The Mississippi rose before them as they stepped onto the boardwalk. A triple-decked steamboat with white iron railings, a floating wedding cake, was anchored at the nearest pier. At the other slender piers, extending like aristocratic fingers into the water, fishing boats and dinghies docked. Perl had done his research: the port was one of the few places in New Orleans deserted on the evening of July 4. Just as it seemed that he might lead them both off the boardwalk and into the river, he withdrew the semiautomatic from Bill’s side.
“You are responsible for the deaths of eighteen men. Good men. Men better, and stronger, than you.”
“What could I have done?”
Perl spit into the river. “You knew the protocol. Bucket brigade.”
“I went for help.”
“Drain had just boosted me when the roof collapsed. I might have saved him if I had help. My eyeball was hanging out of my head.”
Bill could make the river in two paces and dive. A lot of good that would gain him. He’d still be an easy target. Besides, every boy who grew up in New Orleans knew that the Mississippi sucked downward. The corpses of suicides, drunks, and thrill seekers washed up at English Turn every weekend.
“When the hole collapsed,” said Perl, “I ran into the woods for help. But I became disoriented and passed out. When I came to, it was too late. I made a promise then to the men. I have brought you here to satisfy it.”
The falling sun multiplied in the rippling river and the tin roofs. Bill wanted badly to close his eyes.
“It is amazing to me,” said Perl, “that you have made no effort to take my weapon. What kind of a cop are you?”
“Do you think that shooting me is going to make any difference to Drain? To Hegney? Finn?”
“I’m disappointed because I had prepared for a fight. I thought there might have been a flash of manhood left in you. But you don’t have any fight, and you probably never did.” He pointed the gun toward the sky and released the magazine. It was unloaded. “I never intended to use this.”
Perl placed the gun on the boardwalk behind him. He placed Bill’s empty revolver beside it.
“I was fortunate only to lose an eye. Can you begin to imagine what it is like to be buried alive?” He shook his head. “I have no desire to shoot you. My intention was always to murder you with my hands.”
Perl removed his jacket, folded it twice, and placed it on top of the guns. Bill was surprised to see that Perl had sweated through his shirt. Ovals of perspiration descended beneath his arms and a wide butterfly-pattern of sweat broadened across his chest. It reminded him that Perl was a real man. After thinking him dead for so long, it was difficult to believe, even now, that he was not a ghost.
Perl removed his watch and placed it on his jacket. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them above his elbows. Finally he removed his eye patch. The place where his eye had been was a smooth brownish mound of flesh, like the cap of a cremini mushroom. Perl’s knuckles whitened.
Something shifted in Bill. Death, even at Rouge Bouquet, had seemed an impossibility, but now it materialized before him. More precisely, the world began to dematerialize. The river began to rise, the clutter of buildings hovered above the wharf, the railroad tracks levitated. His body grew as vaporous as air. Then he was air. The crust of the earth peeled away like a banana. And what lay beneath? A gray haze, a whiteness, a blackness, none of these—a vast expanse without end or beginning. There was no comfort in this roiling insanity, no relief or satisfaction, only void. He floated here unthinkingly, staring into this chaos: a foresight of eternity. Then it was over. He returned to his body, the ground solidified, and the expanse before him was not an abyss but the brown brindled Mississippi.
He deserved to answer for the lives lost at Rouge Bouquet. He would pay whatever cost necessary—short of his life. If death was oblivion, what kind of penance would his death offer? It would only abridge his atonement. These were some of the things that occurred to Bill in the short but infinite stretch of time between the clenching of Perl’s fist and the force of the fist against Bill’s jaw.
Bill fell to the ground but sprang up as if he had landed on a trampoline. He was stronger than Perl and, as a police officer, better trained for fighting in close quarters. Perl’s eye put him at a further disadvantage. Did Perl believe that a righteous sense of vengeance could make up the disparity between them?
Bill swung with his right hand. Perl dodged with a quick step back. Bill followed with a left, which was less forceful but connected.
