Louisiana Laydown

“Fine,” Fargo said. “Just make sure she steers clear of Hattie. You may love her, but I know a black widow when I see one.”

“There’s no accounting for love, is there, Fargo?” H.D. asked. “It just shows up when it wants to.”

Fargo was silent for a long minute; then he said, “I wouldn’t know. I can talk about death and fighting and horses and a lot of other things, but love and I don’t cross trails too often.”

“You’re a hard man, Fargo,” he said. “But sooner or later, it will catch up to you, too.”

Fargo grinned. “Not if I ride fast enough, it won’t.”

He started to step out the door, but McKenna’s voice stopped him short. “There’s just one more thing before you go,” he said.

Fargo turned back to the Pinkerton man. “What’s that?”

“The money,” McKenna said. “What did you do with it?”

“I gave it to a politician,” he said. “The mayor of Storyville.”

“That’s . . . that’s evidence, Fargo,” McKenna said. “We need to get that back.”

“Sounds like a real problem,” he said. “He’ll probably make some kind of deal for it. Perhaps a promise of no Pinkerton involvement in Storyville for a long, long time. Or maybe cash.”

“Anderson’s barely more than a common criminal!” McKenna objected. “Why should we deal with him?”

Hattie’s voice, tired out now from crying, said, “Because he cares, the dumb sonofabitch. He keeps this place running, and he practically built Basin Street. Without him, the real criminals will run the place.” She cackled softly. “You need him if you don’t want this place to really come apart at the seams.”

“Makes sense to me,” Fargo said. He tipped his hat to them, then stepped out into the morning sunshine, grateful to be away.

He didn’t think he’d ever really trust H.D. again, but he didn’t have to. It was a big country and this piece of it was one that he didn’t want to visit ever again.

Let the schemers have it, he thought. I’d rather be in the West. Out there he understood the people and the land, and more importantly, he felt at ease with himself. The trail that had led him here had taught him one thing: the trails in the city are just as bloody and dangerous as those on the frontier.

The only difference, he noted as he patted the wad of cash in his vest, was that the paychecks were sometimes bigger. But money wasn’t everything, and he had all he really needed with his Colt, his Henry, his Ovaro . . . and his burning desire to live free.

By the time he’d stabled the Ovaro and made his way back to the diner next door to the Bayou, Fargo was all but asleep on his feet. Still, he needed food first. He hadn’t eaten in a couple of days and the rich coffee H.D. had given him was sitting in his stomach like a lead weight.

He pushed open the door of the diner and found a seat at the counter, nodding at the man who came over to take his order.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, you look done in,” he said.

“I just about am,” Fargo admitted. “But I could use a bite to eat before I get some sleep. What’ve you got?”

The man smiled, his teeth so white against his black skin that they were almost blinding. “I’ve got just the thing, sir. Scrambled eggs, spicy French sausage, and fried potatoes with peppers and onions wrapped up together in a nice soft tortilla.” He paused, then said, “It’s a little bit . . .”

“Spicy,” Fargo finished for him. “The last time I was told that here, my tongue almost fell out.” He took off his hat and set it on the counter. “Sounds perfect.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, jotting a note on his pad and heading back to the kitchen.

Fargo helped himself to the pot of coffee on the counter, and waited patiently for the man to return with his meal. It only took a few minutes for the man to appear with a platter heaped with three of the tortilla concoctions and a jar of salsa. “Some folks like to put this on theirs,” he said.

“They make something similar in Mexico,” Fargo said. “Huevos rancheros.”

“Eat,” the man said. “Then we’ll see how our food stacks up against the Mexicans’.”

Fargo slathered the salsa inside one of the tortillas, closed it back up, and took a big bite. There was some kind of cheese in addition to all the other ingredients, and the taste was phenomenal. “Mmm . . .” he said, chewing and swallowing the bite. “That’s good.”

Then the spices hit, and Fargo felt the blood drain from his face. A wave of heat, and then the blood all came rushing back. “Wahhh . . .” he managed, reaching for the glass of water the man was holding out in his hand. He took several large swallows, then tore off a piece of the tortilla and ate that, too. “Good God,” he said. “That’s . . . it sort of sneaks up on a man, doesn’t it?”

The server smiled his big white grin and said, “It sure does, sir. You enjoy your breakfast.” Then he moved off down the counter to serve other customers. Fargo assumed the man stayed close by for the first bite for the entertainment value . . . or maybe to save someone’s life if the heat was too much and they collapsed. His tongue was still burning.

But they were damn good tortillas. He dove back in, drinking copious amounts of water to keep the heat to a manageable level. When he was full, he sat back with a satisfied sigh and pushed his plate away.

The man came by, still grinning, and took it away, then refilled Fargo’s coffee.

Fargo wasn’t sure where he’d go from here. The only thing he knew was that he planned on leaving New Orleans and riding west.

The server said, “You seem kind of restless.”

“It shows, huh?” Fargo smiled.

“Got a brother like that. Can’t stay in one place more than a month or so. Always looking for the big dream to come true.”

“Think it ever will?”

“I doubt it.” He smiled. “But I don’t think that matters to him. It’s the looking he likes. The wandering. I get the sense you’re a lot like that yourself.”

“I guess I’ve done some of that wandering from time to time.”

“Looking for the big dream to come true?”

He shrugged. “Not that so much. It’s just that I like to see what’s over the next hill, I guess.”

He laughed softly. “Yep, peas in a pod. You and my brother.”

Fargo tossed some money on the counter, settled his hat on his head, and left the diner. He was still tired, but he felt better for having eaten. Now what he really wanted was a good long nap.

As he looked around at the people and the buildings, he realized that even a town he disliked as much as this one could probably become home for him if he stayed long enough. A person could get used to just about anything if he gave it enough time. He supposed that most of the good, hardworking people here managed to get used to the corruption and the violence. They just went on with their daily lives and hoped it didn’t touch on them or their loved ones.

The Bayou was quiet and the clerk nodded politely to him as he passed by the desk, saying, “We fixed your door.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Mr. Fargo—” The clerk wanted to say more but it was probably only clerk babble as far as Fargo was concerned. He walked over to the stairs. All he wanted was some rest. Time for clerk chatter when he checked out.

Something felt funny as he approached his door. He paused in the hallway. Listened. But nothing but silence filled his ears. Still and all he sensed something wrong. He’d developed survival instincts over the years that could pick up on the slightest threat.

And he found that his sense of danger was correct.

His door was open a crack. Could one of Parker’s or Beares’ men still be wandering around looking for revenge? He didn’t know, but he pulled the Colt from the holster and eased up to his door to listen.

The room was quiet. He used the barrel of the gun to push the door open even more. The door cried a bit as it opened. Hinges needed some oil. He took a single step forward. And then another step.

Given the small size of the room, it was easy to scan. Easy to spot any kind of threat. He kept his Colt clenched tight in his hand.