I

Smoke hung thick in the air of Marvelous, a gossamer film softening the already dim lighting and obscuring the patrons from more than arm’s length. The evening crowd was its usual motley blend of drifters, longshoremen, and roughnecks looking to relax and disappear for a few hours at a time. Marvelous wasn’t the only establishment in Hayes, but it had built itself a neat little reputation as the only establishment which mattered.

Hayes itself was otherwise an unremarkable dockside town. A port by happenstance rather than design, it had grown like an algae bloom along one narrow branch of the Mississippi. It was Odette to the north which housed the railyard, connecting it to New Orleans on the mightiest part of the river, making it more attractive to most of those who drifted that far south without purpose. The wayward souls who chose Hayes as their base of operations were folks who knew of its reputation and wanted to avoid the eyes of too many strangers. Even after a full year, the Volstead Act hadn’t infiltrated the town, though the whispers were it wasn’t geography but the local rumrunner — a man known only as Baptiste — who kept the Treasury Department from nosing around.

A fresh plume of smoke billowed out of the nostrils of a solid lug of a man who was seated at the bar, angled away from the door and facing the modest stage. In the pale light of the room it was hard to make out the bulk of his features, but his shock of short cropped red hair cut a flare through the haze. There was no mistaking Ansel Koenig even on Marvelous’s busiest nights.

A regular in the lounge in more ways than one, he worked part time as a bouncer on the evenings when he wasn’t playing barfly. His tan from his infrequent work as a dockman in Mobile had faded, owing to the cooler months and the increase in time spent indoors since he’d rolled into Louisiana. He scratched idly at a spot in his short chinstrap beard — as brilliantly colored as his hair — revealing a burn scar on the back of his elbow which disappeared again under the rolled up cuff of his shirt.

The pianist was working on some low-key tune, an interlude before the main event which scarcely rose above the conversations rolling through the room. It was pleasant in a way that seemed at odds with the harsh faces cast down into their glasses and bottles. Part of the charm Marvelous held for Ansel was this contrast between glint and grime.

Ansel had his glass of rum halfway to his lips when he nearly lost it as a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder. He turned, tensed for a swing and only stayed his hand when a nasal laugh cut into him. His would-be assailant’s features were lost in the smoke thanks to his pale complexion and mop of straw colored curls, but Ansel dropped his fist in immediate recognition. As identifiable as Ansel’s hair was, that sound and accent were even more unique among the regulars.

“Hey-hey, Rusty!”

Ansel mustered up the sourest look possible in response and turned on Wolcott’s beaming face, hoping it might scare him off. The man was undeterred. The tip of Wolcott’s tongue stuck out through a gap in his teeth; the canine had been a casualty of Wolcott’s failed attempts to make the nickname “doughboy” stick to Ansel.

Wolcott was a man built on the consequences of past failures, the type who aimed for the moon and was lost amongst the stars. He could have been handsome, if someone hadn’t once broken his hooked nose such that it crooked off to one side. He could have been smart, if he’d known how to filter his thoughts before they flew out of his mouth, heedless of rhyme or reason. He could have been successful, if his attention could land on any venture longer and more lucrative than what a weekend would accomplish. 

“Marv don’t got you acting dog at the door tonight?” Wolcott asked, worming his way onto the stool to Ansel’s left. If looks could kill, he would have been crossing the River Jordan, ferried along by Ansel’s withering glare. 

“Sly’s on tonight,” Ansel grunted, tilting his head in the direction of the stage and downing his drink.

What passed for understanding flashed over Wolcott’s face and his smile turned electric. Before Ansel could dodge out of the way, his hand shot forward and roughly tousled his hair. “What a romantic this guy is, huh?”

“Fuck off.” Ansel twisted and contorted to escape Wolcott’s ribbing, but it was no use. The man’s hand stuck to him like a leech.

“What he sees in a fireplug like you I’ll never know,” he said.

From anyone else, this would read as jealousy. Ansel had bedded Wolcott a few times in his first weeks in Hayes on the off chance the man might be worth it. Unfortunately, Wolcott was a force of nature and there was no difference in his personality between public and private. For Ansel, the sex hadn’t been worth the trade-off of being trapped with him in a more confined space.

“I know when to keep my yap shut, for one,” Ansel said, freeing himself from Wolcott’s grip at last. 

“’Yap fer wun’,” Wolcott repeated with a suppressed giggle.

“Don’t you fuckin’ start in on that shit,” Ansel said, rounding on him and pointing at a space between Wolcott’s eyes.

“I just want to make it clear they speak English in Georgia, right?” he asked, sliding his chin into his hand and leaning on the bar. To Wolcott, who had slithered his way down the Mississippi from a point far north, Ansel was a novelty among novelties. He lived to light him up just right and watch the fireworks fly.

Heat flared in Ansel’s face, tinting his cheeks as brightly as his hair and he raised to his full height over Wolcott. “Would you quit devilin’ me? God almighty but you’re thick as pigshit,” he said, giving into his anger with a fanged snarl.

Wolcott’s response to Ansel looming large over him — shoulders squared and jaw tensed —  was to purse his lips together in quick kissing sounds. “A joke, Rusty, settle down. You’re about to miss the show.”

Distraction though it may be, it was also the truth. The pianist had switched from ambient background melody to a more full bodied piece, and the buzz of conversation had quieted. Up on stage, the main event appeared like a ship from the fog. Sly’s thick, black hair was slicked down to his scalp leaving a few bunches of tight coils along the right side of his dark face to partially obscure his eye. His suit was a pale lavender which almost glowed in the light of the stage, lending him an ethereal quality. The effect was only enhanced when he began to sing, a deep and sensual sound which didn’t at all match his lithe frame. 