“There you are,” said Perl. “There’s Billy.”
Perl plunged his forearm into Bill’s throat. Perl was stronger than he appeared; he had within him all the strength of insanity. But he had used his left arm and Bill did not fall. Perl’s eye was now turned away and Bill did a clever little move. He led with a soft right jab. Because he was off-balance it was weaker than he would have liked but it turned Perl from a three-quarter profile to a full profile. This gave Bill an extra moment to regain his balance. As Perl swung his head around, Bill’s right fist flew at full speed to meet Perl’s cheek. There was a loud crack and Perl spun sharply, spilling across the boardwalk.
Bill bent over him. Perl was not unconscious but he seemed unwilling to rise. A gurgling noise came from his eye. He tried ineffectively, with the movements of a man twice his age, to wipe away the blood. Bill noticed his own breathing settle. He could kill the man now. That would end it finally. He wouldn’t have to worry about being exposed for his act of wartime cowardice or losing his job or being sent before a court-martial. He wouldn’t have to fear for Maze’s life. He wouldn’t have to fear for his own. He wouldn’t have to fear.
A kick to the head would do it. Or he could roll Perl into the river and let the current do the rest. That was his choice: head or river. Otherwise Perl would return and the next time he wouldn’t hesitate to use a bullet. Bill decided he should do it, one way or the other, but he didn’t do it. He didn’t do anything.
Perl’s movements became more fluid. He spit blood. He raised himself to his hands and knees.
“I don’t want to do this,” said Bill. “But I don’t know what else I can do.”
Perl spat again, a blackish red clot. He sat on his heels.
“I wish you hadn’t come to New Orleans, Lenny.”
Perl tried to speak but it came out in an incoherent demented babble. He shook his head with disgust and tried again. “You’re as much of a coward now as you were at Rouge Bouquet.” He said Boo-ket. His bloody eye regarded Bill. “If you were a man you would kill me.”
Bill didn’t respond. Perl rose to one knee. After two breaths he stood up.
“You’re not just a coward, you’re stupid.” Perl reached into his back pocket and brought out a small blade. It was not a knife, exactly, as the blade was in a strange crescent shape, like a miniature ax or the chine of a scythe. When Perl transferred it to his right hand Bill saw that its cast-iron handle ended in a loop and he recognized it: a Bully Beef can opener, the model presented to every serviceman upon arrival in Europe. Running along the blade was a bull’s head, carved into the iron; the tail curled in on itself to create the loop.
“Yay! Hold it there!”
Three policemen ran forward, pistols aloft. One stopped as he reached the edge of the alley; the others continued briskly toward the tracks. Bill was reminded of the bayonet battalion making their rushes through City Park. Perl rotated his body, blocking the can opener from view. Bill raised his hands in the air. He backed away from Perl. The sky had turned the color of oyster flesh but Bill was able to recognize Guy Molony. Or rather he recognized Molony’s scar, the purple stovepot extending across his cheek.
“It’s me, Molony. Detective William Bastrop.”
“Bill Bastrop?”
“Sir,” said the other. “Is this man molesting you?”
“It’s nothing, Officer.” Bill realized that blood was leaking from a wound above his left eye. “A misunderstanding between old friends.”
Perl, incredulous, glanced between Bill and the officers.
“What’s in his hand?” asked Molony.
Bill began to respond and Perl interrupted. “William Bastrop is a disgrace to the New Orleans Police Department.” His voice rose with each word. “He is a disgrace to America. He is a war criminal.”
“Bill?”
“The man is crazy as a betsy bug. War-deranged.”
“Bill, is that the man that shot Officer Breaux?”
Molony’s men closed the distance. Bill held up his hand, as if to halt them, but it would’ve been easier to stop time.
Perl’s voice became urgent, desperate. “I act in the name of Philip Finn!” He addressed neither the officers nor Bill but the night.
“Put your hands above your head!”
