The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Chapter 2, Part Twelve

 : New Orleans, 1854

Slurping down the last of his coffee, Oskar Hammar is, for the time being, satisfied. Having consumed a breakfast of a glass of sherry, four fried eggs, six rashers of bacon, a small pot of grits and butter, a ham steak, half an acre of collard greens, and a host of cafe au laits, he is now rounder and pinker than ever. He grabs a skewer off the table, and begins picking his teeth, while across the dining room, Madame Marie, the owner, stands by the kitchen door and watches the scene with her chef, who leans out of the order window to gape. She leans in and whispers out of the corner of her mouth,

“Is there anything left in the larder, Jack?”

“I sent the boy to the market,” the chef replies flatly. “Think he’ll want dessert?”

Mme. Marie smirks, and retorts,

“There isn’t enough sugar cane in all of Louisiana for that. Oops, he’s seen us.”

Oskar waves for Madame to come to his table. The chef retreats to the kitchen. Madame reaches into her apron to retrieve her pad, and glides over to him, the sound of her long skirt and crinolines rustling along the hardwood floor. In a passable French accent, she asks,

“Did ‘Sieur enjoy his breakfast?”

He responds by barely failing to contain a loud belch. She steps back, but the practiced smile never leaves her face. Oskar wipes his mouth and chin with his well-used napkin, and replies,

“Sorry. The food was so good, I couldn’t contain myself.”

“Of course, ‘Sieur. Merci.” She consults her pad, tearing off the page and placing it on the table near his arm. “You are new in Nouvelle Orleans, yes?”

Oskar reaches into his vest and withdraws a wad of money. Madame watches, trying to look as disinterested as she can. But, it’s difficult. She’s never seen anyone like him with that much cash. Carelessly, he tosses out three bills, which more than cover his meal.

“Yes, yes I am,” he replies, dropping his napkin into his empty plate. “I’m here doing some scientific research.” He pushes his chair back and stands with some difficulty. “Mr. Patterson at the Gem recommended you to me. Said your food was the best in town. He wasn’t wrong.”

The smile on her face has now turned to one of great interest, since she and Patterson have been bitter enemies for years. But, business is business and he’s obviously got money.

“How very kind of him. Please give him my thanks,” Marie coos, watching as he returns the cash to his vest pocket. “You must come again. Tonight, perhaps? We are serving the New York steaks everyone has been raving about.”

“Perhaps, Madame Marie. Perhaps. It all depends upon my findings.” He picks up his hat and begins walking to the door. Marie rushes to open the door for him. Before he can pass, she places herself in his path and asks,

“And, what is your name, ‘Sieur?”

Oskar stops. At any other time in his life, a woman coming at him like this would be enough to send him running. But, for the first time, he isn’t scared. In fact, he’s comfortable. At ease. How curious.

“Hammar. Doctor Oskar Hammar. Pleasure to meet you, Madame Marie. Good day.”

Marie allows him to walk out, closing the door behind him. She watches through the window as he walks towards Canal Street and out of sight. Such an unusual man.

“What are you planning, girl?”

Jack has come out of the kitchen into the empty restaurant, his arms folded over his chest. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Marie huffs at him, and says in her regular Catholic school accent,

“Did you see that wad of cash he whipped out, Jack? That little fat man is loaded.” She glides past Jack towards the kitchen, grabbing the dish bucket. “You saw how much he ate. If we can get him to eat here every meal while he’s in town--” She passes him again, and walks to the table, clearing dishes into the bucket. “--We can afford to shut down for the rest of the summer. We can reopen when the weather gets cooler.” 

“Mary,” Jack says warningly,

“He’s a doctor. Doing some kind of research. He’s here for a while, at least.” She clears the last of the plates and silverware, then pulls up the tablecloth and tosses on the bucket. “It’s all in the math. He just ate almost five dollars worth of food. He left us fifteen!” She reaches into her apron and produces three five dollar bills. Jack’s eyes get larger. “If he eats here three times a day for the next week, we stand to make $315 dollars. Just on him alone!”

Jack watches the money as she returns it to her apron pocket. The side of her green gown is darkened by water spilled from the bucket. He looks her dead in the eyes.

“He said Patterson recommended us. That don’t strike you as odd?”

Marie huffs it away, and heads for the kitchen. “Maybe he’s softened.”

Jack grabs her by the arm.

“And maybe you have! Patterson hates us-no! Despises us. Has for years--has since last week, for God’s sake. So, why would he say that?”

