Longarm and the Voodoo Queen

by Tabor Evans

  "Sounds good," said Longarm, and he hoped it would be. But he doubted seriously if whatever the restaurant had to offer could compete with biscuits and son-of-a-bitch stew and a cup of Arbuckle's on a clear night in the high country under the western stars.

  The restaurant was an unprepossessing place on St. Louis Street called Antoine's. As the carriage pulled up in front and Longarm, Annie, and Clement got out, Longarm smelled some of the most enticing aromas he had ever encountered floating out the open windows of the building. Inside, the dining room was rather plainly furnished, but the delicious smells were even stronger. The place was busy too, but Longarm and his companions were immediately shown to one of the few empty tables. Moments later, bowls of steaming soup were brought to them, as if they had been expected--as indeed they had been, Clement confirmed a few moments later. "Annie and I always dine here at least once whenever we are in New Orleans," he added.

  Longarm could understand why. The soup, which had bits of crawfish floating in it, was rich and thick and savory. It was followed by tender veal in sauce, steamed vegetables, and loaves of French bread dripping in melted butter. The bread was crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and steam rose from it when Longarm took his first bite. He had to admit that everything was good, and he ate heartily. So did Annie and her brother. Longarm found himself watching Anme approvingly. He liked a woman with a good appetite. Everything was washed down with excellent wines, first white, then red, and by the time the meal was over, Longarm was feeling pleasantly stuffed.

  He stifled a groan as he stood up to leave with Annie and Clement. Both of them had packed away as much food and drink as he had, but neither seemed to be feeling any ill effects. Longarm could have used a nap.

  He came fully awake as they got back into the carriage and headed for Gallatin Street, however. No longer was he indulging himself, although he seemed as relaxed as ever. Now he was working again, and inside, every nerve was alert.

  The carriage turned from St. Louis Street onto Decatur and headed along the river, past the Pontalba Apartment Buildings with their luxurious accommodations, past Jackson Square with its memorial statue of Old Hickory, and along the rear of the old French Market before jogging to the right into Gallatin Street itself.

  Longarm had seen places like it before: Front Street in Abilene during the days of Wild Bill Hickok, Allen Street in Tombstone, Ferguson Street in Cheyenne. It was an area of saloons, gambling dens, whorehouses, dance halls, pawnshops, and seedy offices used by businessmen who were no more honest than they had to be. Women in frilly nightclothes leaned over the balcony railings of the buildings the carriage passed, calling to potential customers on the street below. Men stood on corners, hawking goods that were undoubtedly stolen. Dark-mouthed alleys opened frequently from the street, and the noises that came from them gave ample warning that it would not be wise to venture down them alone. Longarm glanced in one window as they passed and saw a redheaded woman standing there nude, her lush body on display in the light of a lantern that hung above her head. Her breasts were large, the nipples rouged, and one hand was between her legs as she caressed herself. Annie was looking in the same direction, but if she saw the lewd spectacle, she gave no sign of it.

  "Ah, here we are," Clement announced a few moments later. "The Brass Pelican."

  The outside of the gambling club appeared to be better kept up than many of the buildings in the area. It was a low brick structure with a pair of whitewashed columns flanking the heavy entrance door. Above the door, mounted on an iron rod that protruded from the building, was the statue that gave the club its name. Longarm had to admit that the sculpture was an accurate rendering of a pelican. The bird's wings were lifted, as if it was ready to take off, but its long legs were still curled underneath its body. The huge beak was pointed down at the short flagstone walk leading to the entrance, and the pelican appeared to be casting a skeptical eye at the patrons who passed back and forth beneath it.

  Clement stepped down from the carriage first, followed by Longarm. Longarm hesitated, unsure whether or not he should offer his hand to Annie or allow her brother to assist her down. She held out both hands as she stepped through the carriage door, however, so both Longarm and Clement had one to grasp. She linked arms with them and walked between them up to the door of the Brass Pelican.

  A huge black man wearing a uniform similar to that of the doorman at the St. Charles Hotel was on duty there. He greeted the newcomers with a broad smile and said, "Good evenin', Mr. Clement, suh. And to you as well, ma'am."

