Eye for an Eye

by Mark C. Jackson

  Billy leaned back, away from the cover of the bandstand, closed his eyes tight, and let the rain fall on his face. He stood up straight and shook his head, spraying water all around.

  “You owe me.” I grabbed the bottle, took another drink, and handed it back. “They tied me to a chair and was goin’ to drown me in the river.”

  “How’d you get away?” he asked sheepishly.

  “They carried me to the edge a’ this cliff lookin’ south to Natchez. I watched the Diana leave on down the river. I was part a’ some ritual. After they tossed that fella Murrell shot into the water an’ with all his men watchin’, I grabbed Frenchy’s knife from his belt and jumped. I hit the water an’ the chair broke to pieces . . . Hell, I think he wanted me to get away.”

  Billy set the bottle on the rail and dug into his vest pocket. He pulled out a small leather bag and gave it to me. “This should do it, mate.”

  I poured eight ten-dollar gold pieces into the palm of my hand. I had never held that much money at one time. I handed five of the pieces back. He would not take it.

  “Zeb, this ain’t about money, it’s about trust and I did leave you with that crazy bastard.” He took a long swig and passed me the bottle. “I feel real bad, I do. Thing is, mate, I knew you’d make it out of there.” Billy’s eyes welled up a little. “They were throwing you in the bloody river?”

  I nodded.

  For a short while, there was silence between us. I was shocked at how much money I held in my hand.

  “I can’t remember, was she pretty?”

  “The girl?”

  He nodded.

  “Wasn’t no girl,” I said.

  He gave me a frown and asked nothing more.

  Figuring he was about as contrite as I would ever see him, I put the bag of coins in my pocket. Besides, I was sure he won the money earlier that day in a card game and would probably lose it later that night.

  The rain let up and we walked back through the arch.

  The parlor thinned out as Sophie’s girls took the hands of their rich clients and led them up the marble staircase. I was there, so to speak, with Sophie and did not want one of her whores, so I stood at the small bar with Billy and drank. Though, to save my life, I still did not trust him and swore to myself I never would.

  “Who’s your brother?” I asked.

  He did not acknowledge my question and kept on drinking.

  “Billy, who’s your goddamn brother?”

  From behind, someone cleared his throat.

  “Gentlemen, may I join you?” Olgens Pierre asked.

  Billy and I made room between us. I did not see Sophie or the Chinese woman anywhere in the parlor. Billy offered his bottle, which Olgens waved off. Instead, he ordered a bottle of Sophie’s finest Scotch whisky from the barkeep, paying for it with two gold pieces. I touched the coins I held in my breast pocket and glanced to Billy. He smiled and nodded.

  “Gentlemen, let me pour you a drink.”

  I had never tasted Scotch whisky before. Nor had I ever stood so close to a Negro. Olgens Pierre looked to be in his late thirties, though I could not tell for sure. He was a tall man, taller than Billy or me, tight in his demeanor and fit, like a fighter. His skin looked as if someone had painted on dark chocolate and his eyes were as black as Sophie’s was. He smelled like clean smoke.

  “Shall we toast?” he asked after pouring the drinks. He spoke with no accent except for a slight lilt at the end of his sentences. I had no idea where he might be from.

  We joined Olgens in raising our glasses.

  “To great friends and bitter enemies, may we always know the difference.”

  “Here, here, mates!”

  I did not say anything and drank the Scotch. It tasted of oak and fire all the way down. I resisted coughing and gently laid the glass on the bar.

  I wanted another drink.

  “Zebadiah. May I call you Zebadiah?”

  I nodded.

  “It is now time we talk,” Olgens said firmly but in a low voice, looking around for any eavesdroppers.

  Again, I nodded.

  “I have an interest, as you do, in, shall I say, the detainment or worse of two men who are, unfortunately for us, to be found in plain sight. They walk the streets of New Orleans with impunity.” He paused to catch his breath. “Some say, with the hand of the law guiding them.”

  I cleared my throat. “May I call you Olgens?”

  “Why, of course, sir.”