Marie stops to consider it. Patterson would rather see them burned to the ground than send over a rich customer. How could she have ever been stupid enough to be--

“Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe Patterson told him we only serve rats and cold coffee, and he decided to check it out for himself. Who knows? But, he’s got money, and he likes what we serve. That’s all we need to know for now.”

She marches into the kitchen, leaving Jack alone in the dining room. Glancing out of the window, he sees Patterson across the street, sweeping the steps down to the banquette.

Why would he say…This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Chapter 2, Part Eleven

 : Present Day New Orleans

Little Brian L stares down his “sister” Erica L, as Rex the Wonder Dog stands between them, not quite sure what to do.

“Who are you?” Brian asks again, this time more of a demand than a question.

Struggling to decide what to do, she mutters,

“W-well, who do you think I am?”

“You look like my sister, but you don’t act like her. She’d have slapped me by now, just for talking to her. And this dog’s new, too.” Brian points at Rex, who wags his tail happily because everyone is a gift for him. Brian’s eyes narrow as he shrieks excitedly,

“See that? That’s not right!”

Rex’s ears lay back, and Erica crouches down to him.

“What? He didn’t do anything!”

“I know,” Brian says quietly, putting his hand on Rex’s head to pet him. Rex responds with a lick on his face and rolling over to get belly scratches. “My sister’s dog would have bitten me by now, hard. This dog is friendly.” He looks up at Erica. “And, my sister always calls me a turd. You haven’t. So? Who are you?”

Erica suddenly finds herself in a situation she’s always laughed at in her sci-fi stories. Not knowing whether to tell the truth or come up with a lie. The answer is always tell them the truth-especially kids. In all her books and stories, it’s always the kids that seem to know better. The problem is, now, that she suddenly knows better and isn’t sure what to do.

“Kid, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Brian continues to scratch Rex’s belly, then looks up again and asks,

“Is it because of that bright flash last night?

Erica looks amazed. “You saw that?”

“Yeah. And so did you. I snuck into your room last night. I was gonna leave a frog on your pillow, to get you back for pushing me down at the pool on Tuesday. That’s where I got this.” He pulls up his left knee, covered with an impressive scab. “You woke up and caught me. Rex jumped up on the bed and tried to bite me. You grabbed my arm with the frog in it. And then the flash happened. You both fell back to sleep, and I went back into my room. Then, you showed up at breakfast. Who are you?”

Erica isn’t sure if he’s telling the truth. What happened? Mind transfer? Absorption? Corporeal replacement theory, what? Whatever happened, he’s the only one of the family so far to make any sense of it. She’ll just have to go with her gut.

“My name is Erica. I am your sister, but in my timeline I--” She takes a moment to reword things. “In my timeline, we don’t live like this. There was a man named Hammar. He had this--thing. I can only call it a time machine. I got really close up to see it. He nearly caught me-us, in his house, over the--”

She turns to point to Oskar Hammar’s house and realizes that it isn’t there. Not only isn’t it there, the lot where it was isn’t there either. Two houses now sit where there were three. This just got harder.

“Look,” she says, getting down to his level on one knee, holding his shoulders. “I don’t belong here, neither of us do. I come…from a parallel dimension! That’s it. A parallel dimension. And I need to get back to my own dimension and find out what happened to bring us here.”

Brian looks deep into her eyes, like Rex does when he really wants something. He really does look like her-their grandfather. His nose crinkles a little, then he grins widely, saying,

“I knew it!”...This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Chapter 2, Part 10

 : New Orleans, 1854

Dawn is about to break over the City. On the deserted outskirts, around the area of present day Carrollton and Canal, Oskar Hammar has released the mules--horses? He can never tell. He releases them, and pushes the wagon back into the woods where it can’t be seen from the trail. He is sweaty, exhausted, dirty, and thoroughly pleased with himself. He wipes his brow with his sleeves, brushes away as much dirt as he can, and puts himself back together properly. Just behind him the first rays of the morning sun cut through the trees, casting long, straight shadows across the light. He can just make out the path to Canal Street and the long walk back into the Vieux Carre. He begins his journey back, taking the time to think of every possibility. What if he is asked about his whereabouts? Well, in this age a man going out carousing and coming back the worse for wear isn’t just acceptable, it’s expected. So, that’s the tale. Mr. Hammar chose to partake of the pleasures of the evening and found himself in a despicable state the following morning. 

Bill’s face. He cannot get the image of the look on Bill’s lifeless face out of his mind. Not because he finds it repulsive. On the contrary, he is fascinated by the thought. There was something beautiful, something pure about that face. Untainted by emotion or care, or conceit. A blank slate that finally reveals what the face is supposed to look like. The terrible beauty of removal.

