5 Crime Czar (2 page)

Later on, Daisy let him take a shower, because he had been nice and because she had kind of enjoyed it. Then he was gone. He said he was going to show up in the morning and take her out for breakfast, but she blew him off. Another weirdo in her life, she didn’t need. He was probably just bullshitting anyway. Daisy cleaned herself up, mailed herself a kiss in the mirror, and hit the streets.

Tubby Dubonnet had read nearly every magazine in the waiting room. Three hours earlier he had been fresh out of bed, tying a knot in his Tabasco tie and getting ready to go to the office, when his youngest daughter, Collette, called excitedly to report that her sister was deep into labor. She was ready to deliver a baby at any moment.

The lawyer had hurried down to Touro Hospital to find that Debbie was installed in what they called a “birthing room.” It was crowded to overflowing. The victim, in dim surroundings, was moaning in agony, attended by a nurse, a somewhat confused-looking doctor, and Tubby’s ex-wife, Mattie, who was shouting at everyone. Marcos, whom Tubby still had difficulty considering Debbie’s husband, was kneeling on the floor beside the bed, apparently trying to induce a trance by counting backwards from a hundred. Tubby’s other two daughters, Collette and Christine, had been exiled to the waiting room, and he hastily withdrew to join them.

There he learned that Debbie’s labor had been going on for most of the night but no one had thought to call him. He stuffed his large frame into an armchair and retreated behind a
Newsweek
in a huff. In truth, however, he did not regret that he had missed the chance to spend the night cramped in a hospital room while his former wife told everybody what to do.

The contractions dragged on for a couple more hours anyhow, and Tubby or one of the girls would periodically wander down the hall to check on Debbie’s progress. A nice white-haired lady arrived at around nine-thirty and made a big pot of coffee. She offered everybody a cup. Tubby struck up a conversation with a pipeline worker from Buras who was also waiting for his daughter to give birth. The guy was Tubby’s age and had biceps like volleyballs. Tubby had some muscles, too. He flexed them to be sure.

“My first grandchild,” Tubby told him.

“Me, it’s my tenth,” the guy boasted.

“Almost enough for a football team,” Tubby joked.

“Yeah, I told my wife I’m gonna take ’em to the Superdome an’ see can they whip the Saints.”

“It’s a boy!” Christine cried, skipping down the hall. They all hurried to the nursery to see the little red ball arrive.

It was a stirring moment. It made the grandfather feel like doing some push-ups. Maybe even a couple of cartwheels.

Later, Tubby was allowed to see Debbie long enough to tell her she had done well. The poor girl was beat and drifting in and out of sleep. Tubby shook Marcos’s hand enthusiastically and told the new father to take good care of that child. “I will, Mr. Tubby,” Marcos said, and there was something in his voice that made it sound like he might actually be up to the challenge. I hope you do a better job than I have, Tubby thought to himself, but he didn’t really mean it. Right now he felt he might have done okay.

Walking to the elevator, he thought back to Debbie’s wedding five months before. She had been a bit oversized walking down the aisle but had a good humor about it. The minister, who had pastored the Dubonnet flock for about twenty years, took it all in stride. He even accommodated the bride’s special request that a second preacher— some guy she liked who ran a homeless shelter over in Mississippi— conduct part of the service. Tubby had never met the new young reverend, who had the improbable name of Buddy Holly, before the rehearsal, and he was not impressed by the sandy blond hair and wrinkled blue jeans. The Reverend Holly redeemed himself on the big day, however, by wearing a proper robe and by gripping Marcos tightly by the elbow just when the groom seemed in danger of tipping over backwards into the flower array. Plus, in marked contrast to everyone else involved in the elaborate production, Buddy Holly said he did weddings for free.

Zoot-suited in a tux, Tubby had marched down the aisle proudly and given away the bride. He had played his part without a hitch, though he wanted to blubber when the bride said, “I do.” It was only after the reception was winding down and Marcos and Debbie had slipped off to a hotel in the French Quarter that he had withdrawn into a corner by himself, clutching a glass of bourbon, and tried to imagine that his daughter had grown up and flown away.

Now it had all worked out fine.

