TILED FLOORS, mirrored walls, and motionless fans of polished brass with bright, unshaded light bulbs, create half the atmosphere at Galatoire’s. The rest is supplied by the jammed-in customers, all well-dressed and deeply engaged in sending a convivial energy back and forth, all to the accompaniment of enough noise that makes conversation impossible.
In my opinion, it’s the best place to dine in New Orleans. Some restaurants serve more contemporary offerings, many have equally haughty waiters, and a few are just as opulent, but no other spot is as lavishly and unapologetically New Orleans. Birthdays and anniversaries are celebrated, engagements are announced, deaths and sorrows are mourned—the good times and the bad always validated by impeccable service and excellent food and drink. Sure, there are tiny restaurants tucked away in the Garden District or most any other spot in the city that serve excellent food, but none can compare to the overall dining experience at Galatoire’s.
I wasn’t particularly hungry after lunch at Charlie’s, but I wasn’t about to skip this meal. Clovis and I shared Oysters Rockefeller, and I ordered one of my favorites, Crabmeat Yvonne. Clovis wisely let the waiter order for him—soufflé potatoes, their house salad, and crawfish étouffée. We shared the Black Bottom pecan pie for dessert.
It was an unusually pleasant evening. We told our driver we would walk back to the Bienville. Frank wasn’t at all happy, but we insisted. Between restaurants and the many shops that never seem to close, the Quarter is always bustling with tourists. With a major convention of doctors in town, the sidewalks were sometimes hard to navigate, but with Clovis leading interference we made it back to the hotel in no time.
Royce was waiting for us in the lobby. It was almost midnight, and I didn’t think he was here to tuck me into bed. He gestured toward the bar, and we followed him to a quiet table, refusing his offer for a nightcap. A server delivered a bourbon on the rocks, and we waited while he took a healthy sip and paid the bill.
“I hope you enjoyed your dinner,” he began. “But, Jack, you should take advantage of Frank while you’re in New Orleans. He’ll take you anywhere you like, so please, no more walking the Quarter.”
I wanted to object out of general principles, but his tone made it clear he wasn’t just suggesting. I remained silent, and he sighed.
“There have been developments.”
“Developments?” I asked.
“It appears that the FBI is aware of your agreement with Mr. Thibodeaux. You could be in danger.”
“How did that happen? And why would I be in danger?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Come on Royce, I deserve better than that. How do you know the FBI knows?” I paused and lowered my voice. “Look, I know the syndicate operates in secrecy, but if I’m going to represent David, I need to know anything that could affect his case or involves me. The FBI doesn’t much like me, but surely they’re not a threat.”
“I’ll tell you what I can. You were followed to Galatoire’s tonight. Frank called me as soon as he dropped you off. We figure the Feds staked out the lunch, saw you walk into Charlie’s, and decided to tail you. Our sources have confirmed that the FBI knows you and Clovis were at the lunch at Charlie’s. They also know you’ve agreed to represent David.”
“Did they have the place bugged?”
“Possibly,” Royce conceded. “There’s more. You and Clovis were followed again when you left Galatoire’s, but not by the FBI. And yes, Frank is sure. I’ve stationed guards at the hotel, and we’re working to find out who they were and for whom they work.”
I frowned. “Could there have been a fox in the henhouse today?”
“That’s very unlikely. Such a person would be putting his life on the line as well as his organization’s continued viability. And why? Your agreement to represent David won’t be a secret much longer. You have enemies, as do we, but they aren’t stupid enough to cross Mr. Thibodeaux and the other families. But the fact is—you were followed tonight, both to and from dinner. Please don’t leave this hotel again without Frank.”
He threw back the rest of his bourbon. The FBI had probably bugged today’s meeting, there could be a mole in the syndicate, and Clovis and I had been followed tonight by an unknown party. His boss would surely be unhappy—no wonder he looked miserable. I felt bad for him, but sure didn’t want to be part of a war within the syndicate or get crosswise with the FBI.
Royce perked up a bit when Clovis asked him where the guards would be stationed and how we could identify them. He assured us we would be perfectly safe both in the hotel and in New Orleans. “No one would be foolish enough to harm you in New Orleans. You are here under the personal protection of Mr. Thibodeaux; to cross him would be a life-ending decision.”
I almost asked why we needed guards if we were so safe but thought better of it. I was tired and ready for bed.
“Listen, guys, I need some shut eye. You can stay and discuss logistics, but I’m going to bed. Why don’t we meet for breakfast around eight?”
They agreed, and I left them talking about how the FBI could have bugged Charlie’s. Too bad Stella wasn’t here. She would have enlightened them in a New York minute.
I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Galatoire’s will have that effect.
I woke several hours later to the unexpected reality of the point of a knife at my throat, and as my eyes focused, I saw two men. One held the knife and the other waved a gun at my head.
“Don’t make a sound.”