Louisiana Laydown (8 page)

“Safer than being out west,” he said. “Out there, in the open, there’s nowhere to hide. Once a bad man moves into an area, you’ve either got to kill him, hang him, or arrest him—and if you’re outnumbered, the odds are against it. Here, all I have to do is keep the streets quiet and go about my business. It’s not justice, but I’ve learned that at least here, I’ve got places to hole up in.”

“Didn’t imagine you being much of a runner,” Fargo said. “You stood and fought right next to me back in Kansas.”

“This
isn’t
Kansas, Fargo,” H.D. snapped. “It’s not like anywhere I’ve ever been or heard of. New Orleans sprang up out of a swamp, and in its rotten heart, it’s still a swamp. If I weren’t married, why I’d—”

“Married!” Fargo interrupted. “Since when?”

“I met her about two months after I got here,” H.D. said. “Beautiful Creole girl. She won’t leave because her family is here. Otherwise, retirement be damned, I’d have moved on.”

“I’d like to meet her,” Fargo said. “No wonder you’re keeping your head down.”

H.D.’s face reddened. “It’s . . . it’s worse than that, Fargo.” He skipped the glass and knocked back another swallow of the sour mash. “She . . . she worked there. At the Blue Emporium. She was a whore.”

“What?”

H.D. shook his head. “I ain’t supposed to talk about it,” he said. “But the truth is that Hattie Hamilton’s had me by the short hairs since I got here. And if I do anything that messes with her, I’ll be out of a job, probably dead, and my wife . . . she . . . she’d have to go back to work for Hattie.”

“Damn,” Fargo whispered. “You’ve landed in a world of trouble, haven’t you?”

His old friend nodded, then said, “And now you’re in it, too, Fargo. Once you’ve messed around in Storyville business, it’s like a bear trap. You don’t get free. Not ever.”

“I’m my own man,” Fargo said quietly. “I always have been.”

“Not here,” H.D. said. “No one here is free.”

Looking into H.D.’s eyes, Fargo could see that his old friend believed what he was saying. Every word of it. Struck by the depths of despair, the lies and deceit all around him, Fargo finished his glass of whiskey and set it on the desk with a soft thump. “I guess I’ll get over to the hotel,” he said. “Maybe grab some dinner. Then I’ve got to find Beares. I want to talk to him before the game.”

“Don’t worry about it,” H.D. said. “He’ll find you.” He poured himself another snort from the bottle, and Fargo saw that his friend’s hands were steady, but his eyes were haunted. “He’ll find you and then you’ll have talked to them all and you’ll know what I’ve told you is the truth. This place isn’t a city, Fargo. It’s an alligator pit, and each and every one of them is hungry.”

“Damn,” Fargo said again. He could never have imagined John H. D. Timmons this broken down inside, this scared of anyone. “What have I gotten myself into here?”

“A real bad place, Fargo. A
real
bad place.”

Fargo took the Ovaro to the livery, mentioning Fleur to the owner, who got flustered and turned a shade of red Fargo hadn’t seen since the last time he’d eaten beets. Still, the man ran a decent enough stable, and Fargo felt comfortable leaving his horse and tack there with only minimal questioning.

The man assured him that someone was on duty at all times. “Day or night, sir,” he said. “Ain’t no one messes with my place. I pay my dues.”

“And you’ll see to it that he gets his oats?” Fargo asked, hanging his saddle on a rack next to the stall they’d put the Ovaro in.

“Yes, sir,” the man said, nodding his head like it was on a string. “Once a day, plus fresh hay and water. I’ll watch after him.”

“Good enough,” Fargo said. He paid the man for a week’s worth, even though he fully intended to be headed back west before then.

“That’s more than you owe, Mr. Fargo,” the livery man said.

“I know,” Fargo replied. “I should be back for him within a few days. If I’m happy with his care when I get back, you can keep the rest as a tip.”

Voice quavering, the man said, “And if you’re not?”

Fargo’s blue eyes stared hard at the man; then he said, “Then I’ll take my money back—and not in a nice way.” He’d already come to the conclusion that only force, threats of force, and excessive money bought much of anything in this place—three types of currency that he preferred not to use unless necessary.

