Louisiana Laydown

6

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.

“Oh, my God,” he gasped out. Tears streamed down his face.

The man held up the bread, and Fargo snatched it from his hand, slathered it with butter—didn’t he hear somewhere that butter helped burns?—and shoved a big piece in his mouth. Almost immediately, the bread did its work, and the pain began to ease.

After a few seconds, the sensation calmed down to an almost tolerable heat and the flavor of the gumbo emerged again—dark, rich, and delicious. “Whew,” Fargo managed. “You do know what the word ‘mite’ means, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, now grinning openly. “ ‘Just a little.’ You should try our really spicy version. Last week, it nearly killed a man.”

“How . . .” Fargo stopped, ate another piece of bread, and took a swallow of beer. “How do you manage to eat that stuff, let alone sell it?”

“I tried to tell you, sir,” the man said, his head bowing down. “It’s better if you dip the bread in it. That’s what it’s for.”

“Then why’d you give me a spoon?” Fargo demanded.

The man sighed. “If I tried to tell you it was too hot, you wouldn’t have believed me, sir!”

Fargo thought about it a minute, then began to chuckle ruefully. “I suppose you’re right.” The flavor was nice, so he said, “Dip the bread into it?”

The man nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s not half as bad the second time.”

Fargo tried it, dipping the cornbread into the gumbo, and found it to be much more tolerable. In fact, it was like nothing he’d ever had and he found himself setting to with a vengeance. “How do you get it so spicy?” he asked, between bites.

“Family secret,” the man said. “But part of it is the pepper oil.”

“Pepper oil?” he asked. “What’s pepper oil?”

“If you squeeze certain types of peppers, you get a tiny amount of liquid that is very hot. By itself, it can cause blisters on the skin. So we dilute it, of course, but it still adds a lot of heat to the gumbo. But it’s good, yes?”

Fargo had to admit it was delicious, despite the fact that even with the bread and the beer, he knew he’d be feeling the heat of the meal two hours later. “Yes,” he said. “It is good. Just not something you’d want to dive into without instruction.”

“No, sir,” the man said. His eyes widened a bit, and he was about to say something else, when Fargo felt a heavy hand come down on his shoulder.

“You Skye Fargo?” a deep voice asked from behind him.

Fargo didn’t turn around, but said, “Who wants to know?”

The hand squeezed his shoulder, and the voice said, “I’m asking you, and if you don’t want a broken collarbone to go with your dinner, you’ll answer.”

So fast that the man behind the counter gasped aloud, Fargo spun on his stool, catching the man’s hand in his own, reversing it and yanking the fingers down. Several broke with an audible cracking sound and the man let out a muffled whimper. It was muffled because as he’d gone down, Fargo had shoved his knee into the man’s face, breaking several teeth.

He saw that there was a second man behind him, reaching for his gun.

“I wouldn’t,” Fargo warned. He twisted slightly and shoved the man with the broken hand to the ground, pulling his Colt with blazing speed. He had it pointed at the other man before his pistol could clear leather.

“Drop it,” Fargo snapped. “Back into the holster, nice and easy.”

The man did as he was told, then raised his hands. His partner on the ground managed to get to his feet, but his lips and nose were bloody ruins and three of the fingers on his right hand were twisted and broken.

“Let me guess,” Fargo said, keeping his gun pointed at them. “You were sent to bring me to Senator Beares.”

“That’s right,” the broken-fingered man said. “He wants to see you.”

“I take it he’s not used to being refused,” Fargo said.

“You can come with us now,” the other man said, “or we’ll leave and come back with a dozen guns to take you the hard way.”

“Hey, Ratty,” the man behind the counter said. “Looks like the only folks getting the hard way so far is you and Puncher.”

“Shut up,” Ratty said. “You don’t want to cross us, Fargo. Why not make it easy and come along and see what the Senator has to say?”

Fargo cocked his gun and their eyes went wide. “Or I could just kill you both,” he said evenly, “finish my dinner, and go on about my business.” He glanced around the room. “I imagine most everyone in here will say it was self-defense.”

“He just wants to talk to you, mister,” Puncher said, holding his hand. “Just talk.”

“Then why try to force me at all?” Fargo said.

“We heard you was a tough guy, is all,” Ratty replied. “Figured we’d have to use force.”

“You couldn’t force me to blink,” he replied. He glanced at a nearby table, then gestured with the Colt. “Take a seat,” he said.

“What?” Puncher said. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” Fargo said, turning the Colt back in his direction. The size of the bore must have made an impression because both Ratty and Puncher moved to sit down.

Once they were seated, Fargo sat back down on his own chair. “Now, sit there, be quiet, and don’t cause trouble,” he said. “When I’m finished with my meal, we’ll go find your boss.”

“He said to bring you now,” Ratty whined. “He don’t like waiting on no one.”