  "Good evening, Luther," replied Clement. "This is Mr. Parker. He's our guest for the evening."

  "Yes, suh." The doorman nodded respectfully to Longarm. "How do, Mr. Parker."

  Longarm returned the man's nod, then walked into the club with Annie and her brother as Luther opened the door. The sound of someone playing a piano quite loudly came to Longarm's ears, which was no surprise. Just about every saloon and gambling joint in the world had a piano player, no matter where it was. In this case, though, the fella pounding on the ivories actually seemed to have some musical talent, and the piano itself was almost in tune. That was pretty rare.

  The air was thick with noise. The music, the laughter of women, the clatter of the roulette wheel and the rattle of dice, the almost prayerful words of the gamblers as they called on this spin of the wheel or this throw of the dice to come out in their favor for a change, the exultant shouts and the bitter curses when the outcome of the play was determined ... it was all familiar to Longarm. He had heard it in a hundred saloons, in a hundred different towns. And the smells were the same too. Tobacco, whiskey, spilled beer, cheap perfume, unwashed human flesh. Not really a pleasant odor, but one to which a man could become accustomed, and a part of him would miss it all, the noise and the stink both, whenever he found himself in a place that was quiet and clean and well lighted.

  Longarm put a cheroot in his mouth and clamped his teeth down on it. A place like this always made him feel as if he had just come home.

  Most of the big main room was taken up with gambling tables and apparatus, he saw as he looked around. But there was a tiny dance floor, as Annie had mentioned earlier in the day, tucked away in the left rear corner. A mahogany bar ran down the right-hand side of the room, and at the end of it was a door that no doubt led into some back rooms where other business was conducted.

  Standing at the end of the bar near the door was a tall, burly man whose head was as hairless as a billiard ball. He wasn't old, however. Longarm judged the man's age to be about the same as his own. He wore a dark, conservative suit that might have belonged to a banker or a lawyer instead of a saloonkeeper and proprietor of a gambling den. He chewed on a long, fat cigar and toyed with an empty shot glass as his eyes surveyed the place, constantly on the move. Longarm didn't have to be told who he was. The bald man's attitude alone was enough for Longarm to peg him as Jasper Millard.

  Sure enough, as soon as he had checked his hat and cape, Paul Clement headed straight for the bald man, leaving Longarm and Annie to follow him across the crowded room. Clement raised a hand in greeting, and even over the clamor, Longarm heard him say, "Good evening, Jasper! Busy night tonight."

  "Always," grunted Millard as Longarm and Annie came up to join him and Clement. "The Good Lord willing, it'll stay that way." He looked at Longarm with shrewd, dark eyes. "Who's your new friend?"

  Longarm stuck out his hand, and without waiting for Clement to introduce him, he said, "Name's Custis Parker, down from St. Louis to do a little business."

  Millard took Longarm's hand in a bone-crushing grip. Longarm gave as good as he got and saw a flicker of respect in Millard's eyes. "Just exactly what line of work are you in, Mr. Parker?" asked Millard.

  "Just exactly whatever'll make me the most money," said Longarm with a grin. "That's the best kind of business, don't you think?"

  "Damn right." Millard angled his bald head toward the bar. "Have a drink on me, Parker. And you two as well, of course,
Clement."

  Longarm was doubtful that Annie would be able to get a glass of wine here in this rough-and-tumble spot, but the bartender surprised him, holding out the delicate crystal glass to her without even being told what the lady wanted to drink. Clearly, this wasn't her first visit to the Brass Pelican either. Clement asked for bourbon, while Longarm ordered Maryland rye, as always. Both requests were quickly honored.

  As Longarm drank, he studied Jasper Millard with the same frankness with which the bald man was appraising him. Millard practically radiated power, and his eyes glittered with ruthlessness. Longarm had already spotted several bouncers lounging around the room, but he had no doubt that Millard could handle troublemakers every bit as well as his hired help.

