The Accountant turned the chart around. On the back, in fresh paint: SEAT 1: CAPTAIN BO LAGRANGE. REWARD: ONE WORKING SHOWBOAT, NO LIENS.
And that, children, is why you never sit down before you read the fine print.
But Bo had a secret. He was also a debt collector for the Black Bayou Syndicate, and the seating chart was his ledger of damnation. Seat 17 (portside, near the sternwheel window) belonged to Silas “Silk” Thornton, a cardsharp who’d fled Memphis after a high-stakes game turned into a high-body-count affair. Seat 44 (center, under the blown-glass chandelier) was reserved for the Honorable Phineas Woolcott, a judge who’d hanged an innocent man and buried the evidence in a sugar crate. Seat 89 (the shadowy corner by the escape ladder) was for Mamzelle Célestine, a voodooienne who’d cursed a plantation family so thoroughly that their own hounds turned on them. seating chart for general jackson showboat
Captain Bo feigned shock. He gathered the passengers in the saloon and pointed to the chart. “This is a tragedy,” he said. “But we are law-abiding folk. No one leaves until we find the killer.” He smiled thinly. “And to help us, I’ve rearranged the seating. New assignments at sundown.”
The Accountant rose from Seat 2. He was unremarkable—gray suit, gray eyes, gray smile. “Correct,” he said. “But you’ve misread the fine print.” He tapped the chart. “Seat 17: $5,000 dead or alive. Seat 44: $10,000. Seat 89: $7,500. And Seat 2?” He glanced at Captain Bo, who was edging toward the paddlewheel. “Seat 2 is the buyer.” The Accountant turned the chart around
Bo screamed and dove overboard. The Mississippi swallowed him whole. But the Accountant simply shrugged, wiped the chart clean, and began reassigning seats for the next voyage. After all, a showboat without a captain is just a coffin floating downstream.
Judge Woolcott, now in Seat 44 (the chandelier spot), laughed too loudly. “A game of musical corpses!” he brayed. Half an hour later, the chandelier’s crystal chain snapped. It fell like a guillotine’s blade. The judge was crushed—but not before someone had carved the number “44” into his palm with a shard of glass. And that, children, is why you never sit
“Who sits there?” whispered a gambler.