“I act for William Drain. I act for Elwood Rayburn. I act for John Legall, Jr.”
The men continued to approach. They avoided sudden movements. More emerged from the lengthening shadows of the waterfront shantytown, their guns aimed at Perl. The sound of boots on gravel was as loud as a landslide. A fuzzy small white form trailed the men.
“Art Hegney,” said Perl, addressing the stars. “Daniel Laughlin. Alf Helmer. Roscoe Washington.”
“Put down your weapon!” shouted Molony.
“I act in the names of all eighteen men who died because of your cowardice at Rouge Bouquet.”
Perl lunged, the crescent dagger of the Bully Beef can opener twisting toward Bill’s eye. Bill threw his arm up in defense and the blade sliced his elbow. He felt a tear. He pushed Perl back, not hard, but enough to create separation between them. There was an explosion and Perl staggered to one knee. Bill pulled his arm back and saw that Perl’s good eye was missing. A fusillade erupted. Perl tumbled backward. He landed at the edge of the boardwalk. His head, or what was left of it, snapped backward.
The next thing Bill saw was his wife in her white cotton dress running across the tracks. She hugged him and screamed his name and he couldn’t tell if his face was wet from her tears or his tears or blood. He put one arm around her but the other was paralyzed with pain. He restrained a sob; he tried to trap it in himself. If it started to come out it would never stop and it would carry everything away with it. Maze buried her face in his neck. She repeated his name until it became part of a question and then the one question became two questions.
“Oh Billy, are you hurt? Is it true what he said? Oh Billy, are you all right? It’s not true, is it? Say it’s not true. Are you in pain? Billy? Oh God. Are you in pain?”
“It’s true,” Bill whispered into her neck. “Everything Leonard said is the truth.”
Maze recoiled as if she were the one who had been shot.
PART TWO
TOWNS WITHIN TOWNS
New Orleans Times-Picayune, 8/6/18:
POLICE BELIEVE AX-MAN MAY BE ACTIVE IN CITY
Is an ax-man at large in New Orleans?
This belief was expressed by the police Monday night, following an investigation of the assault on Mrs. Edward Schneider, 28 years old, of 1820 Elmira street, early Monday morning.
Detectives found a hatchet in the yard adjoining the Schneider home. An ax, also stolen, cannot be found.
“Where is the ax?” the police are asking.
Considering it probable that Mrs. Schneider was attacked by the hatchetman who murdered Joseph Maggio and his wife and attempted to kill Louis Besemer and Mrs. Harriet Lowe, the police Monday night took every precaution to prevent a repetition of the bloody deeds.
New Orleans States, 8/7/18:
AXMAN THEORY DECLARED ABSURD
Recent Crimes Thought to Be Separate and Distinct
Certain situations affect different persons differently. It all depends on the temperament of a person. For instance, take the sensational stories that have appeared in certain newspapers during the past two days about “the ax man.”
A detective, like any other mortal, is human. There are a dozen or more of these engaged in an effort to solve the recent attack made on Mrs. Edward Schneider in her home, 1820 Elmira street. She was struck on the head with a blunt instrument by an early morning intruder Monday. Mrs. Schneider is recovering from a scalp wound and the effects of childbirth in Charity Hospital.
Tuesday in a newspaper appeared a sensational story about the “ax man at large”—one of those thrilling things full of action and color. It stated that citizens were arming themselves and had determined upon all-night vigils, with shotguns, to protect their sleeping families. It stated that the entire community was terror-stricken and living in mortal fear, lest the beast in human form descend upon them.
VETERANS SCOUT THEORY
Older members of the force take no stock in the ax-man theory. They assert there is no such person as “the axman” going about committing these assaults. To liken the ax cases, such as the Maggio case, to the assault upon Mrs. Schneider, they assert, is ridiculous. The Schneider case is not without its peculiarities, however.
REMEMBER NOTHING
Mrs. Schneider recalls absolutely nothing of the assault.