“Then he should’ve sent me a note,” Fargo said. “You’ve got a choice, Ratty. Sit there, shut up, and let me eat in peace, or I’ll send you back to Senator Beares so full of holes, he’ll change your name to Cheese.”

Ratty looked like he was going to say something more, but discretion got the better of him and he snapped his mouth shut.

“Good,” Fargo said. He turned back to the gumbo. “You boys hungry?” he asked, not looking their way. “The gumbo here is a mite spicy, but it’s delicious.”

“He’s not tough,” Puncher mumbled under his breath. “He’s crazy. That gumbo could melt lead.”

Fargo ignored him and finished his meal, keeping one hand close to the Colt at all times. When he’d finished, he put a dollar on the bar. “There you go, mister,” he said. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget that meal.”

“It’s only two bits, Mr. Fargo,” the man said. “Let me get you your change.”

Fargo shook his head. “No, the rest is a tip. What’s on the menu for tomorrow?”

The man behind the counter grinned. “Blackened alligator steaks,” he said. “They’re a mite—”

“Spicy,” Fargo finished for him. “I’ll look forward to it.”

He put his hat on and gestured to Ratty and Puncher. “Let’s go see your boss,” he said. They stood and he followed them out into the New Orleans night.

Most of the towns Fargo had ever been in, the small cattle towns that dotted the western landscape, went pretty quiet after sundown. Even the saloons weren’t all that noisy unless a bunch of cowpunchers got paid and came in to raise a little hell. But for the most part, after dark, the towns of the West were quiet places. The folks who lived there worked too hard during the day to kick up much of a fuss at night.

But New Orleans was a different place after dark. An entirely new population walked the streets. Heavybrowed men looking for prostitutes, thieves skulking in alleyways looking for tourists who didn’t know the danger that surrounded them, whores calling out from balcony windows—some of them showing more skin than clothing—and then there were the children. All ages and skin colors raced through the streets, but all of them were dirt poor. They were out scavenging, looking for the scraps of the day, trying to find enough food to eat.

Following Ratty and Puncher through the maze of streets, Fargo kept his eyes and senses alert for trouble. There was no telling when they’d run across either more of Senator Beares’ men or a contingent of men belonging to Anderson or Parker. Both men walked in front of him, their shoulders tense, their heads swiveling on their necks as though if they tried hard enough, they could see right through the shadows around them to whatever danger might be approaching.

After several blocks, they turned and began to relax, eventually leading him to a house with a heavy iron gate in front of it. “This is it,” Ratty said. “Go on through the gate and up to the door. Just knock and ol’ Charles will let you in to see the senator.”

“No,” Fargo said. “You open the gate, Ratty. I think the two of you will make fine escorts all the way to the senator.”

“Ain’t nothing going to happen to you, Fargo,” Puncher said. “He just wants to talk is all.”

“Then he wouldn’t have sent heavy-handed thugs like you,” Fargo snapped. “Now get moving.”

Ratty turned the handle and opened the gate, which squealed on its hinges. Tiny leaves from the ivy growing along the gate fell to the ground. “Go on in, boys,” Fargo said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Aw, shit,” Puncher said. “I sure hope they don’t shoot us by accident.”

“That would be a shame,” he said. “I’d feel awful.”

“Mister, you wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if we both died.”

“Not true,” Fargo quipped. “I’m willing to give them two asses—a Puncher’s and a Ratty’s. Now get inside and be quick about it.”

They moved forward and Fargo’s eyes scanned the shadowy darkness.

Beares’ men were there—he could feel them—and a telltale flicker of movement on the roof caught his eye. Two men were stationed up there, holding rifles.

They were nearly at the front door, when Fargo barked, “Stop there!”

Both men stopped dead in their tracks.

“Senator,” Fargo shouted, his voice echoing strangely off the stone of the house. “Be a shame if we couldn’t talk because all your men were dead. Call them off or I’ll cut down Ratty and Puncher, and then those two men you’ve got on the roof.”

A voice floated into the courtyard from an open window.

“There’s no need for violence yet, Mr. Fargo,” it said. “Stand down, boys. This one can come in.”

The front door opened and an elderly butler stood in the doorway. “Please, Mr. Fargo,” he said, his ancient voice cracking. “The senator will see you now.”

“Keep moving, Ratty, Puncher,” he said. “I’d hate to have you slip away and leave me all by my lonesome. ”

“Aww, shit,” Ratty mumbled. “Could this night get any worse?”

“You could get dead,” Fargo said. “Now get inside. ”

They stepped through the door and Fargo followed them, wondering as he did so, if getting back out again was going to present the same set of problems, only with his back to Beares’ men, instead of his front.

It was an unpleasant thought, and Fargo knew that if he was going to get out of here alive, he’d have to play the game that was about to unfold very carefully.