Death Angel

Chapter 12: Hell Hole (Part 1)

The Old Absinthe House had quite the storied past. It’s patrons ranged from the completely mundane to the entirely legendary: Oscar Wilde, P.T. Barnum, Mark Twain, Jenny Lind, Enrico Caruso, even General Robert E Lee, Franklin Roosevelt, Liza Minnelli and Frank Sinatra.

I remembered Daniel and I had a few fond memories of time sneaking into the Old Absinthe House with our fake IDs. Daniel was three years my senior and so he was legal well before I was. The building itself was nondescript; nothing really called attention to itself beyond its name, a name that invoked stories of the prohibition, of Al Capone and the warring families in Chicago - my own little piece home right here in New Orleans.

I tried to look back on New Orleans’ storied history. To peel back the veil of the rich history and peer into the lives of the millions of people that called this city their home. In a way, the town was just as mysterious as the very people I now associated with.

I had left poor Daniel dumbfounded at Broussard’s, probably confusing the heck out of him. Was it something he said? He wondered. What did the note contain? Haley Wellington was far too mysterious to tell poor Daniel, of course. But that was a form of payback as well. I had my own set of burning questions, and Daniel didn’t really answer any of them.

When I’d received the note, I knew I had to act fast. I must admit that I was far from sensitive to Daniel’s feelings at the time. Still, to receive a note that hinted at the very mystery I was trying to solve, was more than just a little tempting. 

Before I knew it, I’d stopped an irate businessman on his way home to ask for the time.

“The fuck do you want?” he’d snapped at me, only to find himself staring right into the eyes of a beautiful woman. The apologies came easily after that of course. He’d  had a bad day at work, and he was of course, callous enough to take it out on me.

In the end, I really couldn’t have cared less.

Just give me the time, jerk, and for all I care, you could go and fall off the face of  the earth after that.

I hardly noticed how long it took me to to get to the Old Absinthe House, but it wasn’t long, given my newfound abilities. My own thoughts, on the other hand, proved to be a heavy burden. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, and even less certain that I would actually find what I was looking for. I breathed in deep as I opened the doors to the unassuming bar not quite knowing what I would find behind them. 

Built in 1806, the building was originally used as a corner grocery of sorts. As I walked into the rich and finely appointed decor that adorned the Old Absinthe House, part of me wasn’t entirely convinced I was supposed to be here.

I already had my fair share of stories about the Old Absinthe House: The building endures the name of Jean Lafitte's. There is a wonderful account of a rumored meeting of the famous Pirate Jean Lafitte and Andrew Jackson as they planned the victory of the battle of New Orleans on the second floor. In fact, there are many patrons who would be more than happy to share their own accounts of the Ghost of Jean Lafitte. New Orleans was never lacking for ghost stories.

The crowd that greeted me this evening wasn’t large. It looked like the majority were regulars. The hour was late. My date with Daniel ran long, but it was better this way; there would be less people to worry about. I had a purpose for being here, but given my penchant for getting myself into trouble, the last thing I wanted was for some poor soul to get caught in the crossfire.

It wasn’t a slow night by any stretch, but it might very well have been. I watched as the bartenders slowly cleaned the counters, taking great care to make sure the wooden finish was gleaming. Bottles of liquor were lined up just beyond the counter, serving as little enticements to the the clientele.