“You’ll be happy, Mr. Fargo,” the man said, nodding his head again. “Happy as a gator with chicken bones.”

Fargo shook his head, then grabbed up the rest of his gear and headed to the hotel, wondering about some of the strange sayings people had in this city. As much as he’d traveled, combing back and forth across the frontier, most of the people he’d run into talked pretty much as he did. The city of New Orleans was a strange place, almost a world of its own, and he’d be glad to leave it behind him.

He felt even more besieged by the city as he walked its streets now. Maybe it was the convergence of all the historical troubles that had taken place here. The French displacing the Indians, the French ceding control to Spain in a secret and unpopular treaty provision—and little more than a decade later French and German settlers forcing the Spanish governor to flee. And during all this, enormous epidemics of malaria, small-pox, and yellow fever, to name just a few of the terrible medical mishaps that thinned the population again and again.

Add to this the strange beliefs and cults that entangled so much of daily life in the city. The Cajuns with their swamp tales and myths, and the constant evidence of voodoo, that fevered belief system that merged Roman Catholicism with Haitian black magic. Many of the stores advertised that they sold trinkets of various kinds to combat spells and curses. The shopkeepers would smile ironically about them but deep down you had the sense that on some level at least they believed in these things.

Say what you wanted about bloody trail towns with all their shoot-outs and boot hills. But however troubled they were, they didn’t dally with zombies and boiling pots of chicken parts meant to bring death to some unsuspecting person halfway across town.

Fargo had to smile at the thought of all this. He’d always heard about hell. But he’d never believed that he’d actually be able to walk its streets, not in this life, anyway.

But that was where he was, all right. New Orleans was hell on earth.

The room Fargo rented at the Bayou wasn’t anything to write home about: a single bed, a cobbled-together wooden dresser with two long drawers topped by a scratched-up mirror, and a pitcher and basin that had once been white, but were now a sort of sooty grayish-brown color. Still, the sheets were clean and it had something else to recommend it: a door that actually locked.

Not that it would stop anyone serious about breaking in—the wood of the door was thin and the frame slightly warped—but it might deter the casual burglar and at least give him some few seconds of warning for the more serious.

Fargo considered his earlier meetings of the day, and particularly what his friend H.D. had told him. If what he’d said was true, there was no need to go looking for Senator Richard Beares—the man would find him.

The hotel itself didn’t have a restaurant, but there was a diner right next door that looked somewhat promising. Maybe a decent meal would quell the feeling in his stomach that he’d made a deal with the devil, gone straight down to hell and ponied up the money to get the gates open so he could dance with the dead. It was an uncomfortable sensation and not one he wished to become overly familiar with.

“Sometimes,” Fargo said to himself, “a man will up and do the damndest things for money.” He stowed his saddlebags and clothing in the dresser drawers, taking the time to change into a clean blue shirt and freshly laundered denims. The riverboat offered many conveniences, including a beautiful waitress who had not only been a pleasure in bed, but had kindly done his laundry for him, too. He slipped on a tanned leather vest and buckled on his gun belt, double-checking the Colt’s loads to make sure that the weapon was in good operating condition.

He’d seen too many men die for skipping simple firearms maintenance, and it was one thing he never failed to do: check his weapon every time he strapped it on. Plucking his hat off the bedpost, Fargo gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror and decided that while he could use a fresh shave, he was presentable enough for dinner, anyway.

He stepped out of his room, locking the door behind him. There was little in it of real value, and he had most of his funds in his belt, with some ready cash in a battered wallet he carried on the inside of his vest. His boots rapped on the hollow stairs as he went down, and he nodded at the man behind the small counter as he stepped out into the last light of the evening.

The sidewalks were crowded with people coming and going, and nearby, he could hear the singing of a Chinese man, punctuated by the
slap-snap
of clothing as he hung it on the line. At least that was the same, Fargo thought. Seemed like the last few years, every town he’d passed through had at least one Chinaman willing to give your clothes a decent washing, snap them in the air, and hang them on the line to dry—though as humid as the air was here, Fargo wondered if anything was ever really dry in this part of the world.

