: 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.
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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.
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