5 Crime Czar (10 page)

“Arnaldo Bat?” he repeated in dismay.

“No, Dad. Arnaldo Bertrand. We’ll probably just call him Arnie.”

“Arnie?”

“What’s wrong with Arnie?” Debbie’s voice was rising.

“No, nothing, nothing at all. There are lots of great Arnie’s.”

“I know,” she agreed. “But I liked Cody, myself, and Ashton and Forrest. There was this family tradition thing, though.”

“I’ll call him Arnaldo,” Tubby said.

“I knew you’d like it. He looks just like you.”

Artfully mollified, Tubby forced himself to concentrate on the enchanted swamp of parish politics. At home the night before, he had seen Benny Bloom’s “attack ad.” It had begun with a picture of a black man in handcuffs being pushed into a police car. Then a gavel came down, and the word GUILTY flashed on the screen. Then the docket of a court record appeared briefly before a hand, wielding a top-secret stamp, obliterated the page. The announcer said, “The file Judge Al Hughes doesn’t want you to see. In 1974, Alvin Hughes was arrested for DWI. He was found guilty and required to pay a fine. This is what Al Hughes doesn’t want you to know. Now you know the truth.” An American flag filled the screen, and a new voice proclaimed, “And that is why those who know support Benny Bloom for judge!” Unmistakably, the speaker was Judge Carlo Trapani.

Tubby couldn’t believe it. Half the people in town would know that voice. Trapani was supposed to be lined up behind Al Hughes.

Even more depressing, the next ad had shown Sheriff Frank Mulé throwing beads from a Mardi Gras float, and he was actually laughing. The sheriff was even more frightening when he stepped out of character.

All day long Tubby had been barraged by press packets from Kathy Jeansonne, the campaign’s media liaison, announcing at what church bazaar Al Hughes would be spinning the roulette wheel, at which school fair he was judging the crawfish race, at what gymnasium he was coaching “midnight basketball.”

The judge had been seen kissing babies in Storyville, make that babes, the press release quipped. Who’s writing this stuff? Tubby wondered. He noted that his own name, correctly spelled, appeared on the letterhead of each press release. It took real mental effort to keep from thinking about the legacy he was leaving Arnaldo “Bat”, Jr. Candidate Hughes had been endorsed by the Lesbian and Gay Political Action Committee, as well as by All Ministers Combined, which Tubby was enlightened to learn was an organization— in the words of one local pundit— of politically savvy evangelical zealots formed to combat the twin evils of video poker and free condoms.

The lawyer was exceedingly grateful when the phone rang and it was Flowers.

He had found LaRue.

They drove across the bridge together, then through a tangle of old neighborhoods and car dealers, to a bar on a side street in Harvey. The word was that there was a room in the back of the tavern where LaRue holed up. Cool air smelling of old smoke and fresh beer greeted them when they pushed through the doors. A noisy crowd was at the bar. A few couples were scattered at tables in dark recesses.

“Look, there’s Tubby Dubonnet! He’s running the Judge Hughes campaign,” announced a stocky man at the center of the loud crowd, and Constable Sam Aruba stepped up to pump the lawyer’s hand. Tubby was quickly swallowed up and introduced to the bartender and a bunch of other guys and told to get anything he wanted.

“This is my turf, buddy,” Aruba yelled, “and we’re gonna treat you right,” he said, slapping Tubby on the back.

Flowers drifted off to exchange words with a fat black dude sitting by himself and drinking beer. At a table in the corner behind them, a muscular man with curly hair and a small woman in a tight dress smoked cigarettes and looked around.

“Lemme see about something,” Aruba whispered loudly into Tubby’s ear, and he went back to the corner where the lady was sitting. She stood up and followed him back to the bar.

“Lemme introduce you to a sweetheart,” Sam said, pushing the skimpily clad female at Tubby. “Her name is Daisy.”
Wink. Wink.

“Uh, pleased to meet you. My name is Tubby Dubonnet.”

“You don’t have to be on no formal basis,” Aruba yelled merrily.

Daisy’s eyes widened.

“I think we know somebody in common,” she said in a low voice. “Monique, I think her name is.”

“At Champs Bar? Sure. What’s your name again?”

Daisy already regretted telling Tubby about Monique, and she was about to make up a name when Flowers shoved his way into the pack and whispered into Tubby’s ear.

