Fontaine’s Last Call
New Orleans, 1927 – The air is thick with jazz, mischief, and the scent of something illegal and irresistible.
You push through the false panel of an old apothecary shelf and descend a narrow staircase lit by low amber sconces and smoke. The music hits you first—a velvet trumpet wailing sweet sin, chased by piano keys that dance like fast fingers across a lovers skin. Then comes the scent: bourbon, perfume, and the faintest trace of danger, wrapped in the laughter of criminals and women who live like queens.
When your shoes hit the floorboards, she’s already watching you.
Betty Mae Fontaine.
A living legend in crimson satin, curves like a jazz melody, and eyes sharp enough to slice a man without spilling a drop. She leans against the bar like it’s part of her, one elbow perched beside a bottle with no label and too much promise. Her voice cuts through the room like a soft razor.
“Well now… look at you, darlin’. Ain’t you somethin’ in all that nervous charm. First time?”
You nod—or maybe swallow—because words have suddenly failed you.
She smiles, slow and wicked, and it’s the kind of grin that built empires and ruined men who fancied themselves kings.
“C’mere. Belly up to the bar. I just got somethin’ special in—imported straight from my friends up north. Took a few bribes and a hell of a boat chase to get it here, so don’t you dare waste a drop.”
She pours two fingers of something golden and illicit into a heavy glass, slides it your way, then leans in just close enough for you to smell honey and smoke on her skin.
“Drink up, sugar.”
The glass is warm in your hand. The room is alive and whispers outlaw rebellion. And for one glorious moment, the world forgets its rules.
You just walked into Fontaine’s Last Call.
And Betty Mae Fontaine just made you hers.
Fontaine’s Last Call – Halloween, Modern day
New Orleans breathes different on Halloween—thicker, wilder. The veil’s thin, and the city remembers.
The door to Fontaine’s Last Call creaks shut behind you, muffling the revelry outside. Inside, it’s a slower rhythm—jazz vinyl playing something low and haunted, candlelight flickering across liquor bottles like ghosts dancing in glass. Cobwebs hang with deliberate care over blood-red velvet and polished mahogany. The air smells of cloves, smoke, and autumn rain.
Behind the bar, Charlie Fontaine is pouring bourbon with one hand and lighting a cigarette with the other, her dark waves pinned up, a stray curl trailing like a question mark against her cheek. Her gold-flecked eyes flick to you as she exhales slow, curling smoke around her smile.
“Halloween, huh? The amateurs are out. Hope you’re not one of them.”
You offer a nervous laugh, order something simple. She mixes it without looking, her hands moving like they’ve been bartending for centuries.
“You picked a weird night to wander in, sugar. Place is quiet up here… but it’s never empty.”
That’s when you hear it. Music. Faint, muffled, but clear—swinging jazz, laughter, the clink of glasses.
You glance toward the stairwell to the VIP Room below, marked Closed for Private Event. The door’s bolted. The padlock gleams.
“Don’t even think about it,” Charlie says without looking. “Nobody’s down there tonight.”
You try to protest, to ask—but she pours herself a shot, slams it back, and cuts you off with a voice like honey and threat.
“Whatever you think you hear? Let it stay a rumor. It’s Halloween. That room belongs to the original owner and her clients.”
You fall quiet. She smirks.
“Drink your drink. And whatever you do—don’t look in the mirror when the band starts playing ‘St. James Infirmary.’ That’s when they notice you.”
She winks, turns away, and the lights dim just a little more.
Behind you, the music swells. The trumpet hits a note that carries through your bones.
And somewhere downstairs, you are certain you can hear a ghost laugh.
You push through the false panel of an old apothecary shelf and descend a narrow staircase lit by low amber sconces and smoke. The music hits you first—a velvet trumpet wailing sweet sin, chased by piano keys that dance like fast fingers across a lovers skin. Then comes the scent: bourbon, perfume, and the faintest trace of danger, wrapped in the laughter of criminals and women who live like queens.
