A Certain Deal

An oppressive summer noon on the banks of the Mississippi River. A particular day where the cooling breeze was replaced with a sadistic inferno, and the sun with a ruthless tyrant. The sunbaked dirt roads which ran parallel to the banks spewed into the air clouds of dust, as the flowing sadist maneuvered its way down it, and eventually arrived at its desired destination of C_____, Mississippi.

At precisely quarter past one, the Sheriff walked from his office to the house of Langston Moet. The town wasn’t at all very big, but with the Sheriff’s office at one end and Langston’s house at the other meant walking for a good eight minutes in the scorching gaze of the sun. By the time he arrived at the steps of the Moet residence, he was dripping in perspiration, and his forehead shiny enough that if stared at for a long enough period you could just make out your reflection.

He quickly took refuge beneath the shade of the verandah, but it wasn’t nearly enough to assuage his discomfort. Before knocking on the ramshackle wooden door of the home, he neatened his lightweight linen three-piece suit, and removed his straw hat, holding it against his chest and making sure that the six points of his Sheriff’s badge were in the field of view of his opponent.

In a gentle, yet effective manner, he bent the middle knuckle of his first finger and allowed it to strike the door, which released a hollow grunt—nearly a moan. The door opened almost instantaneously as if someone had been sitting on the other side waiting guard, which had been the case. It was Ann-Marie Moet who swung the door open, with eyes red and puffed and streaming incessant tears which channeled through the furrows of her nose, down her chin, and onto her old white cotton house dress. Protruding from her body was the large hump of an expecting woman and her bloated hand over it. She certainly wasn’t a woman of great age, but the mere fact that she was five years senior to her husband consolidated her reputation as the mature woman on the block. As she saw the Sheriff, she immediately aged a decade more, and nearly collapsed, only keeping herself erect by leaning against the doorway.

“Oh, God! He’s dead ain’t he Sheriff?” she asked, almost in a tone of maternal concern. “He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead! Shot down dead like a dog in the street by dem good for nothin’ Bonner boys!”

“What in Lord Mary Jesus are you talking about Ann-Marie!” he retorted, with equal parts confusion and annoyance. “I’m here ta’ talk with Langston; I’m guessin’ he ain’t here.”

“Ain’t here? That good-for-nothing twit hasn’t shown his face for two days—two whole Goddamn days! I made a vow, Sheriff, that cockroach oughtta be dead lying in some ditch or I swear to the lord above I’ll bury him myself for making me worry so!”

“Alright, calm yourself down a bit Ann-Marie, I’m sure he’ll turn up, prolly drunk and not knowin’ what his first name is, but alive. I’ll ask around if that’ll make you feel better.”

“Oh, would you?” This calmed her down quite a bit, and she was now speaking in a nearly inaudible whisper.

“Sure thing. I needs to talk wit him myself anyways,” he reassured her.

“Oh, I just don’t wanna be a burden o’ nothing.”

“Like I said, I was looking for him anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t worry so much Ann-Marie. God forbid, but you’ll harm that child.”

Langston Moet was across town at the Whittaker House Inn. He was celebrating a deal that had transpired the previous day—one with the devil.

At awakening, he was at first unaware of where he was and seemed to be oscillating in an out of consciousness. Eventually, he came to enough of a conscious state to recognize the branching cracks of the ceiling and the sickening pale yellow wallpaper to be that of the Whittaker house. If that didn’t remind him of where he was, then the throbbing headache—radiating on and off in his skull—which only came with a hangover, did.

As he lay on the worn and chunky mattress, taking in the stagnant air of the room in waves, he swung his arm over to the other side of the bed, expecting to find someone lying there; he felt nothing. He was pretty certain that he had someone over for the night, but it may have just been an illusion ascribed to his episode of intoxication.

No, it wasn’t.