He is so engrossed in the thought, he scarcely notices when he is finally walking again on pavement in the rough neighborhood on the outside of town. Here and there are wagons going to market, women in tignons and baskets at their sides, rushing to sell their wares to the morning crowds, men in woolen suits and hats walking to work.

But, what if the police come to ask about Bill? The front desk man knows he was working for Oskar-he recommended him. Still, that was two days ago now. Supposedly, no one knew about last night’s trip. Still, a stranger in town, hired man goes missing shortly after. It could cause suspicion. I’d need an alibi a little stronger than--

His foot kicks a half-empty liquor bottle laying on the pavement. It skitters along the rough brick with a clatter, striking the curb but magically remaining intact. Not a drop spilled. Oskar leans over, and picks it up, looking at it intently. He pulls out the cork and takes a sniff. The burned caramel smell of rotgut whisky assaults his nose, causing him to sneeze. He puts the cork back in, and puts the bottle inside his coat pocket. His alibi just showed up.

*******************************************************

It is nearly eight o’clock, and Oskar has finally arrived at the Gem. He fakes a stumble in the door, where the bartender is stationed, cleaning glasses.

“Ah, Mr. Hammar! Good morning, sir. Looks like you’ve had a bit of a night.”

Oskar is pleased. He’s playing along nicely.

“Yes, I have Mr. Patterson. A long and adventurous night. From what I can recall.”

“So I see. Can I get you something? Hair of the dog, maybe?”

“No, thank you Mr. Patterson. I think my first stop is my room, and then breakfast. Good day, sir.”

“Good day Mr. Hammar,” Patterson replies, instantly mumbling under his breath, “Go on upstairs you fat stingy bastard.”

Oskar finally reaches the top landing, and walks to his room. He fishes for the key, finally finding it in the same pocket where he deposited the liquor bottle. Stuck to the side was the letter he found on Bill after he shot him. He goes inside, locking the door behind him. He walks to the desk and drops the liquor bottle with the letter into the top right drawer, closing it reverently. That bottle may be of use soon.

He strips out of his dirty, sweat-soaked clothes and goes to wash up in the basin by the window. Naked from the waist up, his overly pink skin glistens with the sweat, making him look like freshly-blown bubblegum in trousers. He bends over the basin and awkwardly pours water from the pitcher over his head. Now soaked, his white blonde hair becomes almost translucent, revealing the large, even pinker scalp beneath. The water is lukewarm, but refreshing. He washes himself down as best he can. Reaching for his towel, he dries his expansive self in front of the open window, taking advantage of the cooler air on his damp skin. Across the street is a little cafe, Mme. Rose’s. He will take his breakfast there, then get back to the real work of finding the former members of the Cowbellion de Rakin. Perhaps a trip to visit Mr. Pope’s apothecary Uptown…This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Chapter 2, Part Nine

 : Present Day New Orleans:

Petunia Dufour leers with ill-concealed enjoyment, demanding to know in her Uptown way who and what her unexpected guests are in her reality. The looks on their faces, the fear, the uncertainty. It pleases her. That was one trait of her late husband’s life that she learned to enjoy. His most sincere gift to her. The Germans call it schadenfreude. Shameful joy at another’s misfortunes. She calls it Little Christmas.

She glances at Bitsie DuPlessis. Her pale white face, perfect hair, and beige banality evokes feelings of revenge. She’s the epitome of all those snotty Uptown bitches who turned their surgically altered noses up at her when she and Robert moved into this place. She can still hear the snide whispers, the casual racist slurs dismissed as jokes, the sideways glances at every party and event. And, the burning. It rose from behind her ears and eyes, and radiated outwards until it burned away the tears and the sound of their pinched, constricted voices. But then, one of her main rivals suddenly went bankrupt and left town. That’s when she found out what happened.

Robert, always a fan of vengeance and manipulation, had caused the woman’s husband to lose everything he owned. When she learned the truth, the cold, satisfying smile that emerged on her face enchanted him. He made the decision that every year he would gift her with the fruits of his degenerate soul. Every year, he would financially ruin one of her detractors. Just to see her make that disturbing smile. By the time he died, she was finally the doyenne of New Orleans society; all her enemies having been defeated and tossed aside. It’s been a very long time since she smiled this way.

And, all because of this Bitsie DuPlessis. Were it not for her knowledge of the house, her Mr. Schramm, and that witch woman Phistemopheles, she would have had them all arrested and taken away hours ago. But, this is more fun. 

“Mr. Schramm”, she coos. “I believe you were about to tell me. Who are all of you in this reality?”