After she emerged from under the influence of anesthetics at the Charity Hospital Tuesday afternoon, Superintendent Mooney questioned her.
“Struck? Oh no, I was not struck. Who said that anyone assaulted me?” Mrs. Schneider believed that the suffering she endured as a result of the attack was attributable to childbirth. Although hardly twelve hours had elapsed since the birth of her baby girl, Mrs. Schneider stated, in answer to a question from the superintendent, that her baby was four days old.
New Orleans States, 8/10/18:
ROBBER’S AX SLAYS MAN AS HE LIES ASLEEP
The fourth ax case within the year and the third person to lose his life as a result, occurred at 3 o’clock Saturday morning at Gravier and Tonti streets.
Joseph Romano, 30, living with his sister and nieces adjoining their little grocery store, was chopped across the left side of the head twice, his skull being fractured. He died in the Charity Hospital two hours later.
The butchery early Saturday morning is similar in many respects to the Maggio case, both as to the method employed by the murderer and the lay of the premises. There is now little doubt left in the minds of the police that the series of recent ax cases have robbery behind them as a motive.
New Orleans Times-Picayune, 9/21/18:
FRUIT STEAMER WITH INFLUENZA ABOARD ARRIVES
A United Fruit Company’s steamer arrived at quarantine Thursday from Colón with a passenger list consisting of fifty civilians and fifty-one soldiers and a crew of eighty-six. There were eleven cases of influenza aboard, all soldiers. After a detention of twenty-four hours the steamer was permitted to come up to New Orleans to unload her perishable cargo of bananas, but no one was allowed to leave her, except the soldiers, who were placed in an ambulance. After it left the ship it was in collision in Tchoupitoulas street with a streetcar. One of the soldiers was badly injured, the others slightly.
New Orleans Times-Picayune, 9/29/18:
INFLUENZA GOES IN ORLEANS HOME TO GET VICTIM
The first death of a resident of New Orleans from influenza since the disease began spreading throughout the country was that of Morris William Maurier, age 16 years, of 5918 Coliseum street. There have been recent deaths from Spanish influenza in New Orleans, but they were of sailors from a merchant ship who developed the disease while on the high seas en route here.
New Orleans States, 9/30/18:
INFLUENZA CASES UP IN THOUSANDS
Situation Is Believed by Physicians to Be Under Control
New Orleans Times-Picayune, 10/10/18:
ALL SHOWS, CHURCHES ARE ORDERED CLOSED TO FIGHT EPIDEMIC CASES IN THE STATE TOTAL 100,000
State and City Health Board Heads May Take More Drastic Steps
Spanish influenza continued its alarming spread in New Orleans and throughout Louisiana Wednesday, while state and city health authorities took drastic steps to combat the epidemic. Here is
the situation in New Orleans at a glance:
All schools, public, private and parochial, and all colleges closed.
All motion picture and other theaters closed.
All churches closed.
All public meetings, concerts, and sporting events called off.
Public weddings and public funerals ordered discontinued.
Gathering of crowds in the streets, stopped.
Burial of influenza victims, prompt.
Crowding of streetcars ordered stopped.
Closing of saloons, poolrooms, ice cream and soft drink places considered.
New Orleans Times-Picayune, 11/17/18:
SPANISH INFLUENZA TAKES HEAVY TOLL
Louisiana Had Approximately 350,000 Cases, Say Reports
New Orleans Item, 1/21/19:
TRIAL OF KILLER OF OBITZ IS POSTPONED
Luzenberg Asks Case Go Over Because of Flu
When the case of Frank Bailey, 19, negro, charged with the murder of Detective Theodore Obitz was called Tuesday morning in Judge Baker’s section of the criminal district court, District Attorney Luzenberg asked the court to postpone the trial for a few weeks because of the influenza situation in the city.
New Orleans Times-Picayune, 2/10/19:
INFLUENZA ABATES SLIGHTLY
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