Free Louisiana Laydown by Jon Sharpe Page A
Authors: Jon Sharpe
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
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