When your shoes hit the floorboards, she’s already watching you.
Betty Mae Fontaine.
A living legend in crimson satin, curves like a jazz melody, and eyes sharp enough to slice a man without spilling a drop. She leans against the bar like it’s part of her, one elbow perched beside a bottle with no label and too much promise. Her voice cuts through the room like a soft razor.
“Well now… look at you, darlin’. Ain’t you somethin’ in all that nervous charm. First time?”
You nod—or maybe swallow—because words have suddenly failed you.
She smiles, slow and wicked, and it’s the kind of grin that built empires and ruined men who fancied themselves kings.
“C’mere. Belly up to the bar. I just got somethin’ special in—imported straight from my friends up north. Took a few bribes and a hell of a boat chase to get it here, so don’t you dare waste a drop.”
She pours two fingers of something golden and illicit into a heavy glass, slides it your way, then leans in just close enough for you to smell honey and smoke on her skin.
“Drink up, sugar.”
The glass is warm in your hand. The room is alive and whispers outlaw rebellion. And for one glorious moment, the world forgets its rules.
You just walked into Fontaine’s Last Call.
And Betty Mae Fontaine just made you hers.
Fontaine’s Last Call – Halloween, Modern day
New Orleans breathes different on Halloween—thicker, wilder. The veil’s thin, and the city remembers.
The door to Fontaine’s Last Call creaks shut behind you, muffling the revelry outside. Inside, it’s a slower rhythm—jazz vinyl playing something low and haunted, candlelight flickering across liquor bottles like ghosts dancing in glass. Cobwebs hang with deliberate care over blood-red velvet and polished mahogany. The air smells of cloves, smoke, and autumn rain.
Behind the bar, Charlie Fontaine is pouring bourbon with one hand and lighting a cigarette with the other, her dark waves pinned up, a stray curl trailing like a question mark against her cheek. Her gold-flecked eyes flick to you as she exhales slow, curling smoke around her smile.
“Halloween, huh? The amateurs are out. Hope you’re not one of them.”
You offer a nervous laugh, order something simple. She mixes it without looking, her hands moving like they’ve been bartending for centuries.
“You picked a weird night to wander in, sugar. Place is quiet up here… but it’s never empty.”
That’s when you hear it. Music. Faint, muffled, but clear—swinging jazz, laughter, the clink of glasses.
You glance toward the stairwell to the VIP Room below, marked Closed for Private Event. The door’s bolted. The padlock gleams.
“Don’t even think about it,” Charlie says without looking. “Nobody’s down there tonight.”
You try to protest, to ask—but she pours herself a shot, slams it back, and cuts you off with a voice like honey and threat.
“Whatever you think you hear? Let it stay a rumor. It’s Halloween. That room belongs to the original owner and her clients.”
You fall quiet. She smirks.
“Drink your drink. And whatever you do—don’t look in the mirror when the band starts playing ‘St. James Infirmary.’ That’s when they notice you.”
She winks, turns away, and the lights dim just a little more.
Behind you, the music swells. The trumpet hits a note that carries through your bones.
And somewhere downstairs, you are certain you can hear a ghost laugh.
Purpose / Function
Fontaine’s Last Call was originally created as a Prohibition-era speakeasy and safehouse—serving as both a social hub and an operational headquarters for outlaws, con artists, and freedom fighters. Over time, it evolved into a sanctuary for vigilantes, anti-heroes, and societal misfits—a neutral ground where lines blur, deals are made, debts are paid, and legends are born. It exists to provide shelter, connection, and continuity to those who live in the shadows but fight for something greater.
Design
Originally conceived as a hidden Prohibition-era speakeasy, Fontaine’s Last Call was built with misdirection in mind—complete with escape routes, secret passages, false walls, and trick furniture. In its heyday, you might stumble upon a bathtub of homemade gin or a smoky back room packed with bootleggers playing high-stakes poker under flickering lanterns. Every inch was crafted for secrecy, speed, and seduction.
