The First Time I Knocked by Jo Macgregor

Author:Jo Macgregor
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0000000000000
Published: 2023-05-28T16:00:00+00:00

– 25 –

I’d known when I entered the PD that my chances of getting any official cooperation were lower than the necklines on the witch and nurse Halloween costumes displayed in seemingly every other store window, but it had been worth a try. Racking my brains for someone else I could speak to, I headed in the direction of Broussard’s and got there over an hour early for my meeting. The restaurant was still dark and locked up, but a SOLD sign was now prominently displayed in the window.

I found a fun-looking bar two doors down where I could wait. It wasn’t yet noon, but the city wasn’t called the Big Easy for nothing, and already, the cool interior was filling up with tourists in a hurry to hand over their cash for overpriced drinks. I took a seat at the bar counter and scanned the blackboard behind the bar, where a list of cocktails was written. Sazeracs, mint juleps, absinthe frappes — they all sounded exotic.

“What’s a cafe brulot diabolique?” I asked the barman, a tall man with wavy black hair and a tanned face.

“Brandy and Curaçao on fire, served over a twist of orange peel.” His accent was thick — French sounding, but with an unidentifiable slant. His words were softly rounded, with hard consonants dropped from the ends. “You wan’ one?”

“No.” It sounded like a flaming headache on wheels.

“How ’bout a Hurricane?”

I shuddered, and he grinned. “Looking for sometin’ lighter, you?”

“Yup.”

“How ’bout a Ramos gin fizz — tastes like lemon meringue pie.”

“What’s in it?” I asked, not sold on the idea of a sweet pie beverage but also wanting to hear more of his sexy accent. New Orleans, man. Come for the mayhem and murder, stay for the food and the accents.

“Lime, lemon, orange blossom, and gin, frothed with heavy cream and egg white.”

I winced. “You lost me at the egg. Got anything with a kick?”

“Got an envie for hot peppers today, you?”

“If an ahn-vee is a craving, then yeah, I got one every day.”

“One Creole bloody Mary coming up,” he told me. “Double horseradish?”

I gave him a hand signal which said Bring it on, you don’t scare me.

“Good call,” I said when he brought over a tall glass of innocent-looking tomato juice adorned with a stick of celery, and skewers bearing pickled okra, a split green chili, a ruffled rasher of crispy bacon, and a pimento-stuffed green olive. “Wow.”

“Just a bit of this and that.” The way he said it, it came out dis and dat.

“And this?” I said when he slid a small plate with an oyster and lemon wedge, and an enormous bottle of Tabasco sauce my way.

“A lagniappe.” At my uncomprehending look, he explained, “A lil’ something extra.”

“Some-ting,” I repeated the way he’d said the word. “What’s that accent. French? Creole?”

“Cajun,” he said proudly. “I’m from Lafayette.”

I lifted my glass. “Cheers.”

“Santé.”

My first sip confirmed the drink was going to be worth every cent of the eye-watering thirteen dollars the blackboard promised it would cost me.

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