5 Crime Czar (13 page)

She accepted the card wordlessly. With feet concealed by a tight silk dress, she seemed to blow away on a scented breeze.

Flowers fidgeted with his menu and stared restlessly around the room. He gave a second glance to the only other diners, a pair or muscular youths quietly eating bowls of noodles by the front window.

They looked up, as did Tubby, when a tall, thin man, neat black hair to match his suit, emerged from behind a partition and followed the slender waitress to the newcomers’ table.

She stood aside politely, as if reluctant to mention his name. The proprietor introduced himself.

“I am Mr. Minh. I hope you are enjoying yourself in my establishment.” His voice purred.

“We’ve just arrived. I wonder, Mr. Minh, if you might join us just for a moment and let me explain an important proposition.”

“I am afraid gentlemen that I already have all of the insurance I need, and I have no plans to invest in a mutual fund.”

“I’m not selling anything, Mr. Minh. I’m giving it away, and I only want a minute of your time.”

“Certainly,” Minh said and gracefully took a chair. “Chi Lamb, please see what these gentlemen would like to drink.”

“Tea,” said Tubby.

“Same for me,” Flowers said.

Bin Minny shook his head slightly, and the waitress floated off.

“It’s like this,” Tubby began. “I’m a lawyer, and I’ve been making it my business to know the leading criminal element in New Orleans.”

Bin Minny’s head jerked to attention, and his eyes narrowed.

“My purpose has been partly curiosity,” Tubby continued. “I wanted to know how things were organized and, naturally, who was the chairman of the board. But it’s more than that. Friends of mine have been killed, so I want to see the killers, by which I mean the top dog, brought to justice.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Bin Minny asked, wary and perplexed.

“My research has paid off,” Tubby explained. “I now know the name of the man pulling the strings, and I have a plan to punish him. However, I need allies. It has been rumored that you also may have reason to oppose this man. I’ve heard he may be trying to take over your territory. Perhaps it would be in your interest to help me.”

“Who are you?” Mr. Minh’s question was directed at Flowers.

“He’s a private detective who works for me,” Tubby answered.

This was not reassuring to Bin Minny. “What is the name of this boss of whom you are speaking?” he asked.

“He’s a powerful elected official. He keeps lots of people in jail.”

“Yes. I was thinking of that same man.” Bin Minny said. “He has some butchers working for him.”

“I’ve met at least one. His name is Willie LaRue. They call him Rue.”

“Rue. I don’t know that name, but I will find out about him.”

“Then you will help me trap these people?”

“How could I help?”

“My plan sounds a little complicated at first. You see, I have invented a false business opportunity, and I’m going to talk the boss into investing. It will take seed money, and that’s another thing I need to ask you about. But inevitably, we will expose the boss and his key people.”

“And then what happens?”

“Hopefully they will go to jail for a long time.”

Bin Minny dismissed the whole conversation with a wave of his hand.

“Not a very satisfactory ambition,” he announced and stood up. He bowed stiffly from the waist.

“Thank you for taking me away from my boring office, and thank you for your information. There is nothing I can do for you.”

“Please, wait,” Tubby implored, but he was talking to the owner’s back. Then Bin Minny was gone.

“Bummer,” Flowers said. “You want to get some sushi?”

“Hell no,” Tubby said and pulled on his coat.

Flowers had learned how to “half-sleep.” The idea was to relax the body and let the mind go blank. Slow down the breathing, but don’t let the eyelids shut. That’s what he was doing, way past midnight, slumped behind the steering wheel of a dingy gray van parked down the street from LaRue’s mother’s house in Harvey. If he had stirred to check his watch, he would have seen that he had been there about two hours.

So far, two anonymous late-model cars had crossed his line of vision and proceeded harmlessly down the street. A pickup truck with a hole in its muffler had growled past. A cat had crossed the street. A dog locked up behind the bars of the welding shop had barked for a long time. There had been no sign of LaRue.

Flowers was thinking about nothing when the corner of his eye caught a shadow moving across the street.

Someone had entered the LaRues’ small and untidy front yard and was hiding behind the large tree growing there. The shadow moved again, into a narrow alley beside the house.