Schramm glances to Bitsie, who nods almost imperceptibly. He glances at Manoir, who looks back firmly. Philomena refuses to meet his glance.

“Very well. From what I’ve been able to determine, everyone here is in different situations.” Schramm looks again to Bitsie with compassionate eyes. Bitsie sighs, and says “Go ahead, tell me I’m pole dancing in a truck stop strip bar outside of Chicago. I’m ready.”

Amanda and Stavros suppress a giggle, and even Philomena cracks a wry smile. Schramm is serious.

“You are living in Hodgensville, Kentucky--”

“--Oh dear God!” Bitsie collapses face down onto the table. “Doing what?”

Schramm swallows, and replies quietly,

“You manage the gift shop at Lincoln’s birthplace.”

Bitsie looks up at him from the table.

“I guess the pole dancing didn’t work out.”

“No,” Schramm says. “A lot hasn’t worked out for Beth Harrison.”

Bitsie sits up again, her face now pained. “B-Beth Harrison? Beth?” Her brow furrows. “Unmarried, and still letting them call me Beth.”

“Not unmarried,” Schramm continues. “Married three times, divorced three times.”

Bitsie grumbles, forcing herself to sit up in her chair. “I wish her well. What else?”

Schramm switches tabs in the browser. “Miss Napolitano is in New Orleans. She teaches grade school at St. George’s Episcopal. And, she is apparently beloved by her students.”

Stavros smiles at Amanda, who grins at the thought. He throws his arms around her, kissing her head and holding her close. She clings to him, a soft little sob into his chest. She pulls away, looking up into Stav’s big brown eyes, then a thought strikes.

“Rony & Juddy!”

Bitsie’s dour look turns interested again. “Yes! Schramm, where are Rony and Judson?” Here she turns to Petunia, and explains, “Rony Parmentiere and Judson Crowe. Dear, dear friends of ours. They were supposed to be with us, but their plane was delayed.” Petunia regards Bitsie with a look of chilled confusion as Schramm says,

“Mr. Parmentiere and Mr. Crowe are both in New Orleans. They work together at a comic book company co-owned by Hyacinth Holdings.”

Petunia perks up. “I own that company. I named it after my late sister. Horrible woman, she had a cash register for a heart and a brain like a calculator. It made sense to name it after her. Where are they in the company, Mr. Schramm?”

He replies, “Mr. Parmentiere is the senior vice-president of acquisitions, and Mr. Crowe is his secretary.”

Amanda and Bitsie ask in unison, “Are they married?”

Schramm swallows, and says, “Mr. Parmentiere is married. But not to Mr. Crowe. He’s married to…Nadine DuPlessis.”

Bitsie’s jaw drops slightly. “Nadine?”

“Yes,” Schramm says, looking her directly in the eyes. “She is Ivan’s eldest daughter.”

“What?” she gasps, shocked. Her estranged husband, Ivan. She hasn’t thought about him since he was declared legally dead five years ago. It didn’t occur to her that he might still be alive here. He’s not only married someone else, he has daughters-one named after that witch of a mother of his. It’s a little too much for her to take at the moment. Amanda, sensing this, leaves Stavros’ side and moves over to Bitsie to offer comfort. Petunia is mildly disgusted by this public show, but still enjoying herself.

“If that is all,” Schramm says briskly, “I’d like to move on to how--”

“--That is not all, Mr. Schramm,” Petunia barks, silencing him. “We have not yet discovered the whereabouts of Mr. and Ms. Phistemopheles. Where in the world are they, Mr. Schramm?”

Schramm stares straight ahead, as if he were boring a hole into the wall behind them. Petunia finally senses a weakness in his armor, and asks again, louder.

“Mr. Schramm! Where are these people today?”

Schramm slowly turns to Philomena, who finally meets his gaze. Surprisingly, her look is almost kind. She turns to Petunia and replies,

“Fine, Mrs. Dufour. I’ll say it since you must hear it. In this reality,” Here, she turns to look lovingly at Stavros, “the Phistemopheles line doesn’t exist”...This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Chapter 2, Part Eight

 : Present Day New Orleans.

Erica L is sitting alone in her backyard in Old Metairie. Beneath a tree that wasn’t there yesterday. Near a deck that also wasn’t there. Or the two cars in the driveway. Or the second story on the house. In fact, she barely recognizes any of Shirmaine Street.

Oh. And there’s also the 6 year old boy her parents told her is her little brother.

