5 Crime Czar (14 page)

He nodded.

“Then I’ll help,” Marguerite said. “I’m rich.”

“You would do that?”

“Sure. It’s an investment. I’ll get my money back, right?”

“That’s the idea, but it’s obviously very risky.”

“If I’m going to put my money in, I want to know everything that’s going on.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything I do.”

“That’s not what I mean, Tubby. I want to be there when it happens.”

“It’s way too dangerous. These people are killers.”

“Take it or leave it. I’m the kind of woman who keeps a close watch on her dough.”

“Now, come on…”

“No. You come on.”

They went upstairs to the guest room bed.

* * *

They were just getting comfortable when the telephone rang. Thinking it might be one of his daughters calling so late at night, Tubby picked the receiver up.

“I just want to know,” Daisy said, “did you nail the son of a bitch yet?” Her voice was loud. She was drunk.

“Meaning who?”

“The so-called sheriff.”

“How do you know anything about Sheriff Mulé?”

“I hear things in my line of work,” Daisy said. “It doesn’t take a genius.”

One could take offense at that, Tubby thought. “Well, keep it quiet,” he begged her. “It looks like I’m getting close, Daisy. Very close.”

“And when you get him, what happens to him?”

“He loses a lot of money. That’s what really hurts a guy like him.”

“Will it cost him his job?”

“Maybe….”

“Will it cost him his life?” Her voice was rising. She was getting hysterical.

“I doubt that, but he might go to jail. If that happened he might very well be in danger.”

“Maybe isn’t good enough.”

“Well, I’m taking my best shot.”

“All legal and nice, is that it?”

“That’s right. You can’t take the law into your own hands. You’ve got to use the law, but use it for your own purposes, and…”

She hung up.

Tubby rolled over to look at Marguerite.

“That’s what you think?” she asked. “You use the law for your own purposes?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, but I thought you were supposed to have higher standards.”

“Do you? You flew out of New Orleans with a million dollars’ worth of other people’s jewelry.”

“It was more than a million, and I never said I was perfect. I don’t have to justify myself. Do you?”

Do I? Tubby wondered.

She ran her hand down his stomach and he forgot the question.

Daisy composed her face in the mirror and went back to the party in the hotel suite. The red, white, and blue banners hanging from the walls read “BLOOM FOR JUDGE. A MAN YOU CAN TRUST.”

The street in front of Swan’s Gym was deserted at night, except for a gray cat on the prowl for food. Overhead, the ramp to the Crescent City Connection droned with a steady stream of cars. It was bright up there, dark down here.

A polished black Cadillac rolled slowly down Erato Street. It bumped gently over the curb and came to a stop on the sidewalk in front of the gymnasium. Sheriff Mulé’s henchmen got out as a group. A large man whose name was Courtney went swiftly to the dented steel door and pushed it open. A bolt of light escaped. Skinny Willard LaRue escorted the sheriff inside. The driver, Shakes, stayed with the car.

Tubby was leaning against the ring, distractedly watching Denise DiMaggio, known as the “Bayou Babe,” spar lightly with “Black Velvet,” late of St. Gabrielle. He had been worried that Mulé might not show up. Marguerite sat on one of the cracked wooden theater seats, eyes fixed on the fighters. The lawyer turned when he heard the door open and hurried forward to greet the short sheriff and his entourage.

“This is your million dollar operation?” Mulé asked, not pausing to shake hands.

“Wait till you see the action,” Tubby promised. “Here, get yourself a drink.”

He prodded the sheriff to a makeshift bar beside a red punching bag. Here, where the fighters’ 10-K and water bottles were usually stored, Tubby had arrayed a half dozen fifths of whiskey and a bucket of ice. The dashing dark-haired man tending bar was Flowers. LaRue recognized the detective and stopped short. Flowers grinned at him.

“What will it be, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Scotch and a splash,” Mulé grunted. “You guys get whatever you want,” he told Courtney and LaRue. He glared around the room. All of the lights were pointed into the ring where Denise, tight black shorts over a cobalt-blue body suit, was prancing around Velvet, who was outfitted in purple tights cut low at the top and high at the bottom.

Mulé took his drink without turning his gaze from the boxers. Tubby grabbed a bourbon and told LaRue to help himself. He guided the sheriff over to the seats.