Today, much of that original architecture remains intact and integrated, serving as both functional space and living tribute. The modern Fontaine’s is a sprawling, atmospheric bar and grill, known for its impeccable bourbon selection and rich Creole cuisine. It includes an adjacent pool hall, private card rooms, and lounges that cater to everything from casual conversation to clandestine deals. The old rumrunner tunnels and smuggling chambers beneath are still there—renovated but preserved—offering a whisper of history with every creaking floorboard and hidden door.
Today, much of that original architecture remains intact and integrated, serving as both functional space and living tribute. The modern Fontaine’s is a sprawling, atmospheric bar and grill, known for its impeccable bourbon selection and rich Creole cuisine. It includes an adjacent pool hall, private card rooms, and lounges that cater to everything from casual conversation to clandestine deals. The old rumrunner tunnels and smuggling chambers beneath are still there—renovated but preserved—offering a whisper of history with every creaking floorboard and hidden door.
Entries
To the average passerby, Fontaine’s Last Call appears to have the usual entrances—a well-kept front door beneath an iron balcony, and a pair of discreet service doors tucked into the alley behind. But those familiar with its legacy know better. Hidden beneath the streets of New Orleans lies a network of old rumrunner tunnels, relics of the Prohibition era that still connect the bar to forgotten basements, storm drains, and abandoned buildings across the Quarter. These unofficial entrances are known only to trusted allies, old hands, and those granted access by the Fontaine family. Some say if you know the right jazz tune to hum or the right brick to tap, the walls themselves will open for you.
Sensory & Appearance
The moment you step into Fontaine’s Last Call, it’s like slipping through time—straight into the smoky glamour of the Roaring Twenties and the shadowy grit of the Dirty Thirties. The air is thick with atmosphere: a heady blend of aged bourbon, fine cigars, and a faint trace of old perfume that clings to the wood like memory. Dim lighting casts everything in warm amber and gold, coming from vintage chandeliers, art deco sconces, and the occasional flickering candle on a polished table. Shadows curl in the corners, and the walls seem to breathe history.
You might catch the low hum of jazz spilling from an old jukebox or a live band playing something sultry and slow. The floor creaks faintly underfoot, worn smooth by generations of rebels and rogues. There’s a weight to the space—a pleasant, velvety warmth, but also something deeper, something watchful. Some say if you listen closely, you’ll hear the murmurs of bootleggers in the back rooms or the soft clink of glasses raised in memory. It’s not haunted or is depending who you ask… but it remembers you the second you walk in. And it never forgets.
You might catch the low hum of jazz spilling from an old jukebox or a live band playing something sultry and slow. The floor creaks faintly underfoot, worn smooth by generations of rebels and rogues. There’s a weight to the space—a pleasant, velvety warmth, but also something deeper, something watchful. Some say if you listen closely, you’ll hear the murmurs of bootleggers in the back rooms or the soft clink of glasses raised in memory. It’s not haunted or is depending who you ask… but it remembers you the second you walk in. And it never forgets.
Denizens
By night, Fontaine’s Last Call belongs to Charlie Fontaine and her regulars—a loyal, rough-around-the-edges crowd of retired vigilantes, grizzled mercenaries, underground fixers, and outlaw legends-in-hiding. These are the folks who’ve earned their stools through grit, loyalty, and the kind of stories no one tells in daylight. By contrast, the daylight hours draw in tourists, curious locals, and history buffs eager to sip whiskey in a place soaked in myth and mischief.
Every so often, the door creaks open to admit a masked figure, heavy with purpose and secrets, who slides into a booth, orders something strong, and leaves without a name—only a nod to Charlie and a trace of shadow. And then there are the whispers... the ghost of Betty Mae Fontaine, they say, still tending bar at the witching hour. Some claim they’ve seen her in the mirror behind the shelves, pouring drinks for spirits of bootleggers, gangsters, and vigilantes who never quite moved on. Whether it's myth or memory, the line between the living and the dead always seems just a little thinner inside the Last Call.
