Louisiana Laydown

“It does,” Fargo agreed. “So tell me straight, H.D., who’s really running this town?”

H.D. laughed. “Everyone thinks they are,” he said. “But no one really is. The whole city is a mess, always will be, I suspect.”

“Why’s that?”

“The structure of it, for one thing,” H.D. said. “This isn’t a town like you and I would think of it. It’s a bunch of little towns, all close together, each with a different set of rules and regulations. They call them ‘parishes,’ but really they’re just little towns.”

“That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Fargo said. “Why don’t they have a city council or something?”

“They do,” he replied. “But as a rule, they’re ignored or laughed at. The real power here is in who runs the parishes that produce the most money.”

“Like Storyville,” Fargo said.

“Exactly. There’s Winn Parish and Catahoula Parish, which are really run by State Senators Parker and Beares. Storyville is part of both, and it’s where the most money gets made. So the fighting has been fierce.”

“Have you had any trouble?” Fargo asked.

H.D. chuckled and poured another set of shots. “No,” he said. “And I don’t intend to. I get paid by the city, have full retirement benefits, and do my best to keep peace in the streets. Which means that Anderson, Parker, and Beares have taken their battles to the alleys, the swamps, and the backrooms of the whorehouses. It suits me just fine to let them fight it out amongst themselves.”

Fargo’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t like the H.D. he’d known at all. “I thought you believed in the law,” he said quietly.

“Fargo, I do,” H.D. said. “But I’m not a young man anymore, and there’s only one of me and three of them, plus more hired guns than you’ve ever seen. When they aren’t shooting each other, they’re knifing each other. And when they aren’t doing that, they use their hands to choke, steal, or beat the hell out of anyone they can.” He drank his shot and then added, “And now you’re here.”

“Just here for work,” Fargo said. “Parker hired me up in St. Louis.”

“To do what?” H.D. asked. “You’ve never been on the wrong side of the law before.”

“And I’m not now,” he said. “I guess they’ve decided to settle all of this with a poker game.”

“A poker game?” H.D. asked. “Seriously?”

“That’s what Parker said, and Anderson confirmed it.”

“I’ll be damned,” H.D. said. “Things might settle down, then. What’s your job in all this?”

“I’m supposed to keep the game fair,” he said. He sipped his own shot, savoring the charcoal flavor on his tongue. “So I’m told.”

“Fair, huh?” his old friend said. “You do know that all of them will cheat like there’s no tomorrow.”

“I suspected as much,” Fargo said. “But then it will be fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“If one man cheats, it’s not fair,” Fargo replied. “He’s taking advantage of the others. But if all of them cheat, then it is fair. No one is playing by a different set of rules than anyone else.”

H.D. laughed so hard he went into a coughing fit, and finished by mumbling, “Goddamn humidity,” under his breath. He looked up, wiped his mouth, and said, “Don’t stay down here too long. It’s like breathing a swamp.”

“I don’t plan to,” Fargo said. “Just long enough to do what I was hired to do, collect my pay, and move on.”

“So where’s this poker game being held?” H.D. asked. “That way, maybe I can keep an eye on things outside at least.”

“The Blue Emporium,” Fargo said. “Hattie Hamilton’s place.”

H.D. hissed like a scalded cat. “Damn. That maybe changes everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“She plays at belonging to Parker, but Hattie Hamilton belongs to nobody,” H.D. said. “She’s as cold-blooded a woman as I’ve ever met.”

“She seemed decent enough to me,” Fargo said. “She met Parker and me when we got here, down at the docks.”

“That’s Hattie, all right,” he said. “She likes to play the lady, but she’s more snake than woman.”

“Come on, H.D.,” Fargo said. “She’s just a woman—and a whore to boot.”

“Fargo, you listen and you listen close,” H.D. said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Hattie Hamilton has killed at least two people that I know of, though I could never prove it. And those girls of hers are barely more than slaves. She’s got more money than Parker or Beares, and if they’re holding this so-called game at her place, you better have sharp eyes, because something about her is . . . wrong, broken on the inside.”

“Do you think she’s dangerous?” Fargo asked. “Honestly?”

“Like a hungry alligator,” H.D. said. “And she’s damn near untouchable. Half the men in the state senate have either slept with her or been in her place. She knows lots of pillow secrets, and even when she’s suspected of something, every deputy in this town will look the other way.”

Fargo whistled, thinking that maybe he’d underestimated the players in the game. “I can’t say as I’m much impressed with this place,” he said. “Why do you stay?”

“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.”