He reached over to the nightstand and picked up his flimsy leather wallet. It housed six paper dollars, two quarters, three nickels, and a single penny. Yesterday he had thirty-three dollars and no change. To him, this proved that his odyssey of unfaithful debauchery had not been an illusion, but very much a reality. This did not surprise or aghast him though, as it was a common practice by his kind. He set the wallet back down onto the nightstand, nearly missing it entirely and knocking over the rickety table lamp in the process—he hadn’t yet fully left the haze.

There were a couple of other items on the nightstand—a single cigarette, a pack of matches, and an astray. Langston took the cigarette and pack of matches, and with a swift flick of the wrist struck the match and lit his cigarette. He watched as the smoke began a holy pilgrimage from the end of the cigarette to the already blackened ceiling, then tapped the cigarette to the silver ashtray beside his wallet, allowing the ashes to gradually form a mound, reminiscent of purgatory. Once the cigarette had reduced to nothing but a pathetic butt, he dug it into the mound of ash, then squirmed out from his bedsheets and got dressed.

As he stepped out of his room, with a brown leather guitar case hanging down by his knees, he made a successful effort to avoid crossing paths with Mr. Lowry, who owned the Whittaker house. An involved conversation of contemporary politics wasn’t something he thought that he could handle at the moment. Stepping into the bar, which was out of sight from the front lobby desk, he dashed for the back door to make his escape. This attempt was brought to a halt when a horse-like shout shook the floor beneath him, freezing his legs quite literally.

“Langston Moet!” The Sheriff grabbed him by the collar the way an older brother would his younger sibling.

“Sheriff?” He was trembling, certain that his night of debauchery had been exposed, and Ann-Marie would come out from behind the wall at any moment, ready to execute him by means of frying pan or rolling pin—luckily this didn’t happen.

“Where on earth have you been boy? Y’know your woman’s home put off’n crying thinkin‘ you dead or sumfin.”

“I ain’t dead,” he assured him.

“Can’t quite tell if you is or ain’t—you look like hell.”

Langston didn’t think to look at himself in the mirror up in his room, but this wasn’t necessary, as he knew that what the Sheriff said was true.

“Drank a bit too much, and oh that little bi–” he cut off immediately, but when he saw the Sheriff’s lips form into a grin, and that graduate into a cackling bray, he knew it was too late. The Sheriff was well aware of his brazen adventure.

“Don’t worry boy, I ain’t here babysitting for Ann-Marie,” he said, releasing a forced chuckle. “Fella waitin‘ for you at Uncle Bo’s place.”

“Uncle Bo’s?” His voice was restrained and hesitant. “Say what he wants?”

“No, but he’s got on a clean suit and a silk tie.”

“Oh,” he said, relieved.

They stepped out onto the sizzling street, which warmed Langston’s feet through the holes in his shoes. As Langston occasionally looked up at the Sheriff, he could practically see his skin frying into darker and darker tones. They started towards Uncle Bo’s Tavern, which only sat a street down from The Whittaker house.

“What’s this business with the Bonner boys?”

Langston’s eyelids separated, one north and the other south. “Who says I got business with the Bonners?” His voice became stern and his enmity struck the Sheriff by surprise.

“Calm down boy, just asking.”

“Dem Bonners are nothing but thieving bastards.”

“What’d they do?”

“What didn’t they do? You know it, I know it. Whenever they leave their shithole ghettos to come o‘er here they win the jackpot. Don’t they? Tell me Sheriff, is dem Bonners cheating rats or what?”

“Prolly is,” he admitted. “How much you owe them?”

“Ten dollars.”

“Ain’t got ten bucks?”

“Not for them I don’t.”

Langston Recognized the men who were looking for him with ease, not that it was a difficult task in the first place. Instead of one man, there were two, both sitting at the far end of the small yet crowded tavern, just barely visible through the smoky haze and countless drunks who staggered from wall to wall. The man sitting on the right was of stout gelatinous shape, with a hairline that receded to the center of his round head. What remaining hair he had was waxed back, dull and coarse. He wore a two-piece suit of tan color—this didn’t do much to complement his wide figure. Around his neck was a crimson-colored tie which shone, even in the darkness of the tavern.

