Chapter 7 –
Things aren’t much better in New Orleans
I was concerned about how people back at the hotel might react to my appearance, but there was no side entrance to the place. My thought was to move through the lobby as quickly as I could, hit the stairs, and be out of sight before too many guests got a good look at me. No such luck. I barely got a foot on the stairs and three hotel employees, including the manager, were running after me. “Doctor Murphy – what happened. Here, let us help, what can we do for you?” etc. I was grateful for the concern, but not for the visibility. So I kept climbing stairs while hotel people followed. Once we got to the second floor, I paused outside my door.
“I was hurt during a boating accident. I have been to a hospital and they have dressed my wounds, but I probably could use a fresh set of bandages. Could I get that? In the meantime, I think I should shower and change clothes. I am sure I will look and feel better after I have had a chance to clean up.” That seemed to settle the matter. They knew what had happened, they knew what I was going to do, and they had a purchase to make.
Off they went, but the manager did hang back for a moment to softly tell me, “Please Doctor Murphy, be careful. These are dangerous times.” I thanked him for his concern and went into my room. I really did think a shower and a change of clothes would make everything right. I can be pretty stupid.
I got my bloody clothes off and hit the shower, only to discover that the water hurt in far too many places. I dialed the temperature around trying to find some temperature that hurt less, and played with the pressure to find something more soothing. If there was a right temperature and pressure, I never found it. Then there was the bandaging fiasco. The hotel people found a box of bandages and had it waiting in my bedroom when I got out of the shower. Now the problem was how to get them on. I would reach around to get at one cut, only to feel the pull of another cut. Every bandage I put on seemed too small, so I went for the large ones, and then everywhere I looked I could see this huge white blob, often overlaying some other bandage. In sum, I made a total mess of it.
Next, I needed to make some phone calls. I wanted to get to Elise before anyone else did. So I sat on a couch in my living room in my underwear, bandages stacked all over my body, trying to dial the phone and hold it to my ear without pulling one of the bandages free. She picked up on the first ring.
“Hi. Were you shot?” How could she possibly know something had happened? It had been maybe three hours since the shooting. I looked at a clock on the wall. Hmm. Maybe it had been four hours.
“Yes. I got a few scrapes and cuts, but no wounds. Really, I’m fine.”
“Men were killed.”
“Yes, the boat owner was killed, and there was a gun battle between some thugs and some LNA guys and some more died. But I am back at my hotel and I am safe.”
“I won’t beg you to come home, but do please give it some thought.”
“I promise I will. Now let me tell you what I saw today.” And I filled her in on the trip and the Retsof Refinery signs. Then I told her everything Goulet had said. He hadn’t really said that much, but the fact that he didn’t know who was backing Foster and the illegal rigs seemed important. We talked about that for a while, comparing possible theories. Then, because I am not a complete fool, I told her I loved her and missed her. That ended the call.
Next I called my dad, both to give him the Foster refinery connection, and to reassure him I was fine. I discovered the shooting of an American consular official made the news back home, but I had not been mentioned by name. Good. I promised to check in daily, and then let him get back to work.
Still sitting in my underwear, periodically pushing bandages back on that were already falling off, I gave some thought to my blog. What should I say? Anything? That debate lasted about a microsecond. These bastards weren’t going to get away with this. I fired up my computer, transferred the images from my camera, picked the ones that were clearest and identified Retsof, and then began the story. As it turned out, the one tourist thing I had done that morning became most meaningful. I had taken a picture of Charles up on the flying bridge. I built the story around him. This guy had taken us out to see illegal rigs, and this nice guy in the picture was now dead. I probably spent two thousand words describing the trip, what we saw, and the shootings after we returned to port. I reread it three times, carefully proofing it, and then uploaded it to my blog site. Done. What were the bastards going to do now, shoot me? Again?
So now what? I briefly considered just going to bed, but it wasn’t even eight yet, and besides, I had some weird energy surge. I wanted to do something. Assuming having clothes on would be useful, I went to my closet and started looking at anything that was loose fitting, but also long sleeved. Somehow I was drawn to two white shirts. White? One thought led to another, and I soon knew where I would be going – the south district.
Knowing what I wanted to do and actually doing it turned out to be two different things. I had no idea it would hurt so much to pull on pants and a shirt. And socks? How much glass had I crawled over? Getting socks over all the bandages took forever. But, only fifteen or twenty minutes after I had made up my mind, I was out of my room and down in the lobby asking for a cab. Apparently I didn’t look as good as I felt, for the manager came right over to tell me he would be happy to send a meal up to my room. But no, I was going out. The manager actually walked out to the front entrance with me while we waited for the cab to arrive. I suspect he was assuming I would change my mind. Little did he know my mind. I was going to the South District, although any intelligent person would know going to bed was the far better option. Not me. The cab arrived and I gave directions. The driver gave me one good look, but satisfied my bandages would stay in place, he drove me across the river.
Okay, so what was I after? The summer before, Margaret Riemard had shown me a large square with open-air restaurants on three sides. It was Huguenot central. Everyone wore white, and everyone cheered for the greater glory of the Heritage Party and the LNA. Having seen a good man killed, and having survived their bullets, I wanted to stare into those faces.
Ten minutes later I was across the river and to the edge of the square. I got out of the cab and strolled across the square with my shoulders back and my fists clenched. You want me? Here I am. Yes, I am wearing a white shirt, so I may look like you, but I am not you. Get a little closer and you will find out.
I walked straight across the square and nothing happened. There were plenty of people around, maybe not as many as the summer before, but the restaurants were mostly full and people were walking around, but no one paid any attention to me. They talked among themselves, sat and ate, strolled here and there. I was invisible.
