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“I asked him to cook your son breakfast. He must not like brains and eggs. Is that my artifact you have there?”
“What about it?”
“It’s my artifact.”
“It’s not an artifact. It’s a cup that has special meaning for many people. I don’t think it was ever yours.”
“You stole it from me. Along with my candleholders and some rare coins. Where are they?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you want your son to live?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then give me my artifact.”
“Take it.”
“No, set it down. Then remove the string and unwrap the cup from the raincoat. Also tell your nigger to stop looking me directly in the face.”
“You shouldn’t call him by that name.”
“The term is a mispronunciation of the word ‘Niger,’ as in Niger Valley. That’s where many of the slaves came from. Tell him to stop staring in my face. I won’t abide insolence.”
“You’re looking at him, Beckman, not the other way around. Does Andre bother you for some reason?”
“Unwrap my artifact.”
Hackberry did as he was told and set the cup on top of the stove. He could smell the odor of ash and partially burned newspaper under the stove lids. Beckman stared at the jewel-encrusted gold bands and the gold inlay inside the onyx cup. His expression bordered on the lascivious.
“Tell your darky to step back,” Beckman said.
“You tell him.”
“Do you remember where you saw me before, Mr. Beckman?” Andre said.
“In the restaurant. You’re Beatrice DeMolay’s driver.”
“Before that,” Andre said.
“No, I never saw you until today.”
“Many, many years ago,” Andre said. “Two men were tied to a stake.”
“You save that rot for the gullible and the naive.”
“Look into my eyes and tell me what you see there,” Andre said.
“You’ll have a dead nigger on the floor unless you shut him up,” Beckman said.
“I think you’ve got a problem, Beckman. It’s not Andre, and it’s not me. So what is it?”
“Hand me the cup,” Beckman said.
“Pick it up yourself, you son of a bitch.”
“Step back, the pair of you,” Beckman said. He inched forward, the revolver still aimed at the crown of Ishmael’s head, his other hand reaching for the cup. He wet his lips, the blood draining from around his mouth. He closed his hand around the cup’s gold framework, gingerly, like someone entering water that was too cold or too hot. Then his face blanched; he dropped the cup into the middle of the slicker’s rubberized folds.