The man on the right was unlike the man on the left. In fact, he was the polar opposite. He had a full head of black hair, with precisely combed waves and canyons running through it. Above his upper lip were his whiskers, which were smartly trimmed and curved at each end. His eyelashes matched the dark color of his hair and mustache, to the point where it looked like he had been wearing eyeliner. A small brown blemish stained his left cheek, highlighting that nobody is flawless. While the first man wore a tan summer suit, this one wore a three-piece suit in mournful black fabric, fit for a funeral.

The man on the right remained as stiff as a statue, brooding deeply into his drink.

The Sheriff stretched his arm out to shake hands with the fat man, who received it.

He didn’t care to acknowledge the man who was sitting on the right.

Langston proceeded to greet both of the two men.

The black-suited man briefly looked up, returning the gesture by slightly tilting his head and smiling enticingly. Then he brought his gaze back to his drink and became once again a solid statue.

The Sheriff wrapped an arm around Langston and stretched the other out towards the fat man. “Mr. Santander, this here’s Langston Moet, Langston, Phillip Santander, Santander Records New Orleans.”

A shrill, almost offensive voice made its way out of the big man’s mouth. “Hey, hey. How’s it going? Langston, good to meet you. How about you boys take a seat, let’s have a quick chat.” With sublime sleight of hand, Phillip Santander reached his log-like arm towards the table behind him and slid over a chair for the Sheriff, who sat down.

Langston pulled over his own chair, propped his guitar case against its legs, and sat heavily—a reminder from yesterday’s drink that it still resided in his system. As his stomach flopped down and up, a burst of putrid gas rocketed up his esophagus in an attempted belch. In biting his teeth together and holding his breath he was able to refrain from doing so. Then Phillip Santander released a belch which rumbled the table and echoed within the tavern, assuring Langston that such manners were obsolete.

“So, Langston. You like music, huh?”

“That I do.” Langston looked down at the battered guitar case by his feet, then back up at Phillip.

“Well, that’s good,” Phillip started. “You see, Langston. Words around you’re pretty good with a guitar. That there’s your guitar, right?”

Langston nodded, yes.

“And, well,” Phillip Continued. “A lotta guys send in mail claiming they’re good, but it’s a different story when it’s not through mail, but through word of mouth that we hear someone’s good. And when it’s Santander records that hears a fella’s good, then you know that that fellas either a genius, or that it’s the people who are morons. So here I am, Langston, the Phillip Santander of Santander Records, New Orleans.”

There was silence.

Phillip’s lips formed an odious P.R smile, and he froze.

The man in black leaned over the table and hissed softly into his small ear.

As he sat back down, Phillip Santander reanimated.

“Of course, I gotta‘ see how good you are. How about you play me something, just so we can see if the rumors are true?”

Langston’s vision darkened. Then it was as though his brain was replaced with a cannonball, and keeping his head up became a strenuous task. This wasn’t yesterday’s drink—He was sure of that. As it got darker and darker, until no light remained, he found himself lost in a nebulous state. He searched and searched for a source of light, but he couldn’t find an exit from this twilight abyss.

Then he was out.

He returned to the realm of the free, dazed and shaking. The man in the black suit’s hand was over his shoulder, and for the first time, he spoke. “Sir, are you alright?” his voice rang in a sweet baritone and offered him tranquility and relief.

He couldn’t speak, because he felt if he did, he may throw up. He instead nodded.

Phillip Santander repeated his question as if he were asking it for the first time. “How about you play me something, just so we can see if the rumors are true?”

Langston bent down warily and flipped open the dull steel latches of his guitar case. The lid squealed for an oiling as Langston turned it open, revealing the guitar. It was a simple acoustic guitar of dark wood, scratches formed an abstract pattern on its edges and bottom, and the strings had begun to rust into a sick orange. He took the guitar into his arms as if it was the only child he could ever want and moved it around until he could find a comfortable position. His guitar pick was held in place in between the top two strings; he took a firm hold of it between his first finger and thumb. Keeping his arm still, he swiped the pick down the six strings moving only his wrist. The tune he played wasn’t anything in particular, but rather a moment’s improvisation. Inexorable as a cascade, the notes formed melody, and the melody formed a tune that left Phillip Santander with his jaw down to his knees. Though it was the Sheriff whose expression housed the greatest amount of astonishment, as his jaw hadn’t dropped to his knees, but all the way down to his feet.