Every so often, the door creaks open to admit a masked figure, heavy with purpose and secrets, who slides into a booth, orders something strong, and leaves without a name—only a nod to Charlie and a trace of shadow. And then there are the whispers... the ghost of Betty Mae Fontaine, they say, still tending bar at the witching hour. Some claim they’ve seen her in the mirror behind the shelves, pouring drinks for spirits of bootleggers, gangsters, and vigilantes who never quite moved on. Whether it's myth or memory, the line between the living and the dead always seems just a little thinner inside the Last Call.
Contents & Furnishings
The original Fontaine’s Last Call was the epitome of Roaring Twenties New Orleans speakeasy style—mahogany bars polished to a shine, plush velvet booths, mirrored walls, crystal decanters, and brass fixtures that gleamed under the flicker of gaslight. But by the time Charlie Fontaine inherited the place, much of it had faded—weathered by time, smoke, and the quiet weight of memory.
Determined to preserve the bar’s soul, Charlie restored what she could: the original bar top, a few surviving booths, the mural of Betty Mae in her crimson glory. What couldn’t be saved, she replaced with modern furnishings that respected the aesthetic—sleek, tasteful upgrades that honor the past without imitating it. The upstairs bar now boasts a moody, updated elegance, marrying vintage charm with contemporary comfort.
But the old speakeasy below, now the VIP lounge, is another story entirely. Charlie treats it like sacred ground, preserving its original look as closely as possible—faded but beautiful, like a photograph come to life. She often jokes with a wink that “the ghosts don’t like it when you redecorate.” Down there, nothing’s too polished, nothing’s too new—and that’s exactly how the regulars, both living and otherwise, like it.
Determined to preserve the bar’s soul, Charlie restored what she could: the original bar top, a few surviving booths, the mural of Betty Mae in her crimson glory. What couldn’t be saved, she replaced with modern furnishings that respected the aesthetic—sleek, tasteful upgrades that honor the past without imitating it. The upstairs bar now boasts a moody, updated elegance, marrying vintage charm with contemporary comfort.
But the old speakeasy below, now the VIP lounge, is another story entirely. Charlie treats it like sacred ground, preserving its original look as closely as possible—faded but beautiful, like a photograph come to life. She often jokes with a wink that “the ghosts don’t like it when you redecorate.” Down there, nothing’s too polished, nothing’s too new—and that’s exactly how the regulars, both living and otherwise, like it.
Valuables
To many, Fontaine’s Last Call is a treasure in itself—a living monument to rebellion, grit, and defiant glamour—but within its walls lie countless artifacts of deeper legend. The shelves and shadowboxes behind the bar hold a curated chaos of relics, each with a story soaked in danger and legacy. A tarnished shot glass said to have been gifted to Betty Mae by the The Spirit of Sekhmet sits beside spent casings from the The Nightwatchman's tommy gun, still bearing the bite marks of a final standoff between him and the Chicago outfits.
Scattered throughout are tokens from generations of America’s outcasts and masked legends: outlaw vigilantes’ old domino masks, a broken badge from Philly that belonged to a cop who got tired of the law holding him back, love letters burned at the edges but preserved in glass, and even a coin said to grant luck—or vengeance—depending on who flips it. These aren’t just souvenirs. They are offerings, memories, and buried truths, left behind by those who didn’t quite fit the mold of hero or villain as society wanted to define them. Some say there’s a vault hidden beneath the speakeasy containing Betty Mae’s final con—the kind of secret that could topple empires—but if it exists, Charlie isn’t talking. And neither are the ghosts.
