Chapter 2

The train pulled into New Orleans on a bright, warm morning. It took little time to square away the removal of the private car and get it stored until it was time to go home. It took less time to get their bags to a hack and get into the French Quarter. Nick noted a happy smile on his brother's face at the sight of the old buildings, the sound of street vendors hawking their wares, the sound of music coming from a corner here and there.

Nick asked, "How many times have you been here, Jarrod?"

Jarrod thought about it. "Three or four, all of them several years ago on business for one client or another," he said. "Once the south started recovering from the war, the cotton and the sugar started shipping out again, and the rum started coming in. I haven't been here in a good seven or eight years, though."

"I wonder how you avoided Jack Darby on those trips," Nick mused.

Jarrod realized their cousin was still keeping Nick pre-occupied. "Maybe he wasn't living here back then. He's from Kentucky, you know, not New Orleans. It probably took him a while to get on track after the war, and he's probably not here a lot even now. He's probably out of town more than he's in it." Jarrod looked over at his brother, who was still looking around everywhere. He wondered if Nick was enjoying being the tourist, or was he looking for Darby? "Quit worrying about him, Nick," Jarrod said. "He's probably not even here."

"Hm," Nick said.

Soon the hack pulled up to the hotel, a small brick building on Chartres Street with saloons on either side of it. Music was already pouring out from one of them.

"They get going early around here," Nick said as they got out and he started fetching their bags.

Jarrod paid the hack driver, who was laughing. "Nick, they never stop going around here. What's closing time?" Jarrod asked the hack driver.

"Ignored," the hack driver laughed. "If the police shut them down, they just take it down to the corner."

Jarrod tipped the man well and took his bag from Nick. In a few minutes they were in the hotel, checked in, and heading for their room on the ground floor, facing a courtyard. Tall windows let them look out at a sweet little garden. "Nice," Nick said.

"As long as it doesn't rain too hard," Jarrod said. "We'll be stuffing the towels under those windows if it does."

"Just like the rest of the south, huh?"

"Worse. New Orleans is below sea level. The water doesn't drain that well, even with the stormwater system, and you know the south. It can be bright and sunny on a morning like this and pouring by mid-afternoon."

And that was exactly what happened. After getting some lunch at a bar on Bourbon Street, Jarrod and Nick were moseying around town, listening to the music, grabbing a drink here and there, when the skies began to get dark and they had to make a run for it. They dashed into the nearest saloon, a place called La Rue, wet and laughing, and turned to be greeted by a cute little barmaid.

Who immediately slapped Jarrod across the face. "What - ?" Jarrod blurted.

Before Nick could even react, the barmaid was just about screaming into Jarrod's face. "You got one pit full of nerve, coming back here!" she said.

She was immediately joined by a big, burly black man who reached for Jarrod and started to pull him back out into the rain.

"Wait a minute!" Jarrod yelled and dug his heels in. "I've never been here before!"

Nick grabbed hold of Jarrod's other arm, and for a moment Jarrod felt like the wishbone of a chicken dinner. The big black man said to Nick, "I don't know who you are, but Darby ain't welcome here."

"I'm not Darby!" Jarrod blurted.

"Right," the big black man said and began to drag Jarrod out again.

"Now, hold on," Nick said and made a grab for the big black man, who was bigger than he was.

"Whoa, wait a minute," the barmaid said, screwed up her face, and looked more closely at Jarrod.

Jarrod shook the black man loose and quickly pulled up his left sleeve. "I've had this scar since I was six years old," he said to the barmaid, thinking she would probably know the answer to his next question. "Does Jack Darby have one?"

She looked confused, but she quietly admitted, "No. But you could have just gotten it."

Jarrod quickly pulled out his wallet and showed his identification paper. "My name is Jarrod Barkley. This is my brother Nick, and I look like Jack Darby because he's our cousin. We haven't seen him in a couple years and I don't even know where he is."

"You even sound like him," the barmaid said, and the big black man grabbed Jarrod's arm again.

Another man, white and about ten years older than Jarrod, came up to them, saying, "Hold on a minute, Mose."