“The greatest shock comes from the unexpected,” he thought he heard the man in black say, but he wasn’t sure.

“Beautiful, beautiful, and certainly original as I’ve never heard it, and there ain’t nothing I ain’t heard.” The pink of Phillip Santander’s face seemed more vibrant now than before. He then turned to the sheriff, no longer interested in Langston. “Sheriff, would you by any chance escort me to a telephone. I’d like to call those back home and tell them about this here fella.”

“Sure thing, I gotta telephone back at the office.”

Langston stayed back, hoping to get a bite or two of lunch. He promised that he’d pay a visit to the Sheriff’s office as soon as possible so that Phillip Santander can get some final things sorted with him before his leave. The man in the black suit also stayed back, and in a brief exchange of words, between mouthfuls of sweet potato pie, Langston managed to ask him his name.

“My name, Sir? You can call me Sam.” He spoke elaborately in an accent foreign to him.

Langston made a grueling attempt to prevent wastage of as much pie as possible. At coming to the realization that his fork had limited capabilities when it came to anti-wastage services, he used his pointer fingers to sweep up from his plate what remained of the sweet potato pie.

“If you need, I can drive you around, sir,” said Sam.

Langston, of course, didn’t mind. “Sure, your car’s here?”

“Yes, Mr. Phillip prefers to travel by water, and I—though humiliating to admit—despise water.”

“Ain’t gonna judge you,” Langston assured him, holding up his spotless plate in satisfaction.

Sam left the tavern, and not long after returned, carrying the roar of a V-12 engine alongside him.

It was a black Lincoln Continental, without a scratch or spot of rust to be seen. As it pulled up in front of the tavern, its V-12 crooned gloriously. A hood ornament of silver and gold which depicted an irrelevant shape claimed superiority over any other of the town’s vehicles, and a golden shield, which the word Lincoln Spelled across it assured the claimant’s worthiness of this superiority. Under normal circumstances, children and locals would gather up around the car and give it a standing ovation, but today nobody seemed to care.

Pulling open the passenger side door, Langston carefully slid into the car, being careful not to cause any damage he wouldn’t be able to pay for. The interior of the Lincoln had leather seats in a taupe shade, with a sinister scarlet inner paneling and gold accents matching its outer hood ornament and insignia. The car’s radio was the centerpiece of the interior—a large square panel of a gold-toned metal with ivory white dials at its top and a grate at the bottom, which gave it the semblance of a French Victorian oven. As he placed his feet on the soft carpet flooring a fear that the bottom of his shoes would leave dirt stains boiled fatally in his stomach. He wanted to look down and see if any damage had been done, but ultimately decided against it, arguing that if he can’t see it, then it simply isn’t there.

The silence they drove in disturbed Langston, so he asked, “How you likin’ C_____?”

“Very much how I expected it.”

“How’s that?”

“Dull.”

“You say so?”

“I do.”

“Well how come?”

“It’s the world that’s dull, sir. Not just this here town, and lousy people are the reason for this.”

“Well, there’s no arguing with that. People are animals.”

“No shortage of animals, Mr. Moet.”

“You said it Sam, you said it.”

Sam stayed in the car as Langston stepped out and made his walk up the sidewalk. At seeing that people were watching him, he took up a certain pretension in his manner. Though he knew that this was certainly all in his head, as it was impossible for anyone to know about the deal he had just secured.

The Sheriff’s office was a single room which didn’t have much in it—a desk, three chairs, one of which was the Sheriff’s wooden throne, two barrels of water, a safe, and a vacant holding cell. Besides these, nothing else took up ground space in the office. On the wall were a few plaques which didn’t really serve any purpose besides claiming authority to the Sheriff; it wasn’t with the plaques though, where his true authority stood, but with the double-barrel shotgun which leaned against the wall.