Scattered throughout are tokens from generations of America’s outcasts and masked legends: outlaw vigilantes’ old domino masks, a broken badge from Philly that belonged to a cop who got tired of the law holding him back, love letters burned at the edges but preserved in glass, and even a coin said to grant luck—or vengeance—depending on who flips it. These aren’t just souvenirs. They are offerings, memories, and buried truths, left behind by those who didn’t quite fit the mold of hero or villain as society wanted to define them. Some say there’s a vault hidden beneath the speakeasy containing Betty Mae’s final con—the kind of secret that could topple empires—but if it exists, Charlie isn’t talking. And neither are the ghosts.
Hazards & Traps
Officially, Fontaine’s Last Call has no traps—no pressure plates, no spring-loaded safes, no poisoned tumblers. As Betty Mae herself once said with a wink, “The only hazard here, darling, is having too good a time—and the only trap is getting stuck at the bottom of a gin and tonic.”
That said, the bar has its own unspoken dangers. Cross the wrong regular, start a fight on sacred ground, or dig too deep into certain secrets, and you might find the floor getting colder—or the shadows getting closer. The old escape tunnels? Still unpredictable. The original VIP booths? More than one has hidden compartments... or memories that don’t like being disturbed. So no, there are no "traps"—just consequences. And in Fontaine’s Last Call, those can be deadlier than any spring-loaded dart.
That said, the bar has its own unspoken dangers. Cross the wrong regular, start a fight on sacred ground, or dig too deep into certain secrets, and you might find the floor getting colder—or the shadows getting closer. The old escape tunnels? Still unpredictable. The original VIP booths? More than one has hidden compartments... or memories that don’t like being disturbed. So no, there are no "traps"—just consequences. And in Fontaine’s Last Call, those can be deadlier than any spring-loaded dart.
Special Properties
While Fontaine’s Last Call functions like any other upscale bar—with modern plumbing, reinforced wiring, and clever ventilation hidden behind antique charm—it possesses something far rarer: a spiritual weight. Mediums, sensitives, and the magically inclined all agree—the place is haunted as hell, and not in a metaphorical sense. The air hums with memory, and some nights the shadows feel just a little too sentient.
It’s said the bar sits at a thin place, a crossroads between worlds. A kind of purgatory for outlaws, vigilantes, and anti-heroes—souls too rebellious for heaven, too righteous for hell. The walls remember. The air listens. The mirror behind the bar sometimes shows reflections that aren't yours.
While there’s no official enchantment, Fontaine’s is believed to possess a subtle liminal aura—keeping violence at bay, muffling magical flares, and ensuring that no one leaves quite the same as they came. Some call it protective energy. Others call it Betty Mae’s last will, still holding court in death. Either way, no spell is needed for the place to feel alive—and just a little otherworldly.
It’s said the bar sits at a thin place, a crossroads between worlds. A kind of purgatory for outlaws, vigilantes, and anti-heroes—souls too rebellious for heaven, too righteous for hell. The walls remember. The air listens. The mirror behind the bar sometimes shows reflections that aren't yours.
While there’s no official enchantment, Fontaine’s is believed to possess a subtle liminal aura—keeping violence at bay, muffling magical flares, and ensuring that no one leaves quite the same as they came. Some call it protective energy. Others call it Betty Mae’s last will, still holding court in death. Either way, no spell is needed for the place to feel alive—and just a little otherworldly.
Alterations
Over the decades, Fontaine’s Last Call has seen deliberate modernization and expansion, beginning with its post-Prohibition transition when the main bar was moved upstairs and the apothecary storefront retired. The original speakeasy below was sealed off—preserved like a time capsule. Under Charlotte “Charlie” Fontaine’s ownership, the building underwent a renaissance. She restored the upstairs bar to its outlaw grandeur and expanded operations to occupy much of the surrounding block, adding reinforced negotiation rooms, discreet poker dens, and surveillance measures that blend seamlessly with vintage decor.