Before leaving the hospital, Tubby rode the elevator up to the next floor to check on another patient. His old friend Dan Haywood was in sad shape— felled by a bullet to the stomach when he inadvertently intervened in a bank heist during the past Mardi Gras. At first it had seemed that all would be well. There had even been moments when Dan returned to consciousness and been lucid enough to speak, though his words made little sense. But then some infection set in and the doctors talked about nerve damage before scurrying away to examine things they understood better.

Hacking sounds were coming from within Room G-13. Tubby rushed in to find that they were issuing from the other patient there, a frail old man with wisps of white hair on his yellow scalp, affliction unknown.

“Excuse me,” Tubby mumbled, stepping around the curtain to Dan’s side of the room.

His friend’s head lay in the center of a crisp white pillow, as if it might not have moved for a long time, and his eyes were closed. Slow breathing lifted the blue blanket, but the once-magnificent chest seemed now much reduced. Tubby pushed aside the tubes that dangled like spaghetti around the massive head and shook Dan’s shoulder. He got a little grunt, not much but something.

“How’s it going, buddy?” Tubby asked cheerfully, not expecting any response. “They treating you all right?”

The man in the next bed hacked some more.

“Debbie just had a baby boy,” Tubby rambled on. He pushed a hand through his blond hair. “The little thing is happy and healthy and nine pounds and looks just like our old wrestling coach. You remember Coach Ruggs?”

At a loss for more words, Tubby checked the IV bottles as if he knew what he was looking at.

“Anyway, we need you back, man. This old town ain’t the same without you.”

“I knew him from the old neighborhood,” Dan said distinctly.

“What?” Tubby shouted, unwilling to trust his ears. “Dan, what did you say? What did you say? Come on, man.” Frantically he shook the patient’s shoulder while grabbing for the nurse’s call button.

“Come quick! He’s speaking!” Tubby yelled into the plastic mouthpiece. “Yeah, Dan, this is Tubby, from the old neighborhood.”

His friend’s head tossed from side to side. Then he exhaled deeply and lay still.

A nurse flew into the room, wanting to know what had happened.

“He just spoke to me,” Tubby reported excitedly.

But those words were Dan’s entire speech for the day. The nurse counted his pulse, adjusted a valve on one of the tubes, and said she would let the doctor know.

Tubby waited around hopefully and watched Dan’s eyelids quiver.

The man who had shot Dan was called “Roux,” or something like that, and he was supposed to be dead. Tubby had been there when the son of a bitch had blasted a hole in Dan’s chest, and he had chased Roux through half the French Quarter before the gangster had escaped. A day or two later they had found what they believed was Roux’s body, burned up in a campfire in the hobo jungle beside the Mississippi River. There was no doubt in Tubby’s mind that Roux worked for someone yet to be identified. The obsession to track down that evil being had once burned hot and deep inside Tubby. A few months had passed, however, and he had succumbed to the prevailing view that some things in New Orleans were beyond anybody’s control. The difficulty was, of course, that he found that conclusion depressing.

Outside on the sidewalk the day was hot, despite the black clouds rolling low over the magnolias and live oaks that shaded Prytania Street. Tubby had been prepared to face up to his office routine when he first got out of bed, but the birth of a grandson and the encouraging visit to Dan had given the morning a new slant. Seeing this was such a special day, he thought he might just drive over to Mike’s Bar and hoist a few. Strange thing was, he had been doing that a lot lately, and not all of his days were special.

Charlie Autin actually showed up at the Tomcat Inn for breakfast. Since he knew what Daisy did for a living, he waited until after ten o’clock before he came tapping on her door, and even then he half expected to have to beat a hasty retreat if she was mad or had someone with her. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. She wasn’t the kind of girl his mom would want him to bring home, but mom was in jail anyway. Charlie had a suspicion, however, that whoring around was only a temporary situation for Daisy. Sex with her had his brain wound up so tightly that he was overwhelmed by embarrassing sensations of pleasure, but it was more than that. He could tell that this was a girl with a lot of heart.

“Who is it?” she shouted.

“Uh, Charlie,” he said, addressing the chipped door. “You know, breakfast.”

“Oh, shit,” he heard her say. There was some banging around before the door crashed open. She was in a blue robe and squinted at him with one hand shading her eyes from the bright morning sunshine.

