It would have gratified Ginny to know that Steve was thinking of her at that very moment.
Green-eyed temptress! His copper-haired wife had led him halfway around the world, and he still did not really know her. Not even after all these years and the wild, savage nights she had spent in his bed, a tigress that was all passion and abandon. Their attempts to become reacquainted were still awkward, the old habits dying hard and slow.
He vacillated between anger at her stubbornness and the familiar passion that was always there, always compelling. At times he thought that he would not be able to get enough of Ginny, of holding her and stroking her passionate, squirming little body, tasting her mouth, and the soft spot beneath her ear that made her shiver and cling to him, moaning like a cat in heat. It was a constant emotional tug-of-war, an internal struggle to rid himself of the old barriers between them.
Rain pelted cobblestones beyond the banquettes and gutters, a steady driving downpour that sent refuse rushing in a fetid river toward Royal Street. No gaslights lit this area; it was dark, save for wavering glows from windows and open doorways. Muted laughter, ribald songs, snatches of raucous music mingled with the sound of rain against stone, drifting on the brisk wind to where he stood.
As a younger man, curiosity had taken him to the Swamp, an area known to be infested with every low character that came to New Orleans. But now he barely paused at the corner, and turned in the other direction toward the row of neat houses a world away from the degradation and danger that lay on Gallatin Street.
Barrelhouses and concert saloons lined Gallatin, all through the Vieux Carré and the area above Canal Street. Along Saint Charles Street, the half-dozen blocks between Canal Street and the city hall at Lafayette Square boasted nearly forty-five places where liquor was sold, and nearly every one was dangerously disreputable. Gallatin in the French Quarter, and Girod Street in the American quarter, retained an evil reputation that had been acquired in the tough days of the rowdy flatboat crews.
Barrelhouses and concert saloons had been introduced to New Orleans by the Northern riffraff that swarmed into the city in the wake of Farragut’s victory, adding dubious talents to a criminal population already numerous and dangerous. No lower dive existed. Strictly a drinking place, the barrelhouse occupied a long, narrow room, with rows of racked barrels on one side, and on the other, a table stacked with heavy glass tumblers or a bin of earthenware mugs. For five cents, customers filled a mug or tumbler at the spigot of any of the barrels; failure to immediately drink and refill earned prompt ejection from the guzzle-house environs. For those who drank to capacity, the reward would be a quick trip to the back where he was robbed, or if unlucky, a tour of the alley to be stripped of clothing as well as coin. Only the suicidal resisted.
A gust of wet wind scoured the street. Steve should have hired a hansom cab, but he’d wanted time to think before he met with Bishop again.
Bishop. The man had an uncanny instinct for finding him, for ferreting him out like a bloodhound. It was no coincidence that Bishop and Paco had been at Antoine’s this evening, of course. With Bishop, nothing was ever a coincidence—including an invitation to play cards.
An inevitable poker game, seemed innocent on the surface, but was merely a ruse to gain information and cooperation. It never failed.
“There will be some familiar faces, and one or two you won’t know. It’s been a long time, but I’m certain you’ll find the evening most—beneficial.”
Oblique as always, Jim Bishop’s carefully uninflected voice carried a message.
The apartment where Bishop waited for him was in a block of rather shabby buildings, nearly indistinguishable from the others. Inside, cigar smoke drifted in hazy layers through the room, and several men were already at a table covered with an oilcloth. Thin walls did not keep out the sounds of other tenants, nor the squawk of a badly played fiddle seeping through peeling wallpaper and boards.
“All this and music, too,” Steve murmured with a wry smile as he joined the men at the table. Bottles of wine and bourbon filled a small table at one side.
“I expected you earlier,” Bishop responded, never taking his eyes off a hand of cards. It was no surprise when he won the pot, raking coins toward him as others sat back in glum silence.
“I decided to walk. Where’s Paco?”
“He’ll join us soon. He had some errands to attend. Are you in?”
Steve pulled out a wooden chair, the legs scraping loudly across a bare plank floor, and sat down at the table, his back to the wall instead of the door. It was an old habit, learned years ago when he wore his .45s low on his hips and sat in far too many dangerous saloons playing cards with men who thought nothing of killing a man for five dollars.
For a short time they played cards in silence, Bishop, as usual, taking most of the pots. Steve knew one of the men at the table, a Westerner he’d met years before in Texas, but the others were strangers to him, introduced only by first names: Charley, Johnny and Tige. It was Tige’s place they were using for the meeting.
When Steve lost three aces to Bishop’s full house, he tossed down his cards in disgust and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on the two rear legs. “I’m beginning to think this night is going to be a total waste.”
Cool gray eyes flicked up to study him for a moment. Casually, Bishop said around the cigar clenched between his teeth, “Your dinner seemed pleasant enough.”
When Steve didn’t reply, Bishop continued. “Senator Brandon seems recovered from his injury now. I understand