The black man let go of Jarrod.

The white man stepped up to Jarrod and Nick and looked hard at them. "Where are you from?" he asked.

"California," Jarrod said. "Stockton, and San Francisco."

The man smiled. "I think you're right. I was in San Francisco about six months ago and I saw you on the waterfront. I thought you were Jack Darby and I went after you, but I lost you, and when I asked somebody if they saw you, they pointed you out in the street and said your name was something else."

"Barkley," Jarrod repeated.

The barmaid shook her head. "Jack doesn't have that scar, but you look and sound – " Her sentence wandered away unfinished.

The white man put his arm around Jarrod's shoulder and ushered him and Nick in. "Regardless, my friend, it's raining pretty hard out there. Come on in, have a drink."

The white man took Jarrod and Nick further inside and sat them down at a table. He waved to the barmaid, and she soon brought a bottle of whiskey and glasses as the Barkleys sat down with this white fellow. She still had an unwelcoming look for Jarrod.

"My name is Louis LaValle," the white man said. "I own this little place."

"Where Jack Darby isn't welcome, I take it," Nick said.

"Jack Darby is persona non grata for the time being," LaValle said. "He was here last week, and I'm afraid he led my barmaid astray for a few hours with some fancy words. He let her down hard, so she is not very happy with him, and therefore, neither am I."

"So he is in town," Jarrod said.

"The last I heard, but we haven't seen him since then, so there's no telling," LaValle said and poured drinks. "This is on me, boys. When did you arrive in our fair city?"

"This morning," Jarrod said. "I have some business to attend to. I brought my brother along to get the smell of cattle out of him."

"Ah, a rancher," LaValle said. And then it dawned on him. "The Barkleys of Stockton! I heard about you while I was out your way. Well, let me properly welcome you to New Orleans." He raised his glass in a toast. "Here's hoping there are no further slaps to your face waiting for you in town."

Nick grumbled a little as they clinked glasses. With the way this had just started out, he wasn't so sure he'd bank on that.

It rained for well over an hour, and the Barkley men sat and drank and talked to LaValle the whole time. LaValle gave them some recommendations about how to enjoy their time in New Orleans – where to eat, where to drink, where to find female company of whatever variety and where to take them to enjoy an evening. By the time the rain stopped, it was going on five o'clock, and time for the Barkleys to move on.

"Thanks for the advice, Monsieur LaValle," Jarrod said and shook the man's hand.

"I'll make one more," LaValle said. "Go to the Blue Parrot for some good Cajun food this evening. It's over on Royal, near Canal. If you'd like, I can send over to get you a reservation, say about eight?"

"I know the place," Jarrod said. "I was there a few years ago. But is it someplace I'll get another slap in the face being taken as Darby?"

LaValle laughed. "Mr. Barkley, I can't say one way or another, because I don't know where Jack's been and when, and you do look and sound just like him. Take your chances, though. If you've been there before, you've got a leg up. It's still got that same famous food. Do you want me to make you a reservation?"

Jarrod nodded.

"Ladies for company?"

"Not tonight," Jarrod said. "I have business tomorrow morning I need to prepare for."

"Well, come to me when you need to. I at least know who you are – or more important, who you're not."

Nick shook the man's hand too, and then he and Jarrod went on their way. The big black bouncer, Mose, stepped up beside LaValle after he'd walked the Barkleys to the door. "Would you like me to get a runner, Mr. LaValle?" he asked.

LaValle nodded. "And tell him to let the Blue Parrot know who's coming."

"You think that really was Jack Darby?"

LaValle sighed. "No, it wasn't. Put the reservation in the name of Barkley. But it will be interesting to find out what happens when they're over there tonight. I can't guarantee anybody but me will believe that was Jarrod Barkley."

LaValle smiled to himself. He knew with 100% certainty the man who had just left was not Jack Darby, because he knew Jack Darby well, and he knew where he was right now and what he was doing, because LaValle was involved in it too. LaValle figured this guy Jarrod Barkley might be needing some help before too long, or he might end up being of some help. Whichever it might turn out to be, LaValle was ready for it, and even looking forward to it.