“The weirdo,” she stated flatly. A few strands of hair escaped from the shiny pink scarf she had loosely tied around her head.

Charlie put on his best smile. Daisy didn’t look so exotic right after she woke up in the morning, but that made her no less alluring in his eyes.

“I thought you might want some eggs. Or ham, maybe,” he said.

“You did.” She sized him up. He wasn’t bad-looking if you didn’t mind eyes spaced too far apart and hair that stuck out like a wildberry bush. Daisy started to giggle.

Charlie blushed and stepped back, prepared to give it up.

“I’m sorry…” he began.

“Hell, I guess I’ve got to eat, so I might as well let you pay for it,” she said and almost laughed again at the way his slightly undernourished face lit up.

“Go wait in the truck,” she directed and closed the door in Charlie’s face.

He socked his fists into his palms, adjusted his pants, and hastened to his pickup to dust off the passenger seat.

She made him wait about twenty-five minutes, but she came out fresh and clean, wearing a pair of black jeans and a creamy sleeveless top. She looked a lot like the girl who had refused to go with Charlie to the high school prom on account of they would not let him graduate.

He held the door for her and would have helped her climb up if she hadn’t moved so fast.

“Where to?” she asked when he got in beside her.

“I was thinking Denny’s,” he said.

“Fine with me,” she said, impressed that he was going first-class. “They got biscuits and gravy.”

Charlie drove onto the Causeway. They didn’t talk, but he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She caught him once and frowned at him. That got him smiling, and he started humming, “You Are My Sunshine.” She rolled her eyes and looked out the window at the endless panorama of strip shopping centers, muffler shops, and gas stations they were passing.

At Denny’s the air conditioner was set so high she began shivering. So Charlie sat right next to her in the booth and put his arm around her shoulder. She let him, just as if they were on a real date.

Daisy ordered biscuits and gravy and three eggs, over easy, and hash browns and grits and bacon and sausage and orange juice and coffee. Charlie had the number five.

“So, how long you been here?” he asked.

“I told you not to ask for my life story.”

“Well, it would be nice to know something about you, other than…”

She looked at him sharply.

“Well, you know. Something normal,” he concluded.

She took a big gulp of coffee.

“I’ve been here nearly two months. I came on the bus from Loxley, Alabama. Does that tell you anything?”

“Sure, that’s a start.”

“I don’t know how normal it is, though,” she said, reaching for the cream pitcher.

“I paint cars for a living,” Charlie said.

“That’s nice.”

“But I’m looking around for a better job.”

She snorted.

“I believe everybody can change the way they are.” He studied his knuckles.

She shot a glance at his profile and thought of several cute things to say.

“I don’t guess it hurts anything to believe that,” she said instead.

“Yeah, I figure we’ve all got to have a bright picture of where we want to go in our minds, if we ever want to get there.”

The waitress showed up and spread plates of food all over the table.

“You’re weird,” Daisy said, shaking pepper on her eggs until they were mostly black. “I like eggs with my pepper,” she commented.

“Maybe I am weird,” Charlie said and took his arm from around her shoulder so he could grab a fork.

“Biscuits were better back home,” she said reflectively.

“They got Denny’s there, too?” Charlie asked.

Too weird, Daisy thought, and patted his thigh.

Tubby rolled into his office a little after two o’clock. Circling the spiral ramp of the Place Palais parking garage, feeling three beers slosh around, he hoped that Cherrylynn, his secretary, was out for lunch. She had been the first to comment upon the progressive irregularity of his life. Except when the kids slept over, which wasn’t often, Tubby lived alone. And since he lost his law partner, Reggie Turntide, he worked alone, too. So hell, who else but his secretary would notice? All of Tubby’s best friends were alcoholics. Some were drunks.

He locked the door of his not-yet-paid-for Chrysler Le Baron, squared his shoulders, and took the elevator to the forty-third floor. At the far end of the hall, the gold letters that said DUBONNET & ASSOCIATES, ATTORNEYS AT LAW beckoned him, and he fought the urge to run away.

Cautiously, Tubby grasped the brass handle and pushed open the tall walnut door.