Louisiana Laydown

freedom someday.

All this had been going on since the first steamship docked in New Orleans early in the century.

But the Haitians who came here after the slave revolt in their native land, the Creoles, and the American slaves all fooled those who would hold them back. By 1850 they’d started buying up properties and starting small businesses. And with more and more slaves freed, the whole community of Free People of Color was beginning to have at least a small say in how the city treated them.

“You’ll love it,” the man said, getting back to Fargo and grinning. He turned around and pulled a small loaf of cornbread with butter in a tiny dish off the back counter. “You’ll want this, too,” he said. “If it’s too hot for you, the bread will help cool things off a bit.”

Fargo chuckled. “Like I said, I’ve eaten Mexican food.” He picked up the spoon and stirred the dark-brown concoction. It smelled a little spicy, and he could see the ground-up sausage and the crawfish tails and vegetables floating in the gravy. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“You might want to—”

He dove in, taking a large spoonful and putting it in his mouth.

The first sensation was the flavor—dark and rich, like a good stew—and the curious combination of the crawfish and the sausage. For a moment, Fargo thought maybe he’d found the only thing in New Orleans worth telling anyone about. Then the second sensation hit him: a slight tingle on his tongue and lips, a vague heat on the sides of his mouth that suddenly exploded into pure, burning agony.

He glanced at the man behind the counter who was watching him expectantly. Fargo felt his face redden and his eyes begin to water.

“I tried to warn you, sir,” the man said, trying to contain his smile. “It is a mite spicy.”

Fargo wanted to speak, but all that came out was a weak-sounding cough. This was nothing like Mexican food. This was like swallowing a campfire ember that sat in your mouth and stayed there, burning and burning, searing away your own spit.

“The bread, sir,” the man said, gesturing to the bowl. “It will help.”

Fargo opted for the beer instead, whipping the glass off the bar and taking several large swallows.

Distantly, he heard the man try to say something, but all he could think about was getting the fire out of his mouth. The problem, he soon discovered, was that the beer only washed the flames farther down his throat.

“Oh, my God,” he gasped out. Tears streamed down his face.

The man held up the bread, and Fargo snatched it from his hand, slathered it with butter—didn’t he hear somewhere that butter helped burns?—and shoved a big piece in his mouth. Almost immediately, the bread did its work, and the pain began to ease.

After a few seconds, the sensation calmed down to an almost tolerable heat and the flavor of the gumbo emerged again—dark, rich, and delicious. “Whew,” Fargo managed. “You do know what the word ‘mite’ means, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, now grinning openly. “ ‘Just a little.’ You should try our really spicy version. Last week, it nearly killed a man.”

“How . . .” Fargo stopped, ate another piece of bread, and took a swallow of beer. “How do you manage to eat that stuff, let alone sell it?”

“I tried to tell you, sir,” the man said, his head bowing down. “It’s better if you dip the bread in it. That’s what it’s for.”

“Then why’d you give me a spoon?” Fargo demanded.

The man sighed. “If I tried to tell you it was too hot, you wouldn’t have believed me, sir!”

Fargo thought about it a minute, then began to chuckle ruefully. “I suppose you’re right.” The flavor was nice, so he said, “Dip the bread into it?”

The man nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s not half as bad the second time.”

Fargo tried it, dipping the cornbread into the gumbo, and found it to be much more tolerable. In fact, it was like nothing he’d ever had and he found himself setting to with a vengeance. “How do you get it so spicy?” he asked, between bites.

“Family secret,” the man said. “But part of it is the pepper oil.”

“Pepper oil?” he asked. “What’s pepper oil?”

“If you squeeze certain types of peppers, you get a tiny amount of liquid that is very hot. By itself, it can cause blisters on the skin. So we dilute it, of course, but it still adds a lot of heat to the gumbo. But it’s good, yes?”

Fargo had to admit it was delicious, despite the fact that even with the bread and the beer, he knew he’d be feeling the heat of the meal two hours later. “Yes,” he said. “It is good. Just not something you’d want to dive into without instruction.”

“No, sir,” the man said. His eyes widened a bit, and he was about to say something else, when Fargo felt a heavy hand come down on his shoulder.

“You Skye Fargo?” a deep voice asked from behind him.

Fargo didn’t turn around, but said, “Who wants to know?”

The hand squeezed his shoulder, and the voice said, “I’m asking you, and if you don’t want a broken collarbone to go with your dinner, you’ll answer.”

So fast that the man behind the counter gasped aloud, Fargo spun on his stool, catching the man’s hand in his own, reversing it and yanking the fingers down. Several broke with an audible cracking sound and the man let out a muffled whimper. It was muffled because as he’d gone down, Fargo had shoved his knee into the man’s face, breaking several teeth.

He saw that there was a second man behind him, reaching for his gun.

“I wouldn’t,” Fargo warned. He twisted slightly and shoved the man with the broken hand to the ground, pulling his Colt with blazing speed. He had it pointed at the other man before his pistol could clear leather.

“Drop it,” Fargo snapped. “Back into the holster, nice and easy.”

The man did as he was told, then raised his hands. His partner on the ground managed to get to his feet, but his lips and nose were bloody ruins and three of the fingers on his right hand were twisted and broken.

“Let me guess,” Fargo said, keeping his gun pointed at them. “You were sent to bring me to Senator Beares.”

“That’s right,” the broken-fingered man said. “He wants to see you.”

“I take it he’s not used to being refused,” Fargo said.

“You can come with us now,” the other man said, “or we’ll leave and come back with a dozen guns to take you the hard way.”

“Hey, Ratty,” the man behind the counter said. “Looks like the only folks getting the hard way so far is you and Puncher.”

“Shut up,” Ratty said. “You don’t want to cross us, Fargo. Why not make it easy and come along and see what the Senator has to say?”

Fargo cocked his gun and their eyes went wide. “Or I could just kill you both,” he said evenly, “finish my dinner, and go on about my business.” He glanced around the room. “I imagine most everyone in here will say it was self-defense.”

“He just wants to talk to you, mister,” Puncher said, holding his hand. “Just talk.”

“Then why try to force me at all?” Fargo said.

“We heard you was a tough guy, is all,” Ratty replied. “Figured we’d have to use force.”

“You couldn’t force me to blink,” he replied. He glanced at a nearby table, then gestured with the Colt. “Take a seat,” he said.

“What?” Puncher said. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” Fargo said, turning the Colt back in his direction. The size of the bore must have made an impression because both Ratty and Puncher moved to sit down.

Once they were seated, Fargo sat back down on his own chair. “Now, sit there, be quiet, and don’t cause trouble,” he said. “When I’m finished with my meal, we’ll go find your boss.”

“He said to bring you now,” Ratty whined. “He don’t like waiting on no one.”

“Then he should’ve sent me a note,” Fargo said. “You’ve got a choice, Ratty. Sit there, shut up, and let me