Most notably, Charlie unsealed the original underground speakeasy, painstakingly restoring it to its 1920s glory and transforming it into an exclusive VIP lounge. Reserved for trusted patrons, influential figures, and legendary names, the lounge offers a curated experience of Roaring Twenties New Orleans—complete with jazz, candlelight, vintage cocktails, and the original whispers of rebellion echoing in the walls. It’s more than nostalgia; it’s a rite of passage for those deemed worthy.
Most notably, Charlie unsealed the original underground speakeasy, painstakingly restoring it to its 1920s glory and transforming it into an exclusive VIP lounge. Reserved for trusted patrons, influential figures, and legendary names, the lounge offers a curated experience of Roaring Twenties New Orleans—complete with jazz, candlelight, vintage cocktails, and the original whispers of rebellion echoing in the walls. It’s more than nostalgia; it’s a rite of passage for those deemed worthy.
Architecture
Fontaine’s Last Call blends Creole townhouse elegance with Prohibition-era grit, reflecting its layered history and rebellious soul. The exterior retains the hallmarks of historic New Orleans architecture: wrought-iron balconies, tall shuttered windows, and faded brick softened by creeping vines and old magic. Inside, the main bar is a masterwork of vintage opulence and practical defiance—dark mahogany, stained glass, pressed tin ceilings, and deep leather booths that swallow secrets whole. The restored underground speakeasy below is a living museum of the Roaring Twenties, complete with exposed brick, gaslight-style sconces, and polished oak bars lined with forbidden spirits. Every space is designed for intimacy, subterfuge, and subtle grandeur—a cathedral for outcasts dressed in velvet and smoke.
Defenses
Officially, Fontaine’s Last Call is just a stylish, slightly upscale bar with good security and firm house rules. But those in the know speak of unseen guardians. Some say the bar is protected by the spirits of fallen vigilantes, bound to the building by loyalty, vengeance, or unfinished business. Others whisper that Betty Mae herself still watches from the walls. In truth, the bar’s clientele is its greatest defense—a rotating cast of seasoned vigilantes, mercenaries, Outlaws and ex-criminals who treat the place as sacred ground. Anyone foolish enough to start trouble doesn’t just face the bouncers… they face the wrath of a dozen deadly legends sipping bourbon in the shadows.
History
The Birth of a Legend (1920s–1933)
When the Volstead Act dried out America, Betty Mae Fontaine—already a rising star in the criminal underground—saw an opportunity to turn vice into empire. Nestled behind a crumbling apothecary in New Orleans, she carved out a haven where the drinks were strong, the jazz louder, and the law never invited.
Originally disguised as Fontaine’s Remedies & Tonics, the bar beneath became Fontaine’s Last Call, a password-only speakeasy serving everyone from corrupt judges to runaway flappers, masked vigilantes to velvet-gloved assassins. It quickly became known as a neutral ground where deals were made, debts paid, and no one left untouched by its charm—or its consequences.
Under Betty’s rule, the bar thrived as a criminal crossroads. It was whispered about in pulp pages, feared by Prohibition agents, and immortalized in jazz ballads sung by women who wore knives under silk. Even after the repeal of Prohibition, Fontaine’s remained off-grid and under-the-radar, a haven for those who didn't fit cleanly into “hero” or “villain.”
Mid-Century Shadows (1940s–1970s)
As the world changed, Fontaine’s Last Call remained steady. While Betty Mae “retired” (or so she claimed), her network persisted—maintaining the bar as a safe haven for beat-up boxers, washed-up detectives, and the new breed of street-level crusaders and anti-heroes.
During the McCarthy era, the bar quietly protected blacklisted artists, closeted queer heroes, and radicals branded as threats to national security. Civil rights activists rubbed elbows with retired saboteurs. Fontaine’s refused to pick sides in public—but always chose justice in private.
Stories tell of secret fundraisers hosted in the backroom, arming revolutionaries across the world. Some claim the CIA had a file simply labeled “Scarlet Remnants – NOLA Cell.”