  Holding his glass of bourbon, Clement turned away from the bar and said excitedly, "I'm going to try my luck at the roulette wheel. Come along, Annie."

  "You know, Paul," said Annie, "there might be other things which I wished to do more than watch you gamble."

  "But you are my lucky charm!" Clement reached out and grabbed Annie's hand. "Come, cherie, the wheel awaits."

  Annie gave Longarm a look of resignation and allowed her brother to steer her away from the bar and toward one of the roulette wheels. Clement crowded up to the table and reached into an inner pocket for a wallet. He took several bills from it and dropped them on the table as the croupier prepared to spin the wheel. He was still clasping Annie's hand, and he grinned over at her excitedly as the wheel spun and the ball danced madly around it.

  Longarm stayed at the bar and sipped his rye, but he turned so that he could watch the Clements while he did it. With a glance at Millard, he said, "Paul seems to know how to enjoy himself, but I'm not sure he should be waving that billfold around. Never know who might be watching. M'sieu Clement--and his money--are perfectly safe in here," said Millard, "and on the street outside too. That wouldn't be true of most people, mind you. But the denizens of Gallatin Street know that he and his sister are my friends. They know that if anyone were to harm them in any way, I would know who the guilty party was within an hour, and my vengeance would be terrible to behold."

  "You mean they've got friends in high places, so to speak."

  Millard smiled humorlessly. "Most people would consider my associates and me to be friends in low places."

  Longarm shrugged and said, "All a matter of perspective, I reckon."

  "You're a Westerner," Millard said as he came closer to Longarm. "I can tell."

  "I've spent considerable time west of the Mississippi," admitted Longarm, "but I was born and raised in West-by-God Virginia. Started to drift and make my own way after the war."

  "You fought in that unfortunate conflict?"

  "Yep, but don't ask me on which side. I tend to disremember."

  Millard chuckled. "As do I, sir, as do I. There are some allegiances a businessman can't afford to maintain, however much he might like to."

  Longarm nodded sagely and said nothing. At the roulette table, Paul Clement threw back his head and grimaced as the ball dropped into a slot and the wheel slowly came to a stop. Longarm heard Clement say, "That's always the way. You play the black, and the red comes up." Beside him, Annie just looked bored. She cast occasional glances in Longarm's direction.

  With a sly grin, Millard commented, "Mademoiselle Clement seems a bit taken with you, my friend."

  Longarm was about to ask Millard when they had become friends, but he never got around to it.

  The sudden screams and the deafening bang of gunshots sort of distracted him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Longarm twisted instinctively toward the entrance, where the unexpected disturbance was coming from. He had worn his gun tonight, like most of the other men in the Brass Pelican, and his hand flashed toward the butt of the Colt as he saw the massive doorman Luther stumble into the building, clutching his belly as blood welled between his fingers. The crowd happened to part so that Longarm had a good view of the wounded man, who had obviously been gut-shot.

  "Look out, Mr. Millard!" shouted Luther. "Royale-"

  A man in a derby hat with a bandanna tied over the lower half of his face stepped into the club behind Luther and brought up a pistol, aiming it at the back of the doorman's head. The weapon cracked spitefully, and Luther jerked and pitched forward, dead before he hit the floor, the back of his head a gory mess from the bullet that had just bored into his brain.

  "Son of a bitch!" snapped Millard. He practically dived for the area behind the bar and came up with a sawed-off shotgun.

  The scattergun would be worse than useless in these close, crowded quarters, thought Longarm, and he hoped Millard had the sense not to fire it. Too many innocent people would be hurt if he did. The room was filled with chaos now as more of the masked, derby-hatted figures rushed into the club brandishing guns. The crowd of gamblers tried desperately to get out of the line of fire. Some dived under tables while others stampeded wildly, trampling anyone smaller who got in their way.

  Longarm glanced toward the roulette table where Annie and Paul Clement had been a moment earlier. He saw no sign of either of them in the mob and hoped they hadn't fallen. If they had, they might be stomped to death. More shots blasted out as Millard's men opened fire on the intruders. Luckily, the bouncers were armed with pocket pistols, but there was still way too much lead flying around to suit Longarm. He saw an expensively gowned woman go spinning off her feet as a stray bullet struck her in the shoulder. As she fell, she screamed thinly and clutched at the sudden bloodstain on her dress.

