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.