The only thing that is familiar is her faithful companion Rex. The big black chow mix is still the same, still her Wonder Dog. But, he is confused, too. Last night, he literally slept on top of her, concerned that if he woke up again she would be gone. So, for now they sit and think.

“Okay,” she says, playing absently with the only two twigs in the disturbingly manicured yard. “Let’s go over what we know. We know that crazy Hammar guy has that weird silver ball that made all that stuff happen. Had to have, no other explanation. He jumped-ZAP-everything has changed.”

Rex licks her face affectionately, nuzzling into her. She wraps her arms around his neck, saying, “Except us, Rex. We’re still the same. This is like the episode of Doctor Who. The world has changed around us. Hasn’t it?” Rex looks back at her with his big brown trusting eyes. “Yeah. That’s it. So. Now what?”

Her mother comes out from the kitchen door. At least, she looks like her mother. This version dresses very differently. Starched white blouse, beige tailored skirt, and--wow. High heels. Fancy ones. Her mom likes floral prints and sensible shoes. It’s a lot to take in.

“Erica!” New Mom lowers her sunglasses at her. “Watch Brian--I don’t care what you’re doing, he’s your brother! I have to run into the city and pick up your father at the law firm.” She begins rummaging through what looks like an expensive purse. “When Nadine gets here, tell her to please clean out the guest bedroom, the Driscolls are coming this weekend. And, we’re having dinner at the Lydia T. tonight, so pull something out of the freezer.”

She finally pulls a set of car keys out of her purse and starts down the driveway towards a large beige SUV, punching holes in the pavement as she goes. “I have to go! Don’t forget to tell Nadine--Oh!”

She instantly turns and marches back towards her.

“And for the love of God, will you please wash that animal? The whole house smells like old corn chips!” She turns and stomps her way to the SUV, gets in, backs out wildly, then peels off with a little scream of tires on blacktop.

Alone again, Erica turns to Rex and sees his ears drooped, eyes wide and pleading. He heard one word in all of that. “Wash”. Also, he would like some corn chips. She puts her arm around him, and looks around. There’s not a lot here she knows. But she knows that they are somewhere else. Somewhere they shouldn’t be. The only question is,

“How do we fix this?” she asks.

“Fix what?”

Erica jumps up and Rex yaps in surprise. It’s Brian. He’s standing behind them, sun to his back. Rex starts walking nervous figure eights around Erica. Brian is about a foot shorter than her, with a shock of brown hair the same color as hers. He looks a little like her grandfather. He runs his hand under his nose, and asks,

“Who are you?”...This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Chapter 2, Part Seven

 : Present Day New Orleans.

Petunia Dufour steps down into the living room, followed by Bitsie DuPlessis, Stavros Phistemopheles, and Amanda Napolitano. Seated at the dining room table on the opposite side of the house, Schramm examines the screen on a laptop, surrounded by stacks of papers and books. Philomena Phistemopheles sits outside in the solarium, her back to the dining room door and a thick, steady stream of yellow smoke coming from her cigar. They all sit at the table, with Petunia taking the head, as always. Once seated, Manoir appears, dotting their places with their preferred libations, then disappears again into the house.

“All right,” announces Petunia, as if she is addressing a board meeting. “What is this nonsense about Mardi Gras?”

Schramm and Stavros exchange glances. Stav’s face falls a bit, then he launches in.

“In our…what? Timeline? In our timeline, Mardi Gras in New Orleans was cemented with the introduction of the Mystick Krewe of Comus. Comus is the parading krewe that--”

“Excuse me, Mr. Schramm,” says Petunia. “What do you mean by crew?”

Schramm intejects,

“In our timeline Mrs. Dufour, the word ‘krewe’ refers to the parading organizations of Carnival. It is spelled in the Old English style, k-r-e-w-e.”

“They’re called clubbs in Mobile,” she replies. “Spelled c-l-u-b-b-s.”

“Tradition?” Bitsie asks.

“lliteracy,” Petunia chirps.

Outside, Philomena puffs, the smoke now collecting on the glass ceiling like an infant cloud nursing on a wildfire.

Stavros continues, Amanda’s hand gently squeezing his muscular thigh beneath the table, reassuring him.

“Uhm, Comus was the krewe that began modern Carnival. But, in this timeline Comus never existed. Mardi Gras was banned in New Orleans in 1857 after the celebrations turned very violent resulting in the death of--” he scans the screen. “Mayor Watterman. That changed the entire history of New Orleans to…well, this.”

Petunia’s brow crinkles, her eyes narrowing as she searches her mind. “If I recall my grade school history correctly, Watterman had lime not just thrown in his face, but shoved down his throat. He suffocated to death.”

