The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright-
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
from The Walrus and The Carpenter, in Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872, by Lewis Carroll
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He sat, with his back against the whitewashed brick wall, looking at the man across the courtyard. The other man, his target, sat beyond a bricked pond, complete with a small fountain in the middle now merrily bubbling away. How serene, he thought. What a nice place for a murder.
His waiter came by and topped off his coffee, asked if he needed anything else.
"No, I'm fine now, thanks."
"Could I bring your check, sir?"
"Yes, that'd be good."
The waiter walked off to his station and he resumed looking at the fountain, thinking about the day ahead - and all the things that could go wrong - then he looked at the watch on his left wrist and sighed. A little after ten in the morning, he saw. Two hours to go. He'd have to make a move soon.
The waiter dropped off his bill and he glanced at it absently, stuck a twenty inside the folder - just as the man across the courtyard stood and said something to his female companion. He watched the man walk inside and go into the restroom, then he stood and walked that way.
The man was standing at a urinal when he walked in and as he passed behind he placed a silenced Walther 22 at the base of the man's skull and pulled the trigger once. He caught the man as his knees gave way, then muscled the twitching body into a stall and locked the door behind. He wiped down the Walther and put it in the man's right hand, then slid under the partition and brushed his clothes off, washed his hands. He walked out of the bathroom and through the restaurant, heading down Royal Street to The Royal Orleans a block and a half away, and there he went to his room and retrieved a small, tan leather suitcase. Returning to the lobby, he paid his bill then grabbed a taxi to the train station - and as the old Chevy drove through the French Quarter he noted with satisfaction there were still no sirens wailing in the morning air.
He was old enough to remember the old Louis Sullivan designed Union Station, and he looked at the new, white monstrosity on Loyola Street and groaned. Like a monument to Bauhaus efficiency, he thought, the terminal looked like a mausoleum, or perhaps, more fittingly, like a prison. He paid the taxi driver and grabbed his suitcase and walked inside, looked up at the clock and sighed again - only 11:15 - he thought as he walked up to the check-in area.
"Name?" the bald-headed agent asked as he stepped up the white marble counter.
"Carter. Ben Carter."
"Going all the way to Los Angeles, today, Mr Carter?"
"Yessir. I should have a reservation..."
"Yes, I have it right here, sir. You're in sleeper 2309, room seven," the bald man said as he handed over a ticket.
"What about my bag? May I carry it on?"
"Yessir, of course. We'll be boarding your car in five minutes, so you might want to get in that line by the double doors," he said, pointing to his right. "Have a nice trip."
"Thanks," he said before he walked over to the doors, looking over the people in the queue as he approached. Mainly older couples, people taking the train more out of nostalgia - or fear of flying - than for any other good reason he could think of, then he stopped, looked around and walked away from the doors.
The ticket agent watched Carter as he walked over to the newsstand, then bent over and picked up a telephone. He dialed the number from memory.
+++++
Sara Berman looked down at her heels and shuddered. Why she'd allowed her mother to buy the things for her she'd never know, but the damn things hurt so bad right now her eyes were watering. Four inches high! Goddamn! And why? "Because you'll look sexy, dear," her mother said.
"Shoes make you look sexy? Are you serious?"
"Sure do," her mother said matter-of-factly. "Remember what Marilyn Monroe said? 'I don't know who invented high heels, but women owe a lot to him?'"
"Yeah, Mom, and look what happened to her?"
"Bosh! If you're ever going to get a man, you're going to have to dress up a bit!"
"Those aren't the kind of men I'm interested in, Mom."
"You never know, Sara, who you'll meet. Or when."
Well, yes, she did know. If men were interested in her because she was wearing high heeled shoes...well, she had better things to do with her time, didn't she?
Then an overhead loudspeaker clicked on and howled for a second: "Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Southern Pacific's train number one, The Sunset Limited, will begin boarding in a minute. Please have your tickets out and ready for the conductor as you approach door number three, and cars 2311, 2309 and 2310 will board first, so will passengers in those cars please come to Door Three now."
Berman shoved her suitcase along with her leg, causing even more pain in her right foot, and she vowed to throw these goddamn shoes away as soon as she got in her compartment.
"Could I help you with that?"
Startled, she turned and saw a man standing beside her. "What?"
"Your bag? Could I help you with that - while you get your ticket out?"
She seemed startled and he couldn't help but laugh, even if he did so to himself. And she seemed to be tottering on the outrageous stiletto pumps she had on, like she didn't normally wear such things, so he didn't wait for her to reply and picked up the grip and walked along beside her.
"Thanks," she said. "I hope it's not too heavy."
"Oomph. What do you have in here? A stack of bricks, or maybe a small lending library?"
"Sort of. Some books I wanted to take with me."
They walked up to the conductor and she handed her ticket over for inspection, then he did too, and the conductor looked them over quickly, sizing them up as husband and wife as he smiled and looked them over - before he noted the separate room numbers.
They walked through the doors and out onto the platform, and he led the way out - his shoulder sagging under the load of her suitcase. "What car are you in?" he asked.
"2309."
"Me too," he said as he came up to the car. A porter was waiting on the platform and he handed over his bag, then put hers on the concrete.
"Room number?" the porter asked.
"I'm in seven," he said.
"Number five," she added quickly, and the porter looked at her, then at him.
"I see. Well, y'all head on up. I'll be right behind you with your bags."
He stood aside and she stepped on the yellow metal step-stool - and immediately started to fall backwards; Carter stepped over and caught her, and after he steadied her he went ahead, then turned and offered his hand.
And she took it, let him help her up the steps, then he led her through the vestibule down the corridor. "Number five, you said?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Well, here you are."
"I guess I should thank you," she said, and he noticed she was blushing as she spoke.
"Oh? Well, my pleasure, but one question."
"Oh? Well sure, fire away."
"Do you normally wear shoes like that?"
She looked down at her feet and turned crimson. "Uh, well...what a question!"
"Oh, they look nice on you," he said, then he turned and walked to his room and disappeared inside - leaving her standing there, wondering what the hell had just happened. The porter walked up behind her just then, and he coughed a little - to let her know he was coming - and she turned, smiled, and let him carry the overloaded bag into her compartment.
"What you got in here, Ma'am?"
"Books. Lots of books."
"Phew. Thought so. What is you? A lawyer?"
"No. Physician."
"Dagnabbit, never had a doc carry so much books before. What is you? A brain surgeon?"
She rolled her eyes and opened her purse, pulled out a five and handed it to the old man. "I'm so sorry," she said, gushing. "I had no idea..."
"No problem, Ma'am. We'll be serving lunch about the time we pass the Baton Rouge area, about an hour. You want me to reserve a table for you, or bring a tray down here?"
She looked at the old man and smiled conspiratorially: "Tell you what. Find out what he's doing," she whispered, nodding down to where her savior had just disappeared, "and try to get me at his table."
"Yes'm," the old man grinned. "I can do that."
"Thanks." She ducked into her room - and promptly fell down into her seat as the car jumped - and the power went off for a moment, the air conditioning too, then as suddenly everything flashed back on. She shut the door and pulled her shoes off, thought about pulling her penny loafers out of the bag and slipping those on as she rubbed circulation back into her toes - and then she remembered his parting words: "they look nice on you..." Why'd he say that - unless he liked the way they looked? And why now did she give a hoot?