It was that voice which had first attracted Ansel, ensnaring his attention as if drawing him down into deep waters. Though Ansel didn’t understand a word of Creole, the words transcended all of his carefully placed barriers to settle in his chest, to soothe and quench the fire that had been smoldering in him since he had been discharged at Newport News. And the song did the same for him now, relaxing his body, easing him back down on his stool, his prior anger at Wolcott a low simmer at the back of his mind. He again drained his glass and watched the stage and for a few tender moments only himself and Sly existed.

But powerful as this experience was, it was as fragile as a soap bubble and his good humor popped when he felt Wolcott’s finger jabbing into the muscle of his shoulder with no small amount of force. When Ansel at last swiveled his head around, withered hazel eyes landing on piercing blue, he was taken aback by the serious expression he met.

“You’re looking for some extra money, right?” Wolcott asked with the uncharacteristic tenor of a businessman.

Ansel’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he turned his back to the stage as Sly began his next number — that was a song he’d heard before. “An’ just where did you hear that?”

With a blink, Wolcott leaned back in his seat before slapping Ansel’s chest. “From you, ya rummy. The other night? Cali-for-ni-yay?”

“Oh,” Ansel muttered, furrowing his brow in thought. It was true he hadn’t been working a few nights before and he’d spent most of it at a table, deep in his cups, but had he spoken to Wolcott at the time? Five minutes prior he would have been certain he’d only discussed his plans with Sly. Another scrap of evidence pointing to the overwhelming conclusion his memory had — to put it kindly — gone to shit, but he brushed it aside. He’d have time to dwell on that business later.

“Soooo,” Wolcott said, drawing out the word to an astonishing degree. “Money. You in?”

“That’ll depend on what in is,” Ansel said, throwing back another glass of rum. He hadn’t even registered the barman refilling it; Marvelous employed the best. “It ain’t just cash I’m short on, it’s time, too. Three days a’fore I’m gone.” 

If Wolcott’s eyes could sing, they would have given Sly a run for his money at that moment. Anything but a curt “fuck off” was an acquiescence in his mind and he draped an arm around Ansel to work on reeling him in. “You remember that new kid started coming in here a couple weeks ago?”

As occasional bouncer for the lounge, Ansel did manage to keep track of the patrons and he brought Wolcott’s mark to mind in an instant. Tall but lean, with baby fat still hanging to his tanned cheeks, the kid had stuck out like a sore thumb. He hadn’t said much to anyone and sipped his drinks alone; the usual crowd was divided on whether or not he was a rat.

“I got a little friendly with him,” Wolcott continued when it became apparent Ansel was following the thread of conversation. “He sure was reluctant to talk, but after a little booze and a little dope, that canary had a better tune for me than your meal ticket up there.” The little nod of his chin to the stage brought another flash of heat to Ansel’s face, but he swallowed it down. “He’s a driver. For Baptiste.”

The name caused Ansel to sit up straighter on his seat, pulling Wolcott’s arm back with him. He tilted his head as he sized up the man, links connecting in his mind of the plan being laid out before him. “What else did he say?” he asked, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Two nights from tonight, he’s moving a truckload of the Caribbean’s finest from here up to Odette. You know the way.”

He did know the way. Both business and pleasure had taken Ansel up the pockmarked strip of dirt the locals called a road which cut through the least swampy patch of backcountry. It was scarcely navigable in broad daylight, the brush thick on either side with pine trees, tangling vines, and thorny bushes. It was also home to a variety of menacing wildlife including bobcat and black bears which were accustomed to the taste of human remains — the woods were a popular site for the open-air burial of those unfortunate souls who had fallen to some manner of misfortune, their chewed out carcasses on full display.

Gnawing on his lip, Ansel considered all this as Sly’s music faded away behind him taking the murmur of the crowd with it — it was as if he and Wolcott were now the last two men in the room. “That road’s black’r’n Hades an’ full of mudholes this time of year,” he said, warming up to the idea. “Can’t take a truck full of bottles over it too fast.”

Wolcott’s face split into a wide grin and he patted Ansel’s chest with enthusiasm. “One driver. Two gunmen. They’ll never see us coming, there’s a lot of bayou to disappear in between here and there. We take the truck to New Orleans, get what we can for it, and ipso facto we’re on our way.”

Ansel ran his fingers along his chin, scratching his beard in thought. Wolcott may have been impulsive, but he wasn’t an unintelligent man. There weren’t any holes in the plan as far as Ansel could pick out. Head swimming with the heat of the room and the drink in his blood, he gave a curt nod. “Alright, I’m in.”

Letting out a joyous whoop, Wolcott gripped Ansel’s neck with one hand and gave him another hearty slap on the chest with his other. “I knew you wouldn’t do me wrong when it mattered, Rusty ol’ boy.” Ansel grunted, letting the praise wash off him. “You got a gun?” he asked.

“Up-bup-bup,” Wolcott tutted, putting his finger to Ansel’s lips. It took all his self control not to bite the man. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

Something about Wolcott’s tone of voice made the hairs on Ansel’s neck stand on end, but whatever sense of dread he might have normally had was dulled by the alcohol and the promise of easy money. The thoughts lurking beneath Wolcott’s mop of curls were best left unexamined until the future came to pass; worrying about it in the present would only put Ansel in a foul mood.

Turning his shoulder away from Wolcott, Ansel raised his eyebrows to find the stage empty. The lights had once again dimmed and the pianist had taken up his role of disseminating ambiance into the room. With Sly nowhere to be seen and with his glass refilled by the blessedly efficient barkeep, Ansel allowed himself to be lost in the night.