“Yes,” replies Stavros. “His death was editorialized in a Creole paper, the Bee. It led to the ban. Without competition from New Orleans, Mobile took over Mardi Gras. Joe Cain started the first clubb parades in 1860, which Schramm informs me is eight years earlier than in our timeline.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Petunia asks, pointedly.

Schramm speaks in a voice soaked with such authority, it even takes Petunia aback.

“It means that the history of the City has changed substantially.” He slides a manilla folder across the table to Bitsie. “Here is a list of the major changes I’ve managed to find so far.”

Bitsie opens the folder and begins to read.

“Let’s see…St. Louis?!?”

“Yes,” replies Schramm. “Without New Orleans' Carnival, St. Louis’ celebrated Mardi Gras in 1897 and it took hold. In this timeline, St. Louis is the Mardi Gras capital of the US.”

“Well, that’s disturbing,” she says, as she continues to peruse the list. “The Original Missouri Clubb?”

Stavros jumps in. “Yeah. In our timeline, it’s the Original Illinois Club. New Orleans didn’t have Mardi Gras, so they formed in St. Louis. The only way I can describe them is, it’s their Zulu.”

“An interesting note,” Schramm interjects. “The movie “Easy Rider” was filmed in New Orleans. There was no Carnival scene, so the film was a flop. It is listed on several top ten lists of the

worst movies ever made. It may also be the reason that neither St. Louis or Mobile have the ‘tradition’ of bearing their breasts for beads.”

“Good God!” exclaims Petunia, appalled by the thought.

“I can’t say I’m mad at that!” Bitsie snorts, continuing to flip through the list of changes Schramm and Stav have uncovered. She stops, her eyes widening. Absently, her hand goes to her throat as she struggles to say the worst.

“T-there’s no more…French Quarter?” She looks to Schramm, her eyes visibly pained.

“That’s correct,” Schramm replies, gently. “In this timeline, a fire in 1916 burned out most of the Vieux Carre. The only remnants of the old Quarter--”

“--is the campus of the Dufour National Opera Theatre,” Petunia says plainly, with a small bit of pride. “The original opera house and the blocks surrounding it were spared any damage. The family owned most of the area, so they did what any sensible person would do. They tore everything down and re-developed.” 

She leans into Bitsie and asks,

“Is the old city still standing in your world?”

Bitsie sniffs back a little sob and says,

“Yes, it is. And I love going there.”

Petunia sits back again. “I wish I could share the sentiment. It was little more than a slum. The only respectable part of it was the opera house. I should take you all to see it. I’m proud to say, through my constant ministrations, that the DNOT is now the center of a thriving theater district. Can your opera house say the same?”

Bitsie looks to Schramm. He barely twitches an eyebrow, but it is all she needs. “No.”

Petunia allows a small, yet deeply smug grin to make a brief appearance. “I’m becoming more interested, Mr. Schramm. Please continue.”

“Very well. Another major difference we’ve found--”

“--and, we think these are all side effects of what Hammar’s done--” Stavros bleats.

“--Interstate 10 now runs along the river. And, the Rivergate is still standing. It’s the busiest traffic hub in the South.”

Amanda, who has been silent since they left Petunia’s office, groans sadly, “Oh, God,” and buries her head in Stavros’ arm.

“Anything else?” Petunia asks, almost cheerfully.

Bitsie continues to flip through the pages. “Oh, here’s something. The ‘84 World’s Fair was in Biloxi?”

“Yes,” Petunia says wryly, sitting up. “My late husband saw early on it was going to be a failure. He got the City Council to turn it down. They went to Biloxi instead.” The wry smile returns, more boldly than before. “It bankrupted the city. He never liked Biloxi. A lot of them moved here. There’s a place on the Westbank, Biloxiville. Used to be called Nine Mile Point. I believe I own two of the golf courses over there.” She is now openly smiling. She pauses for a moment and says,

“My late husband was many things. A philanthropist, a philanderer…a thug. But what he wasn’t was foolish.” She glances briefly at Amanda. “Or cheap.” She regards them all, and sighs,

“I have to say Bitsie, I’m unconvinced.”

Bitsie drops the papers on the desk as she turns to Petunia.

“Damn it Tunie! Everything we’ve told you is the truth. You even admitted it upstairs--”

Petunia stands instantly and blares back,

“Don’t call me Tunie, Bitchy!”

Bitsie’s face goes numb as if she’s been slapped. Hard. Petunia stares her down before slowly seating herself again. With forced gentility, she continues. “I believe that you live in another world

from mine. What I am not convinced of yet is changing things ‘back’ to where you were.” Suddenly, Petunia’s nostrils twitch, her lips pursing into a sneer.