The Lost Years (1980s–Early 1990s)
After Betty Mae’s mysterious disappearance—or death, depending on who you ask—the bar fell into decline. A succession of caretakers tried and failed to maintain her delicate balance of rebellion and reverence. The bar stayed open, but the soul dimmed. Fewer vigilantes came. The legend began to fade.
The building itself, however, refused to die. Locals say it creaked with resentment when neglected, its walls sighing when the wrong songs played. The portrait of Betty Mae, once vibrant, seemed to watch in disappointment.
The Return of the Bloodline (1999–Present) Enter Charlotte “Charlie” Fontaine, a great-granddaughter with fire in her blood and bourbon in her breath. After nearly dying in the kind of back-alley deal Betty Mae would’ve warned her about, Charlie returned to the ruins of her family’s legacy and made a vow: she wouldn’t just restore the bar—she’d reclaim the crown.
And she did.
Charlie brought Fontaine’s back to life, brick by brick, bottle by bottle. She reintroduced strict house rules, recruited a loyal staff of ex-criminals and vigilante washouts, and reopened the secret tunnels and escape routes. She turned the bar legal—but kept its soul outlaw.
Today, Fontaine’s Last Call is legendary again. Vigilantes and outlaws from around the world visit to pay respects. Deals are struck. Names are carved into wood. And beneath the floorboards, whispers say Betty’s hidden vault is still waiting for the right hands.
Legacy Moving Forward
Fontaine’s Last Call isn’t just a bar.
It’s a living institution.
A temple for the morally gray.
A stronghold of outlaws with honor.
A woman’s rebellion given form, passed from firebrand to firebrand.
And if you're lucky enough to drink there?
Raise a glass to the Scarlet Siren and the Bourbon Duchess.
You're standing in a cathedral of ghosts, grit, and goddamn glorious resistance.
Originally disguised as Fontaine’s Remedies & Tonics, the bar beneath became Fontaine’s Last Call, a password-only speakeasy serving everyone from corrupt judges to runaway flappers, masked vigilantes to velvet-gloved assassins. It quickly became known as a neutral ground where deals were made, debts paid, and no one left untouched by its charm—or its consequences.
Under Betty’s rule, the bar thrived as a criminal crossroads. It was whispered about in pulp pages, feared by Prohibition agents, and immortalized in jazz ballads sung by women who wore knives under silk. Even after the repeal of Prohibition, Fontaine’s remained off-grid and under-the-radar, a haven for those who didn't fit cleanly into “hero” or “villain.”
Mid-Century Shadows (1940s–1970s)
As the world changed, Fontaine’s Last Call remained steady. While Betty Mae “retired” (or so she claimed), her network persisted—maintaining the bar as a safe haven for beat-up boxers, washed-up detectives, and the new breed of street-level crusaders and anti-heroes.
During the McCarthy era, the bar quietly protected blacklisted artists, closeted queer heroes, and radicals branded as threats to national security. Civil rights activists rubbed elbows with retired saboteurs. Fontaine’s refused to pick sides in public—but always chose justice in private.
Stories tell of secret fundraisers hosted in the backroom, arming revolutionaries across the world. Some claim the CIA had a file simply labeled “Scarlet Remnants – NOLA Cell.”
The Lost Years (1980s–Early 1990s)
After Betty Mae’s mysterious disappearance—or death, depending on who you ask—the bar fell into decline. A succession of caretakers tried and failed to maintain her delicate balance of rebellion and reverence. The bar stayed open, but the soul dimmed. Fewer vigilantes came. The legend began to fade.
The building itself, however, refused to die. Locals say it creaked with resentment when neglected, its walls sighing when the wrong songs played. The portrait of Betty Mae, once vibrant, seemed to watch in disappointment.