  “Well then, Olgens, two men I’m lookin’ for, I’m goin’ to kill ’em both. In plain sight or otherwise.” It felt as if I slurred the words.

  He gave a surprised look, then promptly recovered his composure. “Zebadiah, this is not St. Louis, sir. And while I appreciate our common enemy’s ultimate fate, here in New Orleans, your indiscretions may get you hanged.”

  “Sir, did one of ’em shoot yer brother in the head?” I turned to face him square, standing inches from his face.

  He lowered his eyes but held his ground. “My condolences for your brother’s demise. I know how you must feel, for I too have lost loved ones to these men.” He glanced back up and held my gaze. “While I regret your brother’s death, ending up at the end of a rope will, how shall I say, exacerbate your problem, sir . . .”

  I did not know the word exacerbate, but it did not sound good. I backed off.

  Olgens poured another round. I gulped mine down. I winced as Billy hit me on the shoulder. “We keep drinking this, mate, an’ we’ll soon be wearing bloody kilts!” He bent forward laughing, slapping his knee. I had no idea what he meant. Olgens did not find it funny, either. Billy looked at both of us, drank his Scotch, and was quiet.

  “Olgens, sir, since you know why I want ’em dead. What do they got on you?” I asked.

  He set his glass on the bar and bowed his head. “Mr. Brody was my partner, of sorts. Until last month . . .” One at a time, he slowly clenched both hands into fists. “He sold something that was not his to sell.” He did not look up. “A person. Persons. A woman and two children, brothers, he sold them all back into slavery.”

  My head began to swim. The more he talked, the more I felt a darkness pull me backward, toward memories long forgotten. The words had not yet come out of his mouth before an elk-hide strap tightens around my skinny neck. My brother, so young, cannot keep up and is dragged behind the horse like an animal. Forced to walk through the dark, windswept prairie, miles and miles until we are tied to a stake behind a teepee. Still with our mother and father’s blood on our clothes.

  I could not say if it was the strong Scotch whisky that caused my vision or because of everything that had happened from the time of Jonathan’s death. Somewhere deep inside of me, a dam broke open. My hands began to shake and I tried to speak but could not. I did my best to hide my feelings with another drink.

  Olgens continued his story.

  “I bought them through Brody, as I cannot own slaves myself. He kept them for a time, in a safe location, until they could be spirited away to freedom in Haiti, my home.” Olgens poured more Scotch into his glass, swirled it around and around, then drank it down in one shot. “Her name is Margo. Two sons she has. I found them being sold at New Exchange. A prominent family was sailing for France and could not take them. Brody was my proxy, though it was my money used to buy them. I waited a long time for a chance to free her.”

  Billy stood silent, with a strange, sullen, almost disgusted look on his face, as if he had heard the story before.

  I still felt the thin strap choking me.

  “They were safe for a time, here, a few days maybe. Sophie saw to it. I had arranged for their passage to my country, though I could not be seen escorting them to the ship. Baumgartner handled that. This was two weeks ago.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Two evenings before tonight, at the corner of St. Louis and Charles Streets, I saw her.”

  “What do you mean you saw her?” I asked, though I sensed the answer.

  “Following behind a man, a m
an of wealth and prestige, whose plantation lies northwest of the city. No chains were needed to know she was now his. I followed them as well as I could without being seen, until they were spirited away by carriage.”

  “We aim to take ’em back, mate.”

  “Back to where?”

  “I will take them to Haiti,” Olgens announced. “I will row the boat across the Gulf myself, if need be.”

  I could not ask another question, except one. “What about Brody?”

  “Mr. Brody will die, by your hands.”

  “Baumgartner’s the man who killed my brother, not Brody,” I said.

  “Then they both will die, and your brother’s death is avenged,” Billy stated matter-of-factly.

  I set my glass down and looked at him square. “An’ what the hell does a Brit care about these certain circumstances?”

  He shrugged and said, “I despise slavery.”

  The wind blew open the front door. The three of us turned to see two men enter and begin brushing off their rain-soaked coats. One was bearded and as he removed his top hat, long gray hair spilled down to the middle of his back. He wore earrings in both ears and his left eye was crooked. As the last of Sophie’s girls took his coat, he grabbed her and buried his face in her bosom. She giggled and immediately led him upstairs.