  Men jostled Longarm roughly from both sides. He realized he had to get out of this press of terrified people if he intended to do anything about the situation. Though he knew it would make him a better target for anybody who wanted to take a potshot at him, he slapped his free hand on the bar top and vaulted onto the hardwood. His boots thudded on the mahogany as he ran nimbly along the bar toward the front of the room, bringing him closer to the marauders in derby hats.

  The aim of the intruders seemed to be to wreak as much havoc as possible. While some of them were fighting with Millard's bouncers, others were overturning gaming tables and smashing light fixtures. A couple of them grabbed one of the women and literally ripped the clothes off her body, leaving her naked and screaming. Others who wielded clubs and blackjacks waded into the Brass Pelican's patrons, battering several men to the floor. Longarm stopped and snapped a shot at one of the raiders, who was about to bring a hobnailed boot down on the skull of a man who had been knocked off his feet. The stomping would have almost surely been fatal had not Longarm's bullet caught the man in the body and sent him to the floor.

  The shot brought return fire, and Longarm crouched as slugs whipped around his head. He triggered twice more and saw one of the gunmen go down. The ebb and flow of the riot sent a knot of people surging between Longarm and the men who were shooting at him, and he used the momentary respite to lunge farther along the bar.

  More gunshots from the rear of the club made him throw a glance over his shoulder. He bit back a curse as he saw that more of the masked men were pouring into the place from the back rooms, where they had undoubtedly gained entrance through an alley door. The patrons and employees of the Brass Pelican were caught in a cross fire now.

  Millard still stood near the end of the bar. He had traded the sawed-off shotgun for a bung-starter, and he used it to slash at the heads of any of the intruders who came within arm's reach. However, he didn't see the two men who were coming up behind him, guns poised to ambush him.

  "Millard!" bellowed Longarm, his voice cutting through the chaos of the attack. "Get down!"

  Millard's eyes widened as he saw Longarm twisting back toward him. Longarm threw himself flat on the bar as Millard ducked. That gave Longarm a clear shot at the men who were trying to kill the club owner. He triggered twice, the explosions coming so close together they almost sounded like one blast. The two intruders rocked back as Longarm's bullets thudded into their chests.

 
; That was all Longarm had time to see, because in the next instant hands grabbed him and pulled him off the bar. He felt himself falling and reached out desperately, knowing that if he tumbled all the way to the floor, he would probably never get up again. His fingers snagged the vest of the man who had jerked him off the bar. His fall broken, Longarm lashed his empty Colt across the face of his opponent and felt the man's nose pulp under the blow. Warm blood spurted across the back of Longarm's hand.

  He got his feet underneath him and struck again, clubbing at the man's head with the gun. The intruder's derby kept the blow from landing with full force, but it was still powerful enough to make the man's eyes roll up in their sockets as he went limp in Longarm's grasp. Longarm let go of him and let him fall.

  He turned, looking for another opponent, and saw a knobby fist coming straight at his face. There was no time to avoid it completely, but he moved his head aside enough so that the blow only grazed him and knocked him back against the bar. He was grateful for the solid hardwood, which kept him from falling. He was able to block the next punch and strike back, reversing the Colt in his hand and using the butt to hammer the face of his attacker. The man stumbled backward, moaning, and was lost in the mob.

  The booming of shotguns and the shrilling of whistles assaulted Longarm's ears. He looked toward the entrance and saw blue-uniformed figures bulling their way inside. The New Orleans police had finally arrived. At the sight of the police, the masked men broke off their wave of death and destruction and headed for the back door of the club. No one was left to stop their flight. Millard's bouncers were all down, and none of the Brass Pelican's patrons wanted to interfere. They were concerned only with saving their own skins.

  There was nothing Longarm could do either. Too many people surrounded him on all sides. The best he could manage was to holster his gun and wait to see what would happen.