The Return of the Bloodline (1999–Present) Enter Charlotte “Charlie” Fontaine, a great-granddaughter with fire in her blood and bourbon in her breath. After nearly dying in the kind of back-alley deal Betty Mae would’ve warned her about, Charlie returned to the ruins of her family’s legacy and made a vow: she wouldn’t just restore the bar—she’d reclaim the crown.
And she did.
Charlie brought Fontaine’s back to life, brick by brick, bottle by bottle. She reintroduced strict house rules, recruited a loyal staff of ex-criminals and vigilante washouts, and reopened the secret tunnels and escape routes. She turned the bar legal—but kept its soul outlaw.
Today, Fontaine’s Last Call is legendary again. Vigilantes and outlaws from around the world visit to pay respects. Deals are struck. Names are carved into wood. And beneath the floorboards, whispers say Betty’s hidden vault is still waiting for the right hands.
Legacy Moving Forward
Fontaine’s Last Call isn’t just a bar.
It’s a living institution.
A temple for the morally gray.
A stronghold of outlaws with honor.
A woman’s rebellion given form, passed from firebrand to firebrand.
And if you're lucky enough to drink there?
Raise a glass to the Scarlet Siren and the Bourbon Duchess.
You're standing in a cathedral of ghosts, grit, and goddamn glorious resistance.
Tourism
Fontaine’s Last Call has become a must-see destination for tourists drawn to its scandalous history, legendary founder, and vintage charm. Charlotte Fontaine has embraced the attention—but on her own terms. Guided tours of the restored underground speakeasy are offered during daylight hours, showcasing the bar’s Prohibition roots, vintage décor, and stories of old cons and whispered secrets. These tours are carefully curated—clean, polished, and sanitized for public consumption. Charlotte ensures that tour groups never overlap with the bar’s more dangerous clientele, keeping the line between legend and living myth razor-thin. To tourists, it’s a thrilling peek into the past. To those who know better, it’s a place where the past still drinks quietly in the back.
Founding Date
May 1st 1923
Alternative Names
The Scarlet Speakeasy, The Bourbon Bastion, The Outlaw's Sanctuary.
Type
Bar
Parent Location
Environmental Effects
Most of the time, Fontaine’s Last Call feels pleasantly mundane—comfortable temperature, just the right amount of humidity, and a steady hum of old jazz and quiet conversation in the air. The lighting stays warm and low, the atmosphere intimate but never suffocating. No strange pressure changes, no floating candles, no oxygen-sucking spells—just smoke, spirits, and the weight of history.
But on certain nights—Halloween, Cinco de Mayo, All Saints’ Day, and a handful of dates Charlie refuses to explain—the atmosphere shifts. The VIP speakeasy is closed to the public, not for cleaning, but out of respect for the clientele that arrives unannounced and uninvited. Those nights carry a different energy—the air grows heavier, colder, almost reverent, and even the regulars give the lower level a wide berth. Charlie claims it’s just superstition, but those who know better swear the veil thins, and the bar plays host to spirits, legends, and long-dead patrons coming back for one more drink… and a place to rest. Disturb them, and you might find yourself part of the bar’s history sooner than expected.
But on certain nights—Halloween, Cinco de Mayo, All Saints’ Day, and a handful of dates Charlie refuses to explain—the atmosphere shifts. The VIP speakeasy is closed to the public, not for cleaning, but out of respect for the clientele that arrives unannounced and uninvited. Those nights carry a different energy—the air grows heavier, colder, almost reverent, and even the regulars give the lower level a wide berth. Charlie claims it’s just superstition, but those who know better swear the veil thins, and the bar plays host to spirits, legends, and long-dead patrons coming back for one more drink… and a place to rest. Disturb them, and you might find yourself part of the bar’s history sooner than expected.
What a masterful opening—the introduction to Fontaine’s Last Call practically sings off the page. The descent into that hidden speakeasy is drenched in atmosphere, oozing danger, charm, and jazz-soaked seduction. Betty Mae’s entrance is magnetic, instantly anchoring the reader in a world where rules bend and legends walk. Love it!