“Brimstone.”

Philomena has appeared at the sun room door. Outside, the entire solarium is filled with thick smoke, casting a swirling, grasping amber glow into the room. Wordlessly, she walks to the other head of the table directly across from Petunia, pulls out the high backed chair, and sits.

Manoir has manifested himself behind Petunia. There is silence, then,

“Now that we are all assembled, I only have one question.” Petunia stands, and clicks her tongue. The sound unnerves Bitsie and Amanda. “Have any of you bothered to look up yourselves?” Bitsie looks to Amanda and Stavros. “I’d be interested to know just who all of you are in my world. Anyone?” Bitsie, Amanda and Stavros look to Schramm, who sits at the laptop, not moving. The smile returns to Petunia’s face. She reaches out her hand, which Manoir fills with a champagne & muscadine cocktail, and sits again.

“Mr. Schramm. You are most efficient. Do continue”...This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Chapter 2, Part Six

 : New Orleans, 1854

A gentle knocking happens at Oskar Hammar’s door. He opens it and reveals Bill, the Creole wagon driver who helped bring his things into his room atop the Gem Saloon. Hat in hand, he says in a low baritone,

“Evenin’ Mr. Hammar. You sent for me?”

Oskar pulls the door aside, and waves him inside with a terse “yes, yes. Come in!” Once Bill has entered, Oskar peeks outside and down the hallway, to see if anyone is there. It is deserted. He closes the door quietly, not even allowing the latch to click.

“I’m glad you’re here, Bill. Did anyone see you come in?”

Bill’s brow furrows as he replies, “No sir. I was careful.”

“And you told no one you were coming here?”

“No sir. Just like you said in the note. What’s the problem, Mr. Hammar?”

“Do you have the note I sent you”

“Yes sir,” Bill replies, pulling the note from his pocket. Oskar grabs the note and shoves it into

his pocket.  He breathes a short sigh of relief, and goes to the window to look around in the street below. Nothing there.

“Good”, he mutters to himself, taking out his handkerchief to dab away the sweat of the humid evening. “We need to go back to the ridge. I am missing something I need to have.”

Bill shifts his weight, and answers,

“I can come here tomorrow morning aroun--”

“No!” Oskar barks. “We must go tonight!”

Bill scratches his head, staring at the floor for a moment. Oskar paces back and forth, looking at Bill like a glutton stares at a buffet. He barrels on.

“We have to go this evening. If that piece of equipment is lost, or worse, stolen from me, my entire life’s work is ruined!”

Bill clears his throat. Looking at the floor again, he says,

“Mr. Hammar, it’s gonna be dark soon. You don’t wanna be out there in the dark. Gators, wildcats, just about anything can get at you out there. We should wait un--”

“Bill!” Oskar barks loudly before dropping his voice again. “Bill, you don’t understand how…how cut-throat the men in my profession can be. They will stop at nothing to get at my research.” He walks up to Bill, putting himself directly into the taller man’s line of vision. “It must be tonight! Wait, I have this for you!”

He goes to the desk they carried up into the room, opens the left drawer and pulls out a wad of ten Dixie bank notes. “Here. It’s an even hundred. That’s how important this is.”

Bill has never seen that much money in one place, and it makes him dizzy. What he could do with that money: buy a new wagon-hell, buy two! Get some new clothes to impress his gal that works at that new St. Bernard Market, take her out on a real night. With that kind of money, they can--! He cannot refuse.

“All right, Mr. Hammar. I’m your man.”

Oskar smiles strangely and replies,

“Wonderful! Now, we need to leave immediately. You go back out and make sure you aren’t seen by anyone!” Here, he leans in, and whispers conspiratorially, “Eyes are everywhere!”

He goes and slowly opens the door, making a show of peering around the door jamb into the hallway. “Meet me at the edge of town in 20 minutes. Once I’m certain we aren’t seen, we will go and get it done. Go now!”

Bill puts on his hat with a curt “yes sir” and heads out of the room. Oskar begins to close the door, then hisses down the hallway,

“And Bill! Bring a shovel!”

He closes the door before Bill can ask any questions. Ear to the door, Oskar listens to the sound of Bill’s footsteps on the stairs until they are gone. A grim smirk crosses his face as he goes to the desk, and opens the right drawer. A Wesson & Leavitt Dragoon revolver Oskar found at an estate sale. The family said it belonged to a Cavalry officer who died suddenly in 1854. The family didn’t know what they had, and parted with it for an easy $50, thinking the weapon could never be used.

