Free Louisiana Laydown by Jon Sharpe Page B

dresses, instead of denims and work shirts. Bowler hats were common, but only a few cowboy hats. Everything seemed peaceable enough, so he turned his attention back to the man behind the counter, who was headed his way with a large mug of beer in one hand and a steaming bowl in the other.
    “Smells good,” Fargo said as he set the bowl down in front of him, reaching under the counter and then placing a paper napkin and a spoon next to the bowl.
    But when the man was distracted momentarily, Fargo went back to scanning the guests. One other thing Fargo didn’t like much about this city was the way it treated the so-called “Free People of Color.” This meant the Creoles and the slaves. Most of them worked on the docks for mercilessly long hours and very little pay. It was people such as these filling the restaurant that profited more than they should have from the work of the poor.
    The slaves were leased out by their masters for dock work. They were allowed to keep a pittance of what they earned. Their masters promised the slaves that if they saved their money they would be allowed to buy their 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