“Aha! Langston Moet!” Roared the loud-mouthed Phillip Santander whilst his back facing the door, and his neckless head turned back just enough that he could perceive the approaching Moet out the corner of his right eye. “Take a seat!”

He sat.

The Sheriff sat in his throne, one leg over the other, smoking. He appeared to have lost his energy from earlier, and any signs of excitement seemed to have permanently departed. Holding his head up with one hand, and holding his cigarette in the other, he watched Langston enter in melancholy.

“Sheriff, why don’t you leave me and the boy be, so we can talk for a bit,” said Santander to the Sheriff who got up and left in his silence, leaving but a trail of smoke behind his back—a reminder of his existence. “So, Langston, I like you. That’s crystal clear, clearer than the diamond ring I bought my wife on our wedding.” He immediately suffocated on his own joke, jerking his head back and forth as the sudden laughter shook the area around them. By the time this extended laughter had suppressed, Santander turned from pink to purple, and his face was wet with streams of salty perspiration. “So, anyway, I like you a lot. And I think you can make me big money. That’s all this business is anyway—money, money, and more money. I’d sell my mother to Moors for cash.”

“Money’s good,” said Langston without reluctance.

“Yes, it is. So anyway, it all boils down to when you can come down and make your move to the city?”

“Don’t know, depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“The wife.”

“Oooh, that’s a problem. It’s why I got a divorce, business and love are like fire and water—you either make big bucks that go directly into your woman’s pocket, or you get a wife that’s such a distraction that you can’t make that money in the first place. Women are no good. Look, you just come down when you can. The earlier the better. You come down tomorrow and right away we’ll focus on putting together our first record, but even if you come in a week that’s ok, I understand that you can’t just leave your wife. But a week should be enough to get those things settled. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds reasonable I suppose.”

“Fantastic! Once I arrive, I’ll make sure to arrange lodging, and once you arrive, I’ll be sure to give you a nice advance so you can get yourself something nice. How about it?”

“Great,” He said, with a slight pain niggling in his chest and his hands beginning to feel cold, even in the heat.

“You got enough funds to travel.”

“I think I have enough.”

“Well ok then, Langston Moet,” he said as he struggled to get to his feet. “The rest we can talk about once you arrive, as I don’t have the required paperwork to process a contract. My time here is done Moet, I better have the Sheriff escort me to the piers. Don’t want to miss my cruise.”

And he left.

Langston took to the streets and saw that the black Lincoln was still where he had left it and Sam waiting as he had promised.

The brutal heat had begun to cool down, as the sun stood lower in the sky, slowly abdicating its throne.

When Langston stepped once more into the opulent vehicle, he was immediately struck by the intense burn of its interior. As his bottom touched the leather seats, he felt it grilling and feared that holes may be burned into his pants.

“Goddammit, why on’t you crack open a window Sam, you’ll cook up into a roast you stay here too long.”

“Ever been to the baths Mr. Moet?” His arms were stretched out over the seat, and his head resting back with his eyes closed.

“No, I haven’t,” Answered Langston.

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it—it’s the wrong type of heat.”

Langston ignored this and repeated his initial question. “Why on’t you crack open a window Sam?”

“I enjoy dry heat, Mr. Moet, It feels good on my skin.”

“Well, whatever toots your horn, Sam. Can we just roll down the windows?” He asked desperately.

“Of course,” and he rolled down the window. Langston did the same on his side, then the engine thundered, and the wheels propelled the vehicle down the road.

“So, what have you decided on doing, Mr. Moet.”

“Oh God,” Langston said, feeling the pain in his chest increasing. “Ain’t feeling good Sam.”

“How come?”

“Just ain’t sure what to do, that’s all.”

“You mean accepting Mr. Phillip’s proposal?”

“Well, yeah.”