A wry smile crosses his round, sweaty face before he leaves.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The journey out to Metairie Ridge was a little more pleasant than the first trip. The setting sun makes the swamps outside of town look almost pretty. Bill fidgets as the light grows dimmer. Oskar casually looks back into the wagon. Bill has provided a shovel and a couple of lanterns, without question. How resourceful. They ride in silence until they reach the landing spot.

The men climb down from the wagon, and Bill lights the lanterns. Oskar makes a big show of going into the trees to find the missing “equipment”, letting little sounds of worry out to make it seem more real. Bill follows behind, and hands him a lantern, asking,

“Mr. Hammar, what is it we’re looking for?”

Oskar shuffles around the base of a random tree, and replies,

“An orb--er, a big silver ball. You’ll know it when you find it.”

“What does it do, sir?”

Oskar is caught off guard by this question, but rallies quickly.

“Wha--eh, well, it…I mean, it’s an instrument for…” He stops, and raises his lantern up to his face. “Bill, it’s better if you don’t know what it does. In case.”

Bill wrinkles his brow again, saying,

“In case of what?”

Oskar’s face is a blank slate as he replies oddly,

“You’ll know if it happens. Check over there, please.”

The darkness is now complete. Oskar lifts his lantern again, motioning away from the wagon.

Oskar watches the big man wander slowly into the woods, the amber glow his only way of knowing where he is.

He’s starting to get cold feet. Despite the heat, he is clammy. But, he must do it, or risk ruining everything. He wanders around, to give the impression that he is searching for the orb, now resting securely in the triple-locked truck in his room; the only time he has ever let it out of his sight. Necessary, he thinks. Can’t risk losing it out here in the darkness. 

He sees Bill’s lantern making its way back toward the wagon where Oskar is standing. He slips his hand into his left pocket, waiting for Bill to arrive. At last, breathing heavily, Bill comes towards the wagon. The light from the lamps catches on his sweat-soaked caramel-colored skin, and for a moment Oskar remembers similar faces from his childhood excursions to Carnival parades with his mother. How he hated those men, sweaty and reeking of liquor, braying in their faces. His mother adored it all. It only gives him courage.

“Mr. Hammar, I don’t see nothin’ anywhere. Are you sure it’s out here?”

“It must be, Bill. Where else could it be?”

His left hand curls around the revolver in his pocket. He can feel the wooden handle, the barrel, the trigger. He’s waiting for the right moment.

Bill sets his lamp on the side of the wagon, and pulls out a rag to dry his face. The light casts an ominous glow across the men and the dusty, dry ground beneath their feet. Shoving the rag back into his pocket, Bill glances back into the wagon.

“I brought that shovel like you asked. What do you need it for?”

Oskar smiles brightly at Bill as his left arm begins to raise.

“I need it for you, Bill.”

Oskar raises the gun to Bill’s eye level and shoots.

The report from the weapon is deafening. It recoils and nearly knocks Oskar off his feet, but not before doing the job. Bill’s lifeless body falls backwards to the ground, bouncing in the dirt and kicking up a cloud of dust. Oskar steadies himself, his mouth agape at what he’s done. His heart rate is staggering, but he feels…exhilarated. He’s just killed a man…and he’s going to get away with it. Years of watching crime shows on cable has finally served him well. He knows exactly what to do. Swiftly, he grabs the lamp on the wagon and walks over to Bill. His eyes are open, his mouth slack-jawed, a grotesque mask of surprise. He is motionless, except for a trickle of dark crimson blood oozing from the bullet wound just above his right eyebrow. Another, larger puddle of blood forms a growing red halo around his head. The swamp is silent again, save for the sound of the crickets and the rushing water in the creek nearby. Oskar stoops down beside the body and rifles through the man’s pockets until he comes upon the money. He pockets it again, clucking,

“Waste not, want not Bill.”

He also comes upon a letter, which he shoves in his pocket with the money. No time for reading. He has to dig a very big hole before the sun comes up. There can’t be any witnesses. No one that can interfere with his plans. The years of cutting meat at Zummo’s has taught him well: no one can be trusted. Even a carcass.

He removes his coat and vest, undoes his tie and, with some difficulty, gets the shovel. He begins to dig right next to the body. They are far enough off the road that freshly dug soil won’t be noticed. Later, he will drive the wagon up to the outskirts of town, release the mule, and walk back to the Gem for breakfast. Without security cameras or idiots with cellphones around, no one will question a white man strolling Canal Street of a summer morning.

But, for now, he has work to do…This is My New Orleans.