Quietly, the detective opened the door of his van and slid down to the sidewalk. Keeping the tree between himself and the alleyway, he moved catlike across the street.

The grass on the lawn was tall and wet. Flowers crept stealthily to the corner of the silent residence and peered around it. Someone was on the other side of a pair of trash cans trying the side door to the house. He heard the rattle of the knob, but the attempt to enter was unsuccessful. That door was locked. Flowers had already checked that.

The figure backed away and turned toward the rear of the building.

“Hrmph,” Flowers coughed.

The person jumped in surprise and then crouched down to hide.

“All of the doors are locked,” Flowers said. His voice was soft, but it carried clearly down the dark alley. “Come out and let’s see who you are.”

“I’m armed,” a woman’s voice said. Flowers had to think for a second, but then it came to him.

“Is that you, Daisy?” he asked. “This is Flowers. We met at the bar.”

“Bad kharma,” she said and stood up.

“You’re not going to shoot me are you?” Flowers asked.

“I ought to,” she said and marched up to face him. She was wearing a black sweater, black jeans, and a purple scarf over her hair.

“LaRue’s not here,” Flowers whispered.

“I figured that out, asshole.” Daisy pushed past him.

Flowers grabbed her arm. She tried to jerk it back, but he held tight.

“We’re trying to keep an eye on him, lady. You sneaking around, you’re liable to get hurt or, even worse, scare him away.”

“You mind your own business. And let go of my arm!” This time she got it loose.

“Fuck off,” she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

Flowers watched Daisy go down the street and wondered where she had parked her car, or if she even had a car. He thought about following her but decided against it. In any case, this particular stake-out was shot.

Driving away, he turned on a Latin station he favored and tried to figure out how he would spend the remaining hours until dawn.

* * *

Tubby had been trying to maintain his sobriety, but that’s hard to do sitting in a bar drinking with a friend. Especially when you owned the bar, and when the friend had a dissolute personality.

“It’s a corrupt town, that’s all there is to it,” Tubby griped.

Raisin shrugged. Suddenly he pointed to the television set hanging above the bar in the corner. “Hey, look at that!”

On the screen a train was derailing, its passengers hurled about the cars and flying out of the windows. Many lay writhing in agony on stony ground. As emergency rescue crews fought to get to the scene, a helicopter appeared overhead and a man dangling from it by a rope— a man in a three-piece suit who looked just like Benny Bloom— screamed “Let me sign you up!”

“Benny Bloom signed up seven-hundred and eighty-three plaintiffs at the Pearl River train derailment,” the announcer said solemnly.

Then an oil refinery blew up. The same lawyer crawled over the bodies of fallen workers, stepping on hard hats, begging, “Let me sign you up!”

“Benny Bloom signed up one-hundred and forty-six so-called plaintiffs at the Ratco fire,” the announcer said.

An ambulance raced down a busy highway, lights flashing. Benny Bloom ran behind it waving his briefcase and crying, “Let me sign you up!”

“Do you want an ambulance chaser for judge?” the sober voice asked.

“That’s pretty good,” Tubby said, watching the face of Al Hughes smile down from the bench.

Raisin laughed soundlessly.

“Just shows you, this is a corrupt town,” Tubby repeated, returning to his theme. “Here we got a sheriff who runs a major crime syndicate, who whacks people out with impunity, and who eats at Shoney’s, for God’s sake.”

Raisin signaled the bartender and tapped his glass for more.

“And nobody wants to do anything about it. Not even people he’s screwed in the past…”

Larry, the barkeep, drifted over to place fresh glasses, already full of whiskey, in front of them both.

“Not even the police, such as my so-called friend Detective Fox Lane. Not even that crazy Vietnamese. Not even my own goddam judge.” Tubby slapped the bar and grabbed his glass. He tossed it back. “What do you think about that?” he asked hoarsely.

“Not a damn thing,” Raisin muttered.

“Well that’s not very helpful, is it?”

“I’ll be honest with you, good buddy,” Raisin said. “I think everybody’s getting a little bit sick and tired of hearing about your crime czar.” He sipped from his own cup and checked his appearance in the speckled, cloudy mirror behind the bar.