He made his way down the crowded sidewalk toward the sign that read BUTTERFIELD DINER, and below that: GOOD EATS. He stepped inside and found that the place was pretty busy, but there was still room enough at the counter for a man to sit down. He picked out a spot and looked for a place to set his hat, eventually settling for hooking it on his knee.

“Evening, mister,” the man behind the counter said. He was Cajun, but didn’t have a trace of the accent. “Special tonight is our own Butterfield Gumbo—it’s a mite spicy so you’ll want a beer with that. Only two bits.”

“What’s in it?” Fargo asked.

“The gumbo or the beer, sir?” the man said, laughing at his own joke before adding, “Fresh crawfish, caught just this very morning, Cajun sausage, some swamp onions, and other vittles. It’s like a stew, but as I said, just a mite spicy.”

It sounded interesting, and since he’d never had it, Fargo said, “Why not? I’ve had Mexican food that would melt stone.”

“Excellent choice, mister,” the man said, jotting his order on a pad. “I’ll get it for you and be right back.”

Fargo scanned the crowded room and the counter and noted that most of the people were dressed as town folk—suits and dresses, instead of denims and work shirts. Bowler hats were common, but only a few cowboy hats. Everything seemed peaceable enough, so he turned his attention back to the man behind the counter, who was headed his way with a large mug of beer in one hand and a steaming bowl in the other.

“Smells good,” Fargo said as he set the bowl down in front of him, reaching under the counter and then placing a paper napkin and a spoon next to the bowl.

But when the man was distracted momentarily, Fargo went back to scanning the guests. One other thing Fargo didn’t like much about this city was the way it treated the so-called “Free People of Color.” This meant the Creoles and the slaves. Most of them worked on the docks for mercilessly long hours and very little pay. It was people such as these filling the restaurant that profited more than they should have from the work of the poor.

The slaves were leased out by their masters for dock work. They were allowed to keep a pittance of what they earned. Their masters promised the slaves that if they saved their money they would be allowed to buy their freedom someday.

All this had been going on since the first steamship docked in New Orleans early in the century.

But the Haitians who came here after the slave revolt in their native land, the Creoles, and the American slaves all fooled those who would hold them back. By 1850 they’d started buying up properties and starting small businesses. And with more and more slaves freed, the whole community of Free People of Color was beginning to have at least a small say in how the city treated them.

“You’ll love it,” the man said, getting back to Fargo and grinning. He turned around and pulled a small loaf of cornbread with butter in a tiny dish off the back counter. “You’ll want this, too,” he said. “If it’s too hot for you, the bread will help cool things off a bit.”

Fargo chuckled. “Like I said, I’ve eaten Mexican food.” He picked up the spoon and stirred the dark-brown concoction. It smelled a little spicy, and he could see the ground-up sausage and the crawfish tails and vegetables floating in the gravy. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“You might want to—”

He dove in, taking a large spoonful and putting it in his mouth.

The first sensation was the flavor—dark and rich, like a good stew—and the curious combination of the crawfish and the sausage. For a moment, Fargo thought maybe he’d found the only thing in New Orleans worth telling anyone about. Then the second sensation hit him: a slight tingle on his tongue and lips, a vague heat on the sides of his mouth that suddenly exploded into pure, burning agony.

He glanced at the man behind the counter who was watching him expectantly. Fargo felt his face redden and his eyes begin to water.

“I tried to warn you, sir,” the man said, trying to contain his smile. “It
is
a mite spicy.”

Fargo wanted to speak, but all that came out was a weak-sounding cough. This was nothing like Mexican food. This was like swallowing a campfire ember that sat in your mouth and stayed there, burning and burning, searing away your own spit.

“The bread, sir,” the man said, gesturing to the bowl. “It will help.”

Fargo opted for the beer instead, whipping the glass off the bar and taking several large swallows.

Distantly, he heard the man try to say something, but all he could think about was getting the fire out of his mouth. The problem, he soon discovered, was that the beer only washed the flames farther down his throat.