  The other gentleman stood tall and gazed around the near empty parlor, twirling his top hat in his right hand. He stopped when he lit on us and held the hat still, then stuck a finger through a shot hole three inches above the brim, as if to fondle it. The candlelight glistened off the top of his bare head. He showed near perfect teeth as he smiled up at Sophie coming down her marble and oak staircase.

  “Sophie le Roux, ya got more goddamn niggers in this here whorehouse then ya got whores!” Baumgartner bellowed, and glanced back at us.

  I reached for Jonathan’s knife.

  It was not there.

  CHAPTER 22

  Baumgartner went straight for Olgens. He nodded to Billy as if he knew him and did not acknowledge me but for a snort. Dressed in formal clothes and with my beard and hair cut short, I looked nothing like I did on the river that night. Gripping the edge of the bar to steady myself, I took a deep breath. I was at once very sober.

  “Monsieur Baumgartner, a pleasant surprise it is to see you here!” Sophie stepped in front of him and attempted to catch his arm.

  He shook her off. “I will have no woman tonight,” he exclaimed and threw his hat on the bar directly behind of me. “I’ll be a drinkin’ though, here with my favorite nigger. An’ his friends?”

  We looked eye to eye. I could not disguise my utter hatred for him. He turned away.

  “Billy Frieze, ya squaggle, you, how the hell are ya, mate?” He smiled. “Ya still hidin’ from yer brother, ya are?” Not waiting for an answer, he picked up the bottle of Scotch and leaned over to Olgens. They were about the same height. “Mr. Pierre, you ’bout the richest bastard here at this bar. Hell, in this whole goddamn whorehouse more likely!” He held the bottle to the candlelight. “Only nigger I know can afford this!” His eyes narrowed on Olgens. “Pour me a drink.”

  Sophie went behind the bar and found a clean glass.

  Olgens slowly reached for the bottle, took it from Baumgartner’s hand, and poured Scotch into the glass. “Sir, I believe there is enough left for you. That is, if you are so inclined to drink with a nigger and his friends.” He held the glass in front of him. “After all, my money buys the very same things your money does.”

  Baumgartner sloshed the Scotch down and gasped, “Goddamn man, that’s good!” He held out the empty glass. “One more fer old timey’s sake, partner?” Olgens poured more. “Fact is,” Baumgartner continued, “ya got more money up yer ass than I ever had in my life.”

  “I hardly think so. May I propose a toast?” Olgens asked, holding the bottle out to Billy and me.

  I stood dumbfounded staring at the three of them. I could not imagine having a toast with the man who killed my brother. Yet, I allowed Olgens to fill my glass.

  Sophie stayed behind the bar and was quiet.

  “To business gone good,” Olgens pronounced. “And business gone bad. ’Tis the same, only business.”

  Everyone drained his Scotch but me. I slowly poured mine over Baumgartner’s muddy boots. His show of surprise came at the same instant he recognized the small scar on my left cheek. Our eyes locked.

  “You ain’t dead,” he sighed.

  “No, sir, I ain’t dead.”

  “You come all this way to kill me?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.” My skin crawled and my heart was at my throat, but my hands were steady as rocks.

  “Mighty determined are ya?”

  “I am.”

  “Ya armed with somethin’ other than yer fingers an’ toes?” He snickered.

  “Nope.”

  “Then how ya gonna kill me?”

  “With my fingers an’ toes.”

  “An’ what if I pull a pistol from my coat an’ put a ball through yer head like I did that fuck of a brother a yours?”

  “You won’t.”

  “Won’t pull a pistol?” He raised an eyebrow and slid his right hand toward the opening of his coat.

  I kicked him hard, with the point of my boot, cracking his left kneecap. He went down to the floor on his other knee but still held the knife he pulled. I swiftly moved around to his backside and stomped him square between his shoulders. Though the wind must have been knocked out of him, he stood up, gasping, swirled to face me, clutching the knife in a fist, blade down, and took a swipe. I jumped back, into the main parlor. He followed and we began to circle each other in front of the staircase.