“It’s a rare opportunity, I wouldn’t see how you would decline,” Sam said. “What’s holding you back. Is it the madame?”

“Believe it is. And not only that, but she’s got a cake bakin’ in that oven of hers. Didn’t tell Santander that.”

“It isn’t yours, Mr. Moet.”

“Huh?”

“It isn’t your child.”

“The hell you sayin’ Sam?”

“You’ve had your own suspicions as well, haven’t you?”

“Well, not necessarily.”

“Yes, you have, Mr. Moet. Just think about it for a moment.”

He thought about it. “Maybe It crossed my mind at some point.”

“No, no, no. More than that Mr. Moet. You’ve been suspicious of the madame having an affair for some time now.”

The pain in his chest reached a maximum, and at that moment Langston stuck his head out the open window, and let his lunch erupt out of his mouth and onto the floor. He heard it sizzle as it made contact with the exposed sidewalk. As he pulled himself back into the car Sam handed him his handkerchief—silken and red.

Langston wiped his mouth. “Goddammit!” He spit a thick and orange loogie out the window. “Take me home Sam.”

As the black car approached the modest home, Langston could see Ann-Marie, standing out under Verandah, like a mother waiting for her menacing child to appear, so that she could give him a whupping.

“Okay, stop here Sam.” Sam stopped, and Langston walked the remaining three blocks.

“Langston Moet!” He had begun to get used to this form of shouting and didn’t even wince. “Where have you been you lousy twit!” Ann-Marie’s expression was both angry and relieved, and even though she was spewing out her lungs, Langston knew that this anger was only a part of her pride.

“Step inside Ann-Marie,” Langston said calmly. “Don’t you make a scene out here,” and as he stepped through the doorway he added, “and make some coffee too.”

She didn’t answer, but this didn’t mean defeat. As she followed him in, she puffed up her shoulders and straightened her back to its limit, assuring anyone who was watching that she wouldn’t stay silent for long.

As she whipped up a steaming batch of coffee in a small glass pot, which filled the home with the nutty and floral aroma which came with it, Langston Kicked up his feet on a chair and waited patiently.

Once the coffee began its hectic dance, Ann-Marie swiftly removed the pot from the flame and poured it into two green diner mugs. Reaching over to the far end of the counter she retrieved the sugar bowl, and along with the two green mugs brought it over to the table.

As she sat down across from Langston, he spoke. “I’m leavin‘ Ann-Marie.”

“Where to?” She asked with a certain attitude.

“Don’t matter,” he said. “Point is, I’m gettin‘ the hell out of C_____, and sure as hell won’t be comin‘ Back.”

“Just leavin’ us like that?” She put her hand over her belly.

“Ain’t mine, so don’t matter to me.”

Her face blushed pink. “What you mean it ain’t yours, Langston. Who’s else would it be?”

“Don’t care who’s it is, s‘long as it ain’t mine.”

“What you tryna‘ say?”

“What? you didn’t think I’d know, did you? Didn’t think I knew you was a dirty tramp with a polluted womb, did you?”

As he said this the pink of her face disappeared and was replaced with a pale and lifeless grey. “I think you’re completely insane Langston Moet.”

“And I think you ain’t but a good for nothin’ whore, and you know what else–”

That did it for her.

She reached quickly behind her and grabbed the glass coffee pot, before launching it towards Langston at brutal velocity. The pot exploded right on his chest, sending shards all over the floor and table. The steaming hot coffee splattered all over Langston’s torso, legs, and chin, and sent him flying back in his chair. He let out a scream which echoed a minor chord in the small kitchen.

Ann-Marie stood up and stepped back with one hand still over her belly and the other over her mouth. When his scream died out, she feared that she had somehow killed him. When Langston made an effort to stand, then fell back down, she was certain that she had. Tears rushed to her eyes, and she began to whine, “oh, Langston.” She put her hands over her eyes to curtain the image of Langston rolling around in steaming coffee, glass, and a new liquid that appeared to be his own urine.

