: 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.
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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.
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