  “You have my knife.”

  “Yours? Ain’t yours, took this here knife from a dead man on the Missouri some months back.”

  He limped toward me, sweeping the blade in front of him quick, back and forth, like a sickle. I hit the first step and climbed backward, up three to gain height. From behind, I heard shuffling but dared not look around.

  Glancing past me, Baumgartner did not smile so much as grit his teeth. “Ah, the good Gentlemen of New Orleans. Come away from fuckin’ yer whores to watch?”

  I kicked him in the gut.

  He tried sucking in a breath then doubled over in front of me. I kicked at his throat and missed, kicking only his chin. Somehow, he held onto the knife and blindly took a swipe. I jumped to the floor. Circling to his left, I punched hard, hitting him in the ear, two, maybe three times. He kneeled at the first step, breathing slow, taking the beating.

  I looked up for the first time. It seemed the stained-glass window was lit by some outside light. The moon in the doorway glowed. Below, crowded on the landing, a gallery of folks watched us fight. Most all the men and their ladies were in various stages of undress. I could not understand what they all were saying though the jest seemed to be that some were making bets on the winner, who would be the last man alive. I heard Baumgartner’s name several times, not knowing whether they were cheering him on, or wanting him dead. It did not matter to me what they said.

  I glanced at my thigh. There was blood, but I did not feel the cut.

  Billy and Olgens were still at the bar.

  Sophie was gone.

  Baumgartner took a wheezy breath and tried to stand straight but could not. “Gonna have ta do better if yer gonna kill this old dog.” He turned to me, his face nearly the color of a beet. “So far, ya just pissed me off, ya fuck turd. I’m gonna run ya through like I shoulda let Rudy do ya!”

  He flipped the knife in his palm and came at me, thrusting then slashing, with me dodging him as we circled.

  He stopped and let his knife arm drop. “Hell, I just realized. You’d be dead now if I hadn’ta stopped him from cuttin’ yer throat.” He thought for a second. “I saved yer goddamn life ya piece a’ shit and now ya want ta kill me?” He looked as if his feelings were truly hurt.

  I stayed crouched in my fighting stance. “You killed my br
other.”

  “Yer brother was already dying, son. I did him a favor a not sufferin’ too much longer.”

  I thought for a second that his words might be genuine and eased slightly.

  Baumgartner thrust.

  With both hands, I grasped his wrist and pulled him swiftly into me, down, slamming to the floor, him on top. With a thwack, the knife stuck hard in the wood floorboard at my side, the sudden shock causing him to let go of the handle. I struggled to roll him over but could not. With my arms pinned by his long legs, he grasped my throat, his fingers choking me, pressing all his weight down, blood oozing from his right hand where the blade must have cut him. I felt for the knife with one hand while with the other, pulled back one finger at a time, snapping two. No matter, he did not let up.

  “You . . .” He clinched his perfect teeth as if they would break, spittle dripping onto my face. With every word, he slammed my head against the floor. “. . . did not have ta come here!”

  A shadow fell on us from behind.

  Father says, “Prepare my son, the dark angel cometh.”

  I closed my eyes, waiting for fireflies to guide me to my brother.

  As if it were a dream, the deer antler handle of my knife was laid gently in the palm of my left hand.

  Baumgartner stiffened and released his grip. I opened my eyes to see him clutch his own throat, gurgling, staring down at me in shock, the knife blade stuck through his neck then pulled back quick. I closed my eyes again, for blood was draining onto my face.

  I did not know how many seconds I lay there, under his heavy, bleeding body. When I came to, Olgens Pierre leaned down and whispered in my ear, “You owe me, sir.” He glanced up at the now silent crowd still on the landing, and was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  The words sounded hollow, spoken from somewhere above me, as if I was lying at the bottom of a grave.

  “The bastard had it comin’.”

  It could have been Billy speaking low as he rolled the body off me. Or maybe it was two or three of the good New Orleans gentlemen whispering together as they stood on the first couple of steps of the staircase watching Baumgartner bleed to death. Hell, I may have said those words.