Okay, so now what? Might as well eat. I saw the restaurant where Margaret had taken me last summer, and asked for a table. I caught a bit of a stare as the maitre D’ noticed the bandages protruding from under my shirt, but he didn’t make a big deal of it. He escorted me to a table, gave me a menu, and had a waiter at my table in seconds. Service here was pretty good. I asked for wine and a fish dish, and had glass of wine in my hand within minutes. They were making it pretty hard for me to maintain my anger.
I was working on my fish and my second glass of wine when Margaret arrived.
“Hi.” She really was a beautiful woman. I could see the beauty queen that she had once been, except now she had the maturity of a woman. She stood about two feet away from my table. While wearing white was a political statement down here, I could see how it also worked for the right woman. She was wearing a white cotton dress with thin straps and a hem several inches above her knees. She looked like an angel. I had kissed her once, and I had also been very angry at her once. And now? Now she was a familiar face.
“Hi.” We looked at each other.
“May I join you?” There was no expectation on her face. She w
as asking a question, and it didn’t appear she was sure what answer she would receive.
“Please do. Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but I will join you for a glass of wine.” I motioned to a waiter going past, and he took her order. “I wasn’t sure if you would let me sit. Last summer you were very angry with me.”
“You lied to me about your position at the archives.”
“I enhanced my qualifications. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“There was no need.”
“Yes, there was. I am a beautiful woman. Because I am beautiful, people assume I am not intelligent. I have a degree in history from a leading university. My grades were high. I have done graduate work in history. But because I am beautiful, no one takes my professional work seriously.”
“Yes.”
“No, no, no. It is not enough to say ‘yes’ and acknowledge the problem, it is a serious problem.”
“I say ‘yes’ because I think I understand it. For men, it is brains and athletic ability. We assume you cannot have both. And there is a reason for that.”
“Oh?”
“I have thought about this problem many times, and I have decided people believe God is a socialist.” Remember I was on my second glass of wine by this point. So I kept going. “God wants to be fair to all, to treat all equally, so if he gives talent in athletics to one, he must give talent in school work to another. Each one gets something; no one gets two talents when others get none. That would not be fair, and God is fair. He is a socialist. That is what we believe.”
“You are a funny man, Doctor Murphy, I missed you.”
“I appreciated you help in the archives. You found me great books to read.” I was about to go on extolling the virtues of the provincial archives, but my phone rang. I could have sworn I had turned it off, but it rang anyway. It was Elise.
“You are sitting at a table with Margaret Riemard. You cannot stay there. Go to her apartment. You will be safe there. Stay there until I call again.” I didn’t argue. I got up, threw some money on the table and took Margaret’s hand.
“I am sorry, but Elise just called and said I am not safe here. She said I should go to your apartment. Do you mind?” By the time I had finished my question we were already out of the restaurant and walking across the square to her apartment building.
“Of course not.” She was wearing heels but still managed to move so fast I was practically running at her side. I looked around to see where the danger might be, but all I saw was an endless sea of white clothing. It was pretty easy to blend in here.
We crossed the square, got to her building entrance, and were up to her second floor apartment in seconds. I asked her to leave the lights off, and I sat in the floor next to one of the front windows. I had a good view of the square. I didn’t see anything for a few minutes, and then I saw four fairly large men converge at the front if the building. I couldn’t hear them talk, but from the looks they were aiming up at our windows, I was pretty sure we were the topic of conversation. There seemed to be some disagreement about what to do next, but one of the men seemed to be taking charge, and he was pointing in several directions. My best guess of body language was they were supposed to spread out and wait for me.
Just as they were splitting up, Margaret sat down on the floor behind me, her head peering around me at the street. In her right hand was a very large pistol. When she saw me looking at it, she said “When the Iroquois attack…”
“Everyone is a warrior.” I finished the saying for her. “I knew Canadian women were beautiful. I had no idea they were also so dangerous.”
“We are what we need to be.” That ended the conversation for a while. We both stared at the street. Having seen the four men disperse, we now looked up and down the street for any sign of them. They were still out there, somewhere.
As she leaned forward to look out the windows, Margaret put a hand on my side and I flinched. “Are you hurt?”
“I was involved in a shooting this afternoon. They killed the boat captain, and tried to kill us.”
“That was you on the news?”
“That was me. We saw some things we were not supposed to see.”
“I will call some friends to help.” She got up and went to wherever her phone was. I heard her make several calls. Presumably help was on the way. While we waited, she came back and sat down behind me. This time she touched my back and side much more gently. “Do you remember kissing me?”
“Yes, I do. Did you know Elise was standing nearby and saw the whole thing?”
“She is a Canadian woman. She would understand.”
“I am not sure any woman would understand.” Just then the understanding lady herself called.
“They are assuming you will either spend the night with Margaret, or you will go to the cab stand on your right. So that is where they are positioned. Leave by the front door, but stay close to the wall and walk to your left. Move quickly for four blocks. Just before you get to a bridge there is another cab stand. This cab is ours. Please be safe.” And she hung up.
I got up and headed to the apartment door.
“Before you go.” Margaret had her arms around my neck and gave me the kiss of a lifetime. Wow she was good. My arms just naturally wrapped around her, and for a minute I completely forgot about whatever was out there.
When I finally managed to get my mouth away from hers long enough to talk, I said, “You are beautiful, and smart, and brave.” And then I twisted away and moved to the door while I still could. I took the stairs making as little noise as I could, and then I was out the door, walking with my left shoulder brushing the building. I am not a small guy, and I was wearing a bright white shirt, but maybe wearing the same shirt as everyone else helped. All I know is, I made it. I moved fast for four blocks and found a cab with a really large cab driver. He had the cab moving before I even had the door closed, and we raced across the bridge and back to my hotel.
The Canadian Civil War: Volume 5 - Carbines and Calumets Page 7