“Relax, Sheriff. When we go big time you won’t be able to have a private exhibition like this. Unless you’re one of the owners, of course. Let me introduce you to my friend. Marguerite, this is our high sheriff, Frank Mulé.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” Mulé said, sitting down heavily next to her. He quickly returned his attention to the ring.

“Same here,” Marguerite said, a little annoyed.

LaRue crossed the room and took a seat behind them. Courtney, one hand wrapped in a bandage, stayed at the bar, passing wisecracks with Flowers.

LaRue leaned over and whispered in his boss’s ear, “I know the broad beside you.”

Mulé shrugged.

“Let’s see some action,” Tubby suggested loudly.

Flowers jerked a chain and rang the bell.

Denise and Black Velvet came out of their corners and, without much preamble, started slugging each other.

“Ugh!” Denise grunted when a padded scarlet fist caught her in the stomach.

“Oh!” Velvet cried when a quick uppercut found her left eye.

Tubby had to count the holes in the ceiling tiles, as he often did when attending such sporting events. Mulé, on the other hand, watched intently, a crooked grin on his face, grinding one large fist into the palm of his other hand.

“Quite a show,” Marguerite said.

“You betcha!” Mulé replied.

Velvet went down on her knees in the third round and couldn’t get up. Denise jumped around her energetically, burning off adrenaline. Flowers bounded into the ring and called the fight.

“The winner by a knockout is the knockout, Bayou Babe!” he proclaimed, holding her gloved hand in the air.

The victor made a few turns around the ring to vent her attitude and then helped her partner get back on her feet. Flowers parted the ropes so that the boxers could climb out. Velvet headed for the showers, but Denise slipped over to give Tubby a sweaty hug.

“I sure recognize you, Sheriff,” she said throatily, and gave him a hug, too. “We’re so glad you could watch our show.”

“Sweetheart, it was great.” Mulé couldn’t take his eyes off her cleavage.

“You can come anytime,” she said. Denise gave him a cute wave, while Tubby cringed, and ran back to the locker room.

“Put this in a quality facility and you’ll sell out every night,” Tubby said enthusiastically. “You won’t be able to keep network television away.”

“Maybe,” Mulé said, eyes glistening. Tubby knew he was sold.

“Tell me again how much investment we’re talking here,” Mulé said.

“I put up five hundred thousand, you put up five hundred thousand,” Tubby said.

“Where would a two-bit lawyer like you get cash like that?” Mulé was glaring again.

Tubby pointed to Marguerite.

From underneath her seat she pulled a large black leather handbag. She put it in her lap, smiled, and unsnapped the clasp. Her hand went inside and came out with a fistful of diamond bracelets and gold chains.

“Holy shit!” the sheriff exclaimed.

“That stuff’s mine. It’s from the First Alluvial Bank job,” LaRue cried. He made a grab for her hand but was restrained by an arm around his neck that belonged to Flowers. LaRue was slammed back into his chair. Across the room, Courtney was arm wrestling with Denise.

The sheriff never took his eyes away from the sparkling jewels.

“Nice bracelet,” he said, pointing to a heavy gold chain with man-sized links.

“That’s our investment,” Tubby said.

“It’s hot,” the sheriff pointed out.

“That’s a small problem,” Tubby agreed. “That’s why I brought this deal to you. Isn’t this something you could handle?”

“I suppose,” Mulé said thoughtfully. “There’s a big discount on this kind of investment, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tubby said. “Here’s an inventory of what we’re putting up. It’s all listed out— by carats. Very neat.” He dropped the paper into the sheriff’s hand. “Retail market value is about three million,” he added.

Mulé stood up. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” He waved at Denise. “My compliments to the ladies. Come on boys, let’s go.”

Clifford Banks was a Garden District lawyer. His specialties were mortgage authority bonds and mixed doubles at the New Orleans Tennis Club. His straight and narrow course rarely crossed Tubby’s errant path. It was surprising, therefore, when Cherrylynn buzzed the lawyer’s inner office and announced that Clifford Banks was on the phone.

“Good morning, counselor,” Tubby said cautiously.

“Good morning, Tubby. How’s the legal game?” They exchanged pleasantries and agreed that the day had been hot.

