Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 03 - Trick Question (13 page)

What had first made Tubby Dubonnet feel at home with the law was the books. Vaguely formed ideas of justice, a strong urge to make a living had caused him to enroll in law school. But it was not until his first night in the depths of the law library that he had begun to think he might actually have made a good choice. Books of legal decisions crammed the shelves, books of human stories placed before judges in hopes that they could sort out life’s unfairness and find the truth.

The theory and principle behind it all occasionally escaped him, he had to admit, but he had always loved those moments in the practice of law when he had time to study those stories, stretching back to Napoleon, Justinian, and Hammurabi. They spilled out of the covers.

He was indulging himself now, taking a tour through the back