"You know that you don't feel well later on when you drink too much," said Clement, his attitude a mixture of solicitousness and impatience. "Why don't I take you home-"
"No!" exclaimed Annie. "I want Custis to take me home."
"I don't think that's a good idea." Clement glanced at Longarm. "No offense, Custis."
"None taken," Longarm assured him with a slight shake of his head.
"Custis will take me home," insisted Annie, "and he will take me upstairs, and then he-"
"That's enough, Annie." The hard edge of menace in Clement's tone made his sister fall silent. He reached across the table and took her hand. "Come along now."
Her lovely features set in a sullen pout, Annie allowed her brother to tug her to her feet. "G'night, Custis," she said, turning to Longarm. "Some other night..."
"Sure," he said. Truth to be told, he doubted if he would enjoy bedding Annie tonight. As much as she'd had to drink, she likely wouldn't remember anything in the morning, and she would also be liable to fall asleep and start snoring right in the middle of the festivities.
Clement led her out of the club. She was still only a little unsteady on her feet. The lady had quite a capacity, Longarm reflected, but as he had warned Clement, she had definitely reached her limits.
Millard came over to the table and took the seat Paul Clement had vacated. "Looked like Mademoiselle Annie had a little too much to drink," he said.
"Does she do that often?" Longarm asked curtly.
Millard shrugged. "I've only seen her that way once or twice. She was really shook up by you not being here last night." He grinned. "You'd better enjoy the lady while you've got the chance, Parker. Her brother keeps her on a pretty tight rein most of the time."
That was probably a good idea, thought Longarm. He changed the subject by saying, "Doesn't look like Royale is going to try anything tonight."
Millard was instantly serious again. "I don't know," he said dubiously. "After the past couple of days, I'll believe it when I see it."
In fact, the rest of the evening passed peacefully in the Brass Pelican. Not quietly, reflected Longarm, not with all the music and laughter, the clicking of poker chips and the roulette wheel, but definitely peacefully. The crowd began to thin out as the hours past midnight rolled by. At four o'clock, there were only a few persistent drinkers and gamblers in the place, and Longarm was starting to yawn.
He was leaning on the bar when Millard came over to him and said, "You might as well head back to your room, Parker. We'll be closing down in a few minutes."
"Wasn't sure a place like this ever closed," commented Longarm.
"Yeah, we lock up for a while. Gives the boys a chance to get a little sleep."
"Well, I'll stay until you're ready to call it a night," Longarm said. "Just in case Royale's trying to lull us into thinking we've made it through without any trouble."
Millard nodded, obviously understanding Longarm's point. Over the next half hour, though, as the last of the Brass Pelican's patrons were gradually eased out of the place, nothing unusual happened. Longarm was the last person out the door.
"No need for you to be back here until this evening," Millard told him.
"You're not planning any more trips down to the bayou country?"
Millard shook his head. "Not for a few more days. I'll let you know ahead of time, don't worry."
"All right," Longarm said with a nod. "See you tonight, Boss."
The door closed behind him, and Longarm heard the key turn in the lock. Behind the thick walls of the club, protected by well-armed guards, Millard ought to be safe enough.
The only way to get at him now, thought Longarm with a grin, was with some of that voodoo.
He chuckled tiredly to himself as he looked around for a cab. There were none to be seen. The customers who had departed recently had probably engaged all the cabs that normally hung around the outside of the club. Longarm grunted. Looked like he might have to walk back to the St. Charles. Well, it wasn't really all that far, he told himself.
Gallatin Street had calmed down a little due to the late hour, but it was still a busy place. Quite a few people were on the sidewalks, and Longarm kept a close eye on them as he strolled along. This was the sort of neighborhood where a fella could get his throat cut for his pocket watch--or even less. He remembered what Millard had said about how his friends and associates were safe in Gallatin Street, but that only applied if the would-be cutthroat knew that his intended victim was connected with Millard. Anybody could make a mistake.
No one bothered Longarm, however. People seemed to be minding their own business. A couple of whores tried to entice him into their cribs, but he just grinned, tipped his hat, and walked on.
Still, despite the lack of anything suspicious, Longarm felt the hair on the back of his neck beginning to rise. His years as a lawman had given him a finely honed instinct for trouble. Sometimes he thought it bordered on the downright supernatural, and he had learned to trust it. He glanced over his shoulder, saw nothing unusual, and walked on.
Gallatin Street merged with Decatur, and as Longarm left the notorious district behind, the city blocks became darker and more deserted. He could still hear music in the night and an occasional burst of laughter, but he was soon the only pedestrian in sight. His footsteps echoed hollowly against the walls of the buildings he passed.
Then, as if to confirm that his instincts were still true, the scrape of soft, dragging footsteps came from somewhere behind him.
Longarm's muscles tensed at the sound, but he kept walking, not wanting to betray by his actions that he had heard it. It was possible, of course, that whoever was walking back there had nothing at all to do with him.
Possible... but every nerve in his body was screaming that that was not the case.
Whoever it was didn't seem to be in any hurry. Longarm kept his own pace casual, deliberate. He passed underneath one of the gas street lamps of which the city fathers were so proud, walked on half a block, then glanced over his shoulder. He caught just a glimpse of a figure passing out of the circle of illumination. A big man, dressed in rough Work clothing. A stevedore from the docks, maybe. Just somebody on his way to work, Longarm told himself. Dawn was not far off, and dock workers started their day early.
The only problem with that theory was that the docks were in the other direction.
By now, Royale had to have figured out that Longarm was working for Jasper Millard. Royale's men would have seen him twice, once saving Millard from the bushwhack attempt during the raid on the club and again during the ambush down in the bayou country. They probably had a pretty good idea that he was Millard's new right-hand man. That would give Royale a good reason for wanting him dead--or better yet, a prisoner who could be interrogated and made to give up all of Millard's secrets.
As a point of fact, Longarm didn't really know any of Millard's secrets just yet. But Royale might not be aware of that.
Whether Royale wanted him killed or captured didn't really matter. Longarm didn't intend to allow either of those things to come to pass.
He walked under another street light, still taking it slow and easy. From the sound of the footsteps behind him, the fella who was shuffling along back there had closed up the gap a little. But he wasn't in any hurry either. He sure did drag his feet too, noted Longarm. The footsteps were slow but inexorable, and they came steadily closer.
Longarm glanced back again, and this time he got a better look at his follower. The man was so tall and broad-shouldered that he reminded Longarm of a medium-sized tree. His arms hung limply at his sides and seemed to dangle almost to his knees. His dark, curly hair was cut short, and in the light of the street lamp, his skin was like rich chocolate.
Why would some gigantic black fella be following him? Longarm wondered. The man wasn't wearing a derby and a bandanna mask, and he didn't strike Longarm as the type that Royale would have hired in the first place. All the rest of Royale's paid killers had been white.