“The reason I’m calling,” Banks finally said, “is that Frank Mulé asked me to. I help him with some of his business interests— though he’s got a lot I don’t know about…”— Banks chuckled— “and he has asked me to arrange a meeting with you to discuss a particularly fascinating proposal that, I understand, involves beautiful female prizefighters.” Banks laughed out loud at that.

“Frank told me his lawyer would call.” Tubby put his feet up on his desk and looked out the window. “I just didn’t know who the lawyer would be.”

“Fine, then I’m sure you have a good picture of what’s going on. Better than I have, probably. Frank doesn’t always fill me in on a lot of details. But he would like us to get together and jawbone as soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“You and me?”

“You, me, and Frank, actually.”

“Would you like to come to my office?”

“Truthfully, Frank would like to meet at his.”

“At the jail?”

“I’m afraid so. That’s where a lawman feels most secure, I guess.” Ha, ha.

“I’m bringing my principal.”

“Your what?”

“My principal investor. My client.”

“Ah, and who might that be?”

“Mulé has met her. You will soon.”

Banks didn’t like it, but he took it. They settled upon ten o’clock the next morning as the optimum time.

* * *

It was a long night for Tubby. The reality of what he was getting into was beginning to penetrate. Touching Sheriff Mulé had burned braver men than this lawyer, he was sure. He could almost feel the dark waters of the Mississippi River closing over his head. It’s something I’ve got to do, he told himself. Beside the flickering lamp at his bedside, he composed a letter to his daughters. Sensing his mood, Marguerite left him alone.

It was also a long night for Benny Bloom. He had seen a poll showing that he was trailing Al Hughes by five points. Even worse, a certain judge to whom he had offered a certain envelope had handed it back, saying things were “too sensitive”— meaning he was worried about his skin. The prospect of losing this election did not really bother him. The prospect of losing a big money case, on the other hand, did.

Tubby arrived with Marguerite at the jail a few minutes ahead of schedule.

“What if he locks us in?” she whispered as they trudged up the concrete steps. She was enjoying this.

“Don’t joke. He might do it,” Tubby replied.

The automatic doors slid open.

Usually, Tubby found whatever guard confronted him at the main desk to be surly and uncooperative, but today was different.

“Right this way,” the beefy black-uniformed deputy said as soon as they introduced themselves. “You can go up in the sheriff’s elevator.”

They were shown to the private car, which had only one button, for the fifth floor. The elevator itself was as dingy as the rest of the place. The surprise was that it opened onto a sumptuous suite of offices— superior, in fact, to Tubby’s own.

An attractive woman, blond hair in striking contrast to her jet black uniform and polished boots, greeted them suspiciously. She would let the sheriff know they were there.

Tubby sat on a leather-covered armchair while Marguerite paced around examining the odd oil paintings of jungle animals devouring one another. An enormous tiger clawing a terrified gazelle seemed particularly to engage her attention. She turned to ask Tubby a question, but just then the deputy’s intercom buzzed and they were told to walk right in to the sheriff’s private den.

Mulé’s office was approximately the size of a basketball court and his handsome desk the size of a billiard table. Sitting behind it, the sheriff seemed more like a paperweight than the master of the manse, until he opened his mouth and started giving orders.

“Take yourself a seat right next to my lawyer,” he barked. Banks, tall, with graying temples and a pocket handkerchief, stood to greet them.

Tubby introduced Ms. Patino to the men and held her chair while she got situated. The stuffed head of an ibex glared down at them from the wall.

“Let’s get right to the point,” Mulé shouted. “Dubonnet here says he has the exclusive on a franchise for women’s boxing in New Orleans, and he wants me to invest. I’m interested, and I’ve got my lawyer here to see that everything’s on the up and up. Now how does Ms. Patino fit into things?” He fixed his beady eyes on the only woman in the room.

“She’s my main organizer…” Tubby began.

“I’m the one who has possession of the, uh, riches,” Marguerite said, holding Mulé’s stare.

“All right then,” the sheriff announced. “Now we got the players straight. Who’s the franchise from?”

“The WWB,” Tubby said. “Worldwide Women’s Boxing. They sanction the fights at the Coconut Casino, the Hot Slot, all the boats. Now they’re expanding, backed by television contracts. They’re planning to build twenty-five arenas around the country over the next two years. New Orleans is ours for the asking.”