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FINAL ENTRY/MartinONEOctober, 1960 – He met his contact at Galatoire’s in the Quarter, a shotgun restaurantwith tile floors and tables for four with white linen tablecloths. Galatoire’s was a New Orleanstradition, and after having eaten in most of the better restaurants in New Orleans, it was still hisfavorite. Not only that, the steady hum of conversation among both tourists and locals would provide a soothing backdrop for what he was about to do.Jack Wellborn was a tall man with classic European features and an air of sophisticationand confidence that, at least on this particular occasion, masked his true feelings. He sat erect ina dark grey business suit, white shirt, and conservative tie, still in disbelief that it had come tothis. He had made discoveries that would change the world, but they were ahead of their time,and as a result money for research had been a problem. Now he was approaching desperate. Nothing made that more painfully apparent than his dinner companion, a large man whose palmsand interlaced fingers fell upon his oversized stomach as though it was his own personal podiumof power. Jack Wellborn had hated him for as long as he could remember and now he was askinghim for money. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at himself in the mirror again.There had to be some other way. He put it out of his mind as he ordered a Godchaux salad, hisfavorite. Fresh Gulf shrimp the size of your thumb and plump fresh tomatoes on a bed of crisplettuce, topped off with the chef’s special dressing. Dessert would be Galatoire’s famous bread pudding, arguably the best on the face of the earth. It was small consolation but at least the mealwould be something to look forward to. His dinner companion demanded whiskey, and thenwithout consulting the menu, ordered prime rib. End cut of course.Their conversation over dinner was mostly polite but intense, especially when they1

FINAL ENTRY/Martinargued over who would get what, and when. More than once, Jack Wellborn asked himself if thisreally was his only option, but he knew the answer before the question had completely formed inhis mind. He had no choice. They finished their meal and settled the check. The atmosphereremained guarded, but not without at least feigned resolution. The outcome was less than hehoped for, but it was workable and more important, it was done. By this time tomorrow night hewould be home. Home. The word brought forth feelings of emptiness. He recalled the manydays, and nights, away from his wife and son. Sacrifices that he told himself were vital to their future. To everyone’s future.They walked without talking from Galatoire’s to the Old Absinthe House a few doorsdown on Bourbon and went inside for a drink. He ordered a whiskey sour. He hated beer and hadnever cultivated a taste for wine. He really didn’t like whiskey either, but the sugar took the edgeoff, and he liked the taste of the cherry after it had been sitting in the alcohol for a while. Likemost patrons they stood, leaning on the copper-topped wooden bar as muffled sounds of theVieux Carre’ floated in and out of the hundred and fifty year old tavern. He made a few vainattempts at small talk, but with their business completed, there was little to talk about. Hiscompanion struck up a conversation with a female patron while he fought the excitement thatcame with knowing he would now have the cash that was so vital to his research. For a momenthe wondered if it would be enough, and if he would be able to meet the terms he had agreed to, but he quickly dismissed the thought. They finished their drinks and stepped out onto Bourbon.The temperature was mid-sixties and the humidity high – a typical October night in NewOrleans. He lit a cigarette and watched with an uncomfortable mixture of satisfaction and disgustas his dinner companion was gradually absorbed by the mist. Then he flicked the match into thestreet and he too disappeared into the low-lying fog.2

FINAL ENTRY/MartinJack Wellborn hailed a cab for the short ride to the Royal Hotel on Canal. He spoke to thenight clerk as he made his way up the stairs to his room and unlocked the door. The room wasnothing to write home about, but it was adequate. There was a lavatory in the corner for shavingand the showers and restroom were only a few feet down the hall. He felt unusually tired so hecollapsed onto the bed, his head finding rest against the simple stained oak headboard.Ordinarily, he would have removed his coat and trousers immediately upon entering the room, acommon practice designed to get the most out of a trip to the cleaners. Tonight, it never enteredhis mind. His vision was beginning to blur and he felt dizzy. He removed his glasses, rubbed hiseyes, and then reached for the journal on the nightstand. He immediately realized that somethingwasn’t right. His mind seemed to dart in all directions as he tried desperately to form a rationalthought. Was he having a seizure? A heart attack? His arms felt like lead as he finally managedto pick up the pen. A horrifying panic took on a life of its own as it fought to prevent him fromgetting those few words on paper. Holding the pen more like a tool than a writing instrument, hestruggled to force the last symbol onto the page. And then a burning pain filled his chest,thousands of needles delivering a stinging sensation over his entire body. Suddenly, he couldn’tfeel anything anymore, and a strange peace came over him. His thoughts turned to Lucy, thenCatherine, and finally his children. Then he thought about the truth, and wondered if anyonewould ever know.As the door to the catwalk from the Saenger-Orleans Theater to the Royal Hotel openedcautiously, amber gum-soled shoes moved silently through the doorway and down the halltoward room seven. He didn’t know what he would do if he made it in time but he knew he hadto try. He listened carefully as he cocked his ear to the door. Hearing nothing other the poundingof his own heart, he knocked softly and almost simultaneously, tried the doorknob. The door 3