by Jon Sharpe
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 eat in peace,
or I’ll send you back to Senator Beares so full of holes, he’ll change your name to Cheese.”
Ratty looked like he was going to say something more, but discretion got the better of him and he snapped his mouth shut.
“Good,” Fargo said. He turned back to the gumbo. “You boys hungry?” he asked, not looking their way. “The gumbo here is a mite spicy, but it’s delicious.”
“He’s not tough,” Puncher mumbled under his breath. “He’s crazy. That gumbo could melt lead.”
Fargo ignored him and finished his meal, keeping one hand close to the Colt at all times. When he’d finished, he put a dollar on the bar. “There you go, mister,” he said. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget that meal.”
“It’s only two bits, Mr. Fargo,” the man said. “Let me get you your change.”
Fargo shook his head. “No, the rest is a tip. What’s on the menu for tomorrow?”
The man behind the counter grinned. “Blackened alligator steaks,” he said. “They’re a mite—”
“Spicy,” Fargo finished for him. “I’ll look forward to it.”
He put his hat on and gestured to Ratty and Puncher. “Let’s go see your boss,” he said. They stood and he followed them out into the New Orleans night.
Most of the towns Fargo had ever been in, the small cattle towns that dotted the western landscape, went pretty quiet after sundown. Even the saloons weren’t all that noisy unless a bunch of cowpunchers got paid and came in to raise a little hell. But for the most part, after dark, the towns of the West were quiet places. The folks who lived there worked too hard during the day to kick up much of a fuss at night.
But New Orleans was a different place after dark. An entirely new population walked the streets. Heavybrowed men looking for prostitutes, thieves skulking in alleyways looking for tourists who didn’t know the danger that surrounded them, whores calling out from balcony windows—some of them showing more skin than clothing—and then there were the children. All ages and skin colors raced through the streets, but all of them were dirt poor. They were out scavenging, looking for the scraps of the day, trying to find enough food to eat.
Following Ratty and Puncher through the maze of streets, Fargo kept his eyes and senses alert for trouble. There was no telling when they’d run across either more of Senator Beares’ men or a contingent of men belonging to Anderson or Parker. Both men walked in front of him, their shoulders tense, their heads swiveling on their necks as though if they tried hard enough, they could see right through the shadows around them to whatever danger might be approaching.
After several blocks, they turned and began to relax, eventually leading him to a house with a heavy iron gate in front of it. “This is it,” Ratty said. “Go on through the gate and up to the door. Just knock and ol’ Charles will let you in to see the senator.”
“No,” Fargo said. “You open the gate, Ratty. I think the two of you will make fine escorts all the way to the senator.”
“Ain’t nothing going to happen to you, Fargo,” Puncher said. “He just wants to talk is all.”
“Then he wouldn’t have sent heavy-handed thugs like you,” Fargo snapped. “Now get moving.”
Ratty turned the handle and opened the gate, which squealed on its hinges. Tiny leaves from the ivy growing along the gate fell to the ground. “Go on in, boys,” Fargo said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Aw, shit,” Puncher said. “I sure hope they don’t shoot us by accident.”
“That would be a shame,” he said. “I’d feel awful.”
“Mister, you wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if we both died.”
“Not true,” Fargo quipped. “I’m willing to give them two asses—a Puncher’s and a Ratty’s. Now get inside and be quick about it.”
They moved forward and Fargo’s eyes scanned the shadowy darkness.
Beares’ men were there—he could feel them—and a telltale flicker of movement on the roof caught his eye. Two men were stationed up there, holding rifles.
They were nearly at the front door, when Fargo barked, “Stop there!”
Both men stopped dead in their tracks.
“Senator,” Fargo shouted, his voice echoing strangely off the stone of the house. “Be a shame if we couldn’t talk because all your men were dead. Call them off or I’ll cut down Ratty and Puncher, and then those two men you’ve got on the roof.”
A voice floated into the courtyard from an open window.
“There’s no need for violence yet, Mr. Fargo,” it said. “Stand down, boys. This one can come in.”
The front door opened and an elderly butler stood in the doorway. “Please, Mr. Fargo,” he said, his ancient voice cracking. “The senator will see you now.”
“Keep moving, Ratty, Puncher,” he said. “I’d hate to have you slip away and leave me all by my lonesome. ”
“Aww, shit,” Ratty mumbled. “Could this night get any worse?”
“You could get dead,” Fargo said. “Now get inside. ”
They stepped through the door and Fargo followed them, wondering as he did so, if getting back out again was going to present the same set of problems, only with his back to Beares’ men, instead of his front.
