The Rivals

He pushed through the doors of Galatoire's on Bourbon Street, sated and content, and stepped into the twilight. He walked away from the tourist throngs and around the corner onto Iberville, where gaslights were just coming on. This deserted street afforded him the privacy to belch and contemplate a stroll before darkness. He did not turn to see the two men following him.
They could see him very well: a large man in a pale, seersucker suit, the seat of which was slightly stretched. His gait was unsteady, a sign that he had enjoyed more than one sazerac cocktail with his lobster bisque and deep-fried, soft shell crabs.

He walked on, losing his footing once on the cracked, uneven pavers until he rounded the next corner onto Royal. A door opened, letting music momentarily escape from the Old Oyster House where he slipped in for a night cap. The followers stretched and waited in a doorway. One lighted a stub of cigar while the other pulled his cap low over his face and shrank further into the shadows. Their wait was short.

The large man came into the street, again, and this time his gait was even more unsteady.
"His belly is very full," the smoker said, chucking his cigar into the gutter.
"Let's do it," the other said, stepping onto the sidewalk and striding toward their target.

But just then, the door of a neighboring bar flew open and out danced three masked men wearing purple, green and gold beads. They joined hands, impishly prancing to the pounding beat of the tune inside the bar, circling the large man who staggered uncertainly in their midst. "We are fam-i-lee, talk about my sisters and meee," they sang.

The followers hung back cautiously. Then, without warning, the dancers turned, faced them and fired twice apiece. The six pistol shots, timed with the beat of the song, reverberated in the narrow street. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the dancers were gone.

The large man, no longer unsteady on his feet, moved quickly around a third corner onto Canal Street. A sleek Lincoln Town Car pulled to the curb, and he slid in.

"Where to, Mr. Brennan?" the driver asked.

"Home, I think. And remind me to send my condolences to old Galatoire, tomorrow, please. His sons have died in a tragic altercation in The Quarter. They were both such talented chefs, it will be a terrible loss. And here," he said, passing a stained and scribbled piece of paper to the driver.

"After 15 years of tasting the damned thing, I believe I have finally deciphered their recipe for lobster bisque. It will be on our menu, tomorrow," he smiled.