Then, without having a chance to comprehend what was happening, she felt an intense pain in her stomach. At first, she thought that it was the baby who decided to make an early arrival, but at feeling the bony fist concaving, nearly piercing, into her belly, she knew what was happening. Before she knew it, she was on the floor, looking up at the silhouette of Langston Moet—shards of glass sparkled in his clothing and dark coffee dripped from it.

She then felt a liquid begin to moisten in between her legs and her whole body began to shiver. Through her tears she watched Langston go into the bedroom and come out with a fresh pair of clothes on, before leaving.

“Did everything go well?” asked Sam, having already gotten his answer from the frown which conquered Langston’s lips.

“About as good as it could have.” Langston held his chin up with his hand and watched as the people and buildings swished by him, becoming disoriented blurs of tired colors.

“So, to the piers then?”

“Yeah,” said Langston, and after a period of sometime later picked up his head and continued. “She never really appreciated me; you know that Sam?”

“I know.”

“Last month was our anniversary, you know that? And while other husbands don’t give an oyster’s damn about their anniversaries, I went out and got her a cupcake, even bought the bitch flowers—didn’t pick em; I bought em. And what she do, she goes and tells Ms. Lancaster next door and Ms. Lancaster riles her up tellin’ her bout’ husbands buyin’ fifty dollar bouquets and hundred dollar cakes and five hundred dollar horses and five thousand dollar Chryslers and five million dollar houses. A month she be beggin’ me to git her an Arabian bred nag.”

“Don’t put in on yourself, Mr. Moet. God gave the human free-will so that he can make the right decisions. You did as you saw right.”

“Oh, Sam.” He seemed sad now, rather than worried. “I hit her pretty hard.”

“I know.”

“Think I might have killed the kid in her.”

“You did.”

“Oh, God, God, God,” he muttered softly.

“I’m here, Mr. Moet. I’m listening.”

“Appreciate it, Sam.”

“You did what you had to do, Mr. Moet. Take the lion, for example—he must at times kill a cub to keep his territory. A sacrifice in the name of power.”

“If you say so, Sam.”

As the black Lincoln pulled to a final halt right beside the C_____ Piers, Langston and Sam got out, and while Langston bought himself a one-way ticket to New Orleans, Sam waited for him by the boarding deck. The white, two-tier steamboat stood tall and proudly in the green river, and large red letters spelled “The Caligo” across its side, below the second deck. Behind it was mounted the round red paddlewheel which stood still, dripping and awaiting command.

As more and more people climbed aboard, and a crowd began to form on the narrow pier, Langston squeezed his way through them until Sam came into his vision. “Got it.” He said, holding up the yellow slip in his hand.

“Well then, Mr. Moet, I believe this is where we’ll be separating.”

“That seems to be the case, Sam.” He held out his hand, and Sam received it. The two hands stayed locked for some time, and with the releasing of this bond Langston’s heart rate sped up and his eyes widened ever so slightly, not to mention that his nausea came back.

“Go on now, my friend.” Sam smiled softly, and a twinkle became apparent in his deep black eyes.

Langston obeyed his orders and began walking up the boarding deck. Once aboard he showed his ticket to the attendant and walked down the first tier of the steamboat. At this moment the clicking and clacking of the steamboat’s engine had raised a symphony, and dark smoke had begun to rise out of its two smokestacks. He assumed that Phillip Santander would be somewhere on this boat, but not in any location accessible to him. As the boat initiated its departure, Langston leaned over the railings, watching as more and more water separated him from land. The Boat then whistled in soprano, as Langston looked down at the pathetic guitar case, which was the only thing he still owned. As a cooling breeze dried the sweat from his face, he knew that the day’s heat had passed, and he looked out west to spot the sun. It was no longer in power and had been overthrown in favor of the moon, who was making its slow rise to the throne. Out in the distance, Langston was able to locate Sam, who had been looking out towards him—watching him. And as the town of C_____, Mississippi became hidden behind trees and hills and forests foreign to him, a seed of unease remained planted in the heart of Langston Moet because he knew that Sam would still be watching.