“LaRue’s in an office in the back. Right past the men’s room.”

“Gotta use the can,” Tubby explained to the girl, and he left her and Constable Aruba standing there.

With Flowers in the rear, they walked into a dark corridor where doors marked KNIGHTS and QUEENS faced each other. Further down the hall was a door with a crooked red sticker pasted on it that said PRIVATE. Flowers put his ear up to it and listened. Then, bracing himself against the wall, he raised his knee and crashed his foot into the wood right above the knob.

The door banged open, and, as the detective and Tubby barged into the room, the man who had been napping on the cot inside sat up. His hideaway was furnished with the bare essentials: a small refrigerator, the cot on which LaRue had been sleeping, and about twenty cases of beer stacked along the walls.

Flowers’s right hand was inside his coat, where he kept his gun.

Tubby had his hands out. “Peace,” he said.

“What the fuck,” LaRue said, eyes darting around.

“We met at Mardi Gras,” Tubby said. “Remember me?”

LaRue certainly did. “No,” he said.

“I’m here to talk,” the lawyer explained, stepping forward. “Let’s all be calm. I want to talk business.”

Flowers moved to Tubby’s left where he could keep an eye on both men.

The doorway filled up with the big man who had been sitting out front with Daisy.

“Need help, partner?” he asked, checking out the splintered door frame.

“Maybe,” LaRue said, adjusting his shirt collar and running a hand through his black hair. “Stick around, Courtney.”

“Why don’t we all come in and have ourselves a meeting,” Flowers suggested.

Courtney obliged and stepped in, creating an opening for the lady who had crept up behind him.

Daisy had a tiny .22 pistol in her hand and popped off the first shot as soon as she glimpsed a slice of LaRue’s head.

“No!” Tubby yelled and slapped at the gun.

She was firing again when Flowers pushed Tubby out of the way with such force that he smashed into the boxes of beer.

Courtney grabbed at the gun with his left hand and at the same time loosed a meaty right hook that connected with the whole side of Daisy’s head. Reflexively, before passing out, she pulled the trigger again and shot a hole through Courtney’s palm.

“God damn!” he shouted, bending over in pain and clutching his gushing hand between his knees. Daisy was out on the floor. LaRue and Tubby, both unhurt, locked eyes.

“Get her out of here,” Tubby told Flowers out of the side of his mouth. He gestured to the woman spread-eagle unconscious on the dirty tiles.

The detective stepped around Courtney and scooped Daisy up. He loaded her onto his shoulder. Her little skirt rolled over her fanny, revealing purple silk with a frayed rip.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Tubby promised.

Flowers disappeared, and Tubby backed slowly toward the door.

“You saw me knock the gun away,” he told LaRue. “I probably saved your life. I’ve got business to discuss with you that’s worth a lot of money. You know my name. Call me, so I don’t have to come looking for you again.”

LaRue didn’t budge from the bed, but his dead eyes were following Tubby as the lawyer faded into the hallway.

Tubby moved smartly. The sound of gunfire had emptied the bar. No Constable Aruba, no guys drinking beer, nobody. Flowers, the girl still slung over his shoulder, was silhouetted in the entrance, waiting for him. As Tubby trotted outside he saw the bartender’s bald forehead poke timidly above the scarred mahogany.

Daisy got tossed into the backseat of Flowers’s black Honda, and they blew gravel spinning out of the parking lot.

Daisy revived while they were speeding over the Crescent City Connection, the barges on the Mississippi River far below. Her eyes teared up while she fingered her jaw, and she did not speak.

Flowers dropped them at Tubby’s car, as his boss directed. He wasn’t paid to question his employer.

Tubby asked Daisy if she could walk. She nodded, and he told her to get into the Chrysler. She went without protest or comment.

“What’s the plan?” Flowers asked.

“I don’t know. Call me in the morning.”

Tubby didn’t speak again until he had his Le Baron started up and rolling toward Lee Circle. He kept one eye on Daisy, seated beside him, lest she produce another weapon.

“What did you shoot at LaRue for?” he asked finally.

“That’s his name? To kill him, what do you think?”

“What for?”

“Why did you stop me?” she asked instead.

“Partly just a reflex. Partly because I have other plans for him.” Tubby couldn’t help noticing the curves of her legs and thighs pressing against the upholstery, so he didn’t try.