Tubby for once was speechless.

Raisin searched around for his pack of cigarettes.

“Tired of hearing about it?” Tubby finally managed.

“Crime boss, crime boss. Tubby, who really gives a wad of spit?”

Tubby was having trouble processing this betrayal by his best fiend. The room, it seemed, was rotating. Had everyone deserted him? He failed to hear the knock on the tavern’s front door, and he did not notice Larry pressing the buzzer that would admit a new patron.

“I really don’t know what to say,” he finally mumbled.

“How about ‘hello’?” the lady behind him suggested.

“Marguerite!” Tubby exclaimed. He turned to find his most recent old flame, all five-foot-six of her, beaming her blue eyes at him.

Awkwardly, they embraced.

“I thought I would surprise you,” she said.

“Man, you sure did. Raisin Partlow, this is my friend Marguerite Patino I told you about.”

Raisin sized her up. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. Marguerite was easy to look at— nice plump shape, straw-colored hair, black eye lashes. Tubby moved aside to give her a stool between the two men at the bar.

“Are you in town for a while?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “I just, you know, wanted to see New Orleans again. I called you when I got here this afternoon, but, of course, you weren’t home. So I went out and had a bad dinner. Then I remembered you had told me about Mike’s Bar, and, well, I just took a chance. And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Tubby admitted.

“Just in time,” Raisin said happily.

“I hope we’ll have a chance to have some fun,” she said hopefully.

“You bet,” Tubby said. “There’s a lot going on with me right now, but we can make some time.”

Marguerite did not seem to mind that Tubby was already a little cross-eyed. She fanned Raisin’s smoke out of her eyes and ordered a glass of wine.

Larry displayed the wine menu at Mike’s— both the white and the red selections came with screw-off caps— and she decided on a light beer instead.

She and Tubby talked and started nudging and patting each other. Raisin finally got bored.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I guess I’ll head out.”

“Hey, it’s early,” Tubby protested.

“I don’t feel tired,” Marguerite said.

Raisin could take a hint and split anyway.

“You want to go hear some music?” Tubby suggested. He had only the faintest idea where to catch a band at that time of the night. It had been years since he had thought about looking for one.

“I’d rather go someplace quiet and maybe have a cup of coffee and talk.”

“Sounds good to me.” He was relieved.

Larry condescended to give them a nod when they walked out the door.

“He’s a funny guy,” Marguerite noted. “Does he ever talk?”

“Every few years he’ll have something to say. If he likes you. Do you have a car?”

No, she had arrived in a cab. So they piled into Tubby’s Chrysler. He thought she smelled really nice.

“Let’s see,” he said, starting the engine. The clock on the dashboard said 1:14. “Coffee.”

“I guess not many places are open.”

“Maybe at your hotel. Where are you staying?”

“A guesthouse on the streetcar line called the Parkview.”

“Really, that’s close to my house. But I don’t think their kitchen will be open this late.”

“Well, haven’t you got a coffee pot?”

Sure he did, and so Tubby took her to his house.

“Nice place,” she remarked when he let her in the front door.

“Thanks,” he said. He was just glad none of his kids had picked this night to hang around.

They sat in the kitchen and decided on a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle rather than a cup of coffee.

Marguerite told him what she had been doing for the past few months, since her hurried departure from New Orleans with a sack of stolen jewelry.

She had succeeded in converting much of her wealth into conventional assets, including a condominium overlooking Lake Michigan and substantial holdings in tax-free municipal bonds. She had quit her job as a flunky for a commodities trader and pursued some personal interests. She had, for example, learned to cook— Chicago style— and taken a couple of trips. She had gone to Vail, Colorado, to ski. Now she had come to New Orleans to see what the city looked like when it wasn’t raining. And to see Tubby, of course.

Tubby brought her up to date on the happenings in his life, the birth of a grandson, Dan Haywood’s death, and his search for the crime czar. His eyes shown brightly when he talked about that.

“I can see it means a lot to you,” she said.

“I think it’s the most important thing for me to do,” he explained. “And I believe I’ve built a good trap for him.”

“But you’re short on bait,” she pointed out.