Feast Day of Fools - James Lee Burke [137]
“La Rosa Blanca? The White Rose?” Hackberry said.
“Pardon?” she said.
“Bingo,” Pam said.
THE ORANGE NEON sign on the roof of Joe Tex’s saloon glowed against a turquoise sky that was bottom-rimmed in the west by strips of red and black clouds. The evening could not have been more beautiful. The wind was balmy and out of the south and smelled of distant rain. An obsolete windmill was clattering by an abandoned loading pen on the hardpan, like a beneficent reminder of a grand tradition as well as the potential the land held for all those who lived humbly upon it. Even the tractor-trailers wending their way down the two-lane through compacted hills that resembled ant mounds seemed like a testimony to the industrial success of a new nation rather than harbingers of pollution and the loss of Jefferson’s agrarian vision.
There were few patrons in the saloon when Hackberry and Pam entered through the front door. Joe Tex was stocking his beer cooler behind the bar; Rosanne Cash was singing on the jukebox; the lacquered pine logs in the walls seemed to exude a golden light like warm honey. Joe Tex was smiling when he lifted his head from his work, his hair as shiny and black as a raven’s feathers, his rolled shirtsleeves exposing his vascular arms. “My favorite sheriff and lady deputy,” he said. “What are y’all having?” He propped his arms on the bar, waiting. The top of his white cowboy shirt was unsnapped, and his chest hair was fanned out on his skin like the points of a star. His eyes were so lidless in their intensity that he seemed incapable of blinking.
“Your name has come up in an investigation, Joe,” Hackberry said, setting his hat crown-down on the bar. “Not that you did anything wrong. We just thought you could help us figure out a thing or two.”
“Who was the shooter on the grassy knoll?” Joe Tex said.
“No, it has to do with the name of your saloon,” Hackberry said.
“I remember now. Lime and soda and ice, right?” Joe Tex said. “How about you, Miss Pam?”
“Who was the White Rose?” she asked.
“My wife. She was a stripper in Big D. She actually worked in Jack Ruby’s old joint.”
“We did some checking on that, Joe,” Hackberry said. “Nobody can find any record of your being married.”
“I guess that’s their problem. My wife and I got hitched at a drive-by window in Matamoros.”
“I heard you might have done some quasi-governmental work in Cambodia,” Hackberry said.
“I’m not big on revisiting the past, Sheriff. I was a GI on the Mekong River. It took me to lots of places, most of them better forgotten.”
“You fly in and out of the Golden Triangle at all?” Hackberry asked.
“I don’t remember. I have a bunch of big blank holes in my memory when it comes to Indochina. I’ll tell you one thing, though. I’m not ashamed of anything I did over there.”
“I’m not questioning your service to your country,” Hackberry said. “I’m interested in a man by the name of Josef Sholokoff. A man who works for him helped torture a local woman and maybe crucify Cody Daniels. That man was in the company of a guy who knows you, Joe. He used the name of your saloon. He used to deliver exotic animals to game farms. Does that ring any bells?”
“I guess I’m tone-deaf on that one.”
“The White Rose was a whorehouse in Phnom Penh, right?” Hackberry said.
“Could be. Cherry Alley wasn’t an open-air fruit market in Tokyo. But that doesn’t mean I went there to find out. I got to get back to work.”
“What you need to do is take the shit out of your mouth,” Pam said. “I pulled Cody Daniels’s feet and hands off the nails someone used to hang him on a cross inside a burning building. He was alive when his killers started the fire. With good luck, he died of smoke inhalation.”
“I saw it on the news. You think something like that is lost on me? Years ago I knew some intelligence people. But I don’t remember anything about some guy who hauled exotic animals around. Unless y’all got a warrant, get out of my establishment.”
“You got a meth