“Monique at Champs Bar told me you were a lawyer and that I ought to talk to you. What were you doing in that place with that man?”

“It’s a long story.”

“So’s mine.”

“Where do you want to go to tell it to me?”

“I have a motel room, but I think it’s time to move.”

“Then I’m going to take you to my house.”

“Oh yeah?” She tried to arch an eyebrow on the swollen side of her face and winced.

He turned the car toward the river on Nashville Avenue.

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself.

Walking across the dark yard, Tubby saw that his living room light was on. He did not remember leaving it that way.

He motioned for Daisy to stand behind him while he worked the key in the lock. Pushing the door slowly open, he cautiously stuck his head inside.

On the couch, staring at him, was his daughter Christine. She was spooning yogurt from a plastic cup and talking on the telephone. The TV was on, but she had switched off the sound so she could concentrate on her conversation.

The sight of Tubby’s escort stopped her in midsentence. With her lips open in a sort-of smile, Christine continued to nod her head as if listening to the voice of the phone, but her mind was elsewhere.

Daisy stood still, just inside the doorway, inspecting the room. A purple bruise was spreading around her left eye.

“That’s my daughter,” Tubby explained. “She has a key and shows up when she’s least expected. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get you something to drink.”

Christine pressed a button and put the phone down.

“Hi, Dad,” she said.

“Daisy, this is Christine. Christine, this is Daisy.” He smiled at them.

Christine stood up politely, then they both sat down on the sofa.

“Daisy is, uh,” Tubby began. “Well, why don’t you explain while I put on a pot of coffee?”

Daisy pulled her blue sequined chop top down to cover more of her rib cage.

“A country girl from Alabama,” she said tensely. “And I should be getting out of here.”

“Nonsense,” Tubby said. “You need to clean up your face, and I need a drink.”

The phone beeped. Christine dug it out of the crack in the cushions and handed it to her father with scolding eyes.

“It’s probably for you,” she said prettily.

He took it and headed for the bar.

“Hello?” he said, spooning ice.

“It’s me.” The voice belonged to Marguerite Patino, and his mind raced back to a hotel room in the French Quarter they had shared for one special rainy night.

“Hi, Marguerite,” he said slowly, his ice cube dripping on the rug. He had neither seen nor heard from the woman since she had departed on the day Dan got shot. She had been on his mind though.

“Am I interrupting anything? Is someone there?” she asked.

“Well, no, not exactly.”

Dead silence.

“My dog is with me,” Tubby said, recovering quickly.

“I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“He’s visiting. Listen…”

* * *

Tubby woke up with the sunrise and tried to figure out how he had ended up all alone in his house.

The first one to go had been Christine. She had made an early departure after failing to elicit much information from Daisy.

“You look a little tired, Daddy. You ought to get some rest,” had been her parting shot.

He had gotten Marguerite off the phone right away. She had sounded more than a little angry about the brush-off and had not called back even though she said she would.

Then, over coffee and a couple of shots of bourbon, Daisy had told her story to Tubby.

“So, what do you plan to do now?” he asked.

“Same as before. Kill LaRue.” She shrugged.

Tubby explained his theory that there was a central crime boss over LaRue and Courtney and all the crooks. He would prefer it if Daisy waited until he had entrapped that person before she offed anybody. Daisy, however, made no promises. Tubby suggested that, perhaps, in some way she could help bring the “big guy” to justice. Daisy said she would like that, but she had a program of her own. Stay in touch, she told him.

And then she was gone, too. Tubby urged her to stay the night. She could have the spare room, but she was already out the door.

“Where can I reach you?” he asked the miniskirted figure crossing his yard. She apparently had no qualms about prancing around like that in his fairly sedate neighborhood.

“I’ll have to let you know,” she replied and kept moving until she was lost in the shadows of the oak trees that shrouded the broken sidewalk.

So he woke up alone. It was shortly after the sun came up, when he padded barefoot downstairs to pour himself a good morning grapefruit juice, that he discovered he was not alone after all.

“Sheez,” or something like it involuntarily escaped Tubby’s mouth when he walked into the kitchen and found Willie LaRue, cowboy hat on his head, sitting at the round table at the window, like a scene from a Greyhound station. LaRue was calmly building a stack of wooden matches.