maître d’s face was white, his finger unsteady as he pointed to a back room.
“Thank you,” Hackberry said.
None of the people at the tables lifted their eyes until Hackberry and Darl and Andre had walked past them. Then they spoke only in whispers.
Beckman was seated at the head of a table with several other men in a private room. On the wall was a painting of a reclining nude. Beckman had a piece of meat pouched in his jaw as tight as a golf ball; he was speaking to an Asian man next to him, his eyes never registering Hackberry’s or Andre’s or Darl’s presence.
