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.