Forbidden Fruit Read Online Free PDF

out.”
    Santos laughed and lifted his hands, empty palms up. “Gave it up, man. Haven’t you heard? Those things’ll kill you.”
    The man flipped Santos a friendly bird, then turned his attention to a couple of tourists who had stopped outside the club and were craning their necks to get a peek at the show.
    Victor continued down Bourbon, then cut across to St. Peter, hoping to shave a few minutes off his walk. He had promised his mother he would pick up a couple shrimp po’boys on his way home.
    His mouth started to water at the thought of the big, sloppy sandwiches, and he stepped up his pace, though not too much. August in New Orleans didn’t lend itself to hurrying. Although the sun had begun its descent more than an hour ago, the sidewalk was still hot enough to fry an egg. Heat emanated from the concrete in sweltering waves, and the air, heavy with the ninety-plus–percent humidity, could suffocate the overzealous. Just last week, a tourist-buggy horse had fallen over dead in the street, a victim of August in New Orleans.
    â€œHey, Santos, baby,” a woman said from behind him. “Where you goin’ in such a hurry?”
    He stopped, looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey, Sugar. Going to the Central Grocery, then home. Mom’s waiting.” Until about six months ago, Sugar had danced at the club with his mother. She’d been forced to start working the streets full-time when her man had taken off, leaving her and their three kids.
    â€œYour mama always did like them sandwiches. Bet you do, too, a big boy like yourself.” She laughed and patted his cheek. “You tell your mama I said hello. You tell her Brown Sugar’s doin’ okay.”
    â€œI will. She’ll be glad to hear it.”
    Santos watched her walk away, then shook his head and started off again. Sugar was an example of the kind of folks those do-gooder school counselors called a bad influence. The way he saw it, she was doing the best she could to take care of her family. The way he saw it, sometimes life didn’t offer anything better than a shit sandwich. When that happened, you had to eat it or starve.
    Not that there weren’t some bad people in the Quarter. There were plenty; just like everyplace else. He figured folks came in three varieties: the haves, the have-nots and the want-to-haves. The way he saw it, the lines between these three groups were very clearly drawn. It was economics, pure and simple.
    The haves were easy. They liked their lives, and as long as members of the other two groups stayed out of their way, they weren’t any bother at all. But the want-to-haves were trouble. They came from all walks of life, they grappled for money and power, they would do anything to anyone to get it; the want-to-haves burned in their gut to lord it over somebody else.
    Santos considered himself a pretty tough kid, but he steered clear of that kind. Experience had taught him well. His daddy had been like that, always hungry for what he didn’t have, always yearning to lord it over somebody else, ready to raise his fist to somebody smaller or weaker. Like that would make him a big man.
    His daddy. Santos curled his lips in distaste. He had nothing but bad memories of Samuel “Willy” Smith. The man had been pure oil-field trash, but too good to marry the “spic-squaw” girlfriend he had knocked up, too good to give their baby his name. He used to call Victor and his mama half-breed wetbacks and tell them they were no good.
    Santos remembered feeling little but relief the morning the sheriff had come by their trailer to tell them Willy Smith had been killed—his throat slit from ear to ear—in a bar-room fight. Every now and then, however, Santos did wonder about his old man—he wondered how he was enjoying hell.
    Santos reached the grocery and went inside, grateful for the blast of cold air that hit him as he opened the door. He ordered