Sins of the Assassin

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Moseby needed to slow down. His haste stirred up a gray confetti of silt, disintegrating paper, and pulverized glass from the neon sign that once flashed OYSTER PO’ BOYS, TREAT YO MOUTH. The tiny halogen beams on either side of his face mask bounced back from the confetti, the light made useless by his excitement. Moseby drifted in the warm water of the Gulf, waiting. Plenty of time, no need to rush. He easily got four hours out of a three-hour tank. More if he stayed calm and clear.

Mama’s Home Cookin’ lay crumbling on its foundation, roof gone, the concrete-block walls scoured clean by the tide. A couple of red leatherette stools still sat upright, the floor carpeted with gently waving sea grass. He thought of the crowd at the LSU homecoming game last month, Annabelle on her feet beside him, pom-poms shaking as she cheered louder than anyone. He smiled around his mouthpiece. The cash register was sprung open on the counter, soggy bills hanging out like fingers from the till. Old money. Worthless. Mama’s didn’t hold any treasure. The oyster shack was just a marker, an indicator that he was close to what he sought.

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