“I’m telling you it’s true,” Wisher objected. “He was responsible for it all! Incompetence, they all said.”
Marta continued to look skeptical, but the man and his friend Monk were known to be straight talkers. She was slowly being swayed by their words.
“But it’s Oggy, we’re talking about. If he was that much of a reprobate he wouldn’t continue to get hired.” She thought of the homely man and his carefree attitude.
Everyone has seen how lazy he is around town. If he was so highly sought, why does he only rent rooms? He should have made enough to own a home by now.” There were scowls from some of the renters in the taproom, but there was more grumbling over Oggy than that of Wisher’s comment. Oggy was certainly known to avoid labor, slouching around town from one nap to another. It was easy to believe that his inattention could have caused a death.
The news had time to simmer before Oggy walked in that afternoon. He sauntered to the bar, seemingly ignorant of the stares and whispers. The expected drink and bowl of stew were not forthcoming. Rather, Marta gave him a slap.
“You dare to come here!,” she snarled.
Rubbing his cheek, he stared at her with his usual unconcerned face.
“This is where my things are,” he said flatly. Marta had known him long enough to recognize that there was a change in his demeanor that was unfamiliar to her. Mumbled words tumbled from her mouth. A number of patrons stood and began to move forward before remembering he was armed.
Without further words, Oggy walked to the stairs to the second floor and ascended. A few minutes later he returned with his possessions, navigating through the tables to the door. Marta stammered out an apology to his distant back.