Shayne said, “Bring me three sidecars if you’ve got any decent cognac to put in them.”
“Yassuh. We’s got moughty fine cognac what ain’t nevah been drunk, suh.”
Shayne asked, “Does Mr. Casti still make his gumbo with crayfish tails and shrimp?”
A shadow crossed the Negro’s lined face. “Mistuh Casti ain’t heah no mo’, suh, but de gumbo am still de same ez when he wuz.”
Shayne nodded. “Pure coffee with it?”
“Yassuh — jes lak always, suh.”
The waiter returned with three cocktails, grinning broadly as he set them in a row before Shayne. “I hopes one don’t get wahm ’fo you finishes t’other, suh.”’
Shayne said, “They won’t,” and drank half of one of the sidecars. It was icy, and strong with the clean, mellow taste of good cognac.
The gumbo was as Shayne remembered it. He ate the man-sized serving while the small restaurant slowly filled with hungry patrons. By the time he topped off the gumbo with a sugarless Café Brulot, there was not a vacant table in the low-ceilinged room and a waiting line was forming outside. He had killed a lot of time with dinner, and it was nearing 7:30 when he stepped out onto St. Louis Street. He walked briskly back to Canal and crossed over to the Angelus Hotel.
A young man leaned against the desk in front of the bell captain. He was a head shorter than Shayne, with a body that looked unhealthily thick. He had smooth features and sensual lips set in a perpetual pout. The captain said something to him and he turned his head to watch Shayne stroll across the lobby.