It was an unpleasant thought, and Fargo knew that if he was going to get out of here alive, he’d have to play the game that was about to unfold very carefully.
7
From the entryway, Fargo saw that to the left was some sort of parlor or living room, furnished with heavy, padded couches and chairs, formal lamps, and an air of stuffiness to it that reminded him of people with too much money and not enough hard work to do. In his experience, a little hard labor went a long way toward teaching a man the value of a dollar.
The butler Charles moved with a kind of aging grace, his movements smooth despite the burden of his years. Fargo, with Ratty and Puncher in front of him, followed behind as Charles led them into another room to the right.
Fargo had not entered a mere house. He had entered an entirely different world from the one he was used to. This was antebellum New Orleans, the world of money and high society, of vast parties and privilege, of carriages trimmed in real gold, of opera companies imported from Italy and France, of horse races where tens of thousands of dollars were spent on single events. French was often spoken within these walls and very real duels were sometimes fought at drunken outdoor parties on the land in back of these mighty mansions.
Fargo wondered where the butler had been imported from. He certainly looked like the real thing. Formal but not unpleasant, businesslike but approachable.
This room was more to Fargo’s liking: dark wood paneling, leather chairs with brass rivets, a fireplace on one wall, a bar on another, and at one end a heavy, wooden desk made of polished mahogany. Over the fireplace there was a mounted lion’s head. Senator Beares sat in one of the chairs, sipping on a drink.
“Ahh, thank you, Charles,” he said. His voice was even, but beneath it, Fargo heard the tones of a man who was used to being in command and wasn’t afraid of much of anything. “Mr. Fargo,” he said, “please, consider yourself my guest. There’s no need for your weapon. You have my word—no harm will come to you here, at least no harm of my making.”
“That’s why you sent Ratty and Puncher to bring me here? Because you don’t intend me any harm?”
“Ratty and Puncher tend to be a little . . . overenthusiastic at times,” Beares said. He turned his gaze to the men. “I believe I instructed you to be gentle with Mr. Fargo. Did you fail me in this?”
“Hell, no!” Puncher said. “I just grabbed him a little is all, on the shoulder like, to show him we were serious.” He held out his mangled hand to demonstrate, then added, “Look what the sonofabitch did to me!”
Beares rose from his seat, taking a closer look at his employee, then turning back to the bar. “That does appear painful, Puncher,” he said. “You also appear to be missing at least one tooth and your nose isn’t a pretty sight either.” He shook his head. “I should’v
e sent Charles. He, at least, would have been wise enough not to risk laying a hand on Mr. Fargo.”
He made a shooing gesture. “Ratty, Puncher, you are dismissed,” he said. “Ratty, you will take Puncher to the doctor and have him seen to. Puncher, once you are done there, you will report back here and Charles will give you your pay. Then you are to leave New Orleans. If you return here, I will have you dealt with the way I do anyone who disobeys my orders.”
“Aww, but Senator—”
“Shut up, Puncher,” Ratty interjected. “You know what will happen. Just do as the man says.”
“Fine,” Puncher snapped, spinning on his heels. “I don’t need no doctor. Just pay me and I’ll go.”
“Very well,” Beares said. He picked up a small bell on the bar and rang it. In moments, Charles appeared at the doorway.
“You rang, sir?” he asked. Fargo noted that his voice held the very slightest of accents, as though it had been worn away by years of disuse.
“Yes, Charles,” Beares said. “Please pay Puncher for two weeks’ work, and see to it that he takes his horse and gear out of the stable. He is leaving my employ.”
“This is all your fault, Fargo,” Puncher said. “This ain’t over. Not by a long shot.”
Fargo eyed the man and nodded. “Maybe we should settle it right now, Puncher, though I reckon you’re more the type to sneak up on a man from behind than you are to face him straight on.”
“You calling me a coward?” Puncher snarled.
“No,” Fargo said. “You are a coward. I’m not making suggestions.”
“That’s it!” Puncher snapped, his hand flashing toward his gun.
Fargo reached for his Colt, but before he could clear leather another shot rang out. He looked to see that Charles was holding a small pistol in his hands. Puncher blinked—once, twice, like he was thinking about something real hard—then fell dead at Fargo’s feet.
“You dumbass, Puncher,” Ratty said. “Why’d you have to go and do that?”
Fargo made eye contact with Charles, who simply nodded. The man was lightning fast, and suddenly Fargo realized why he was so close to Beares. He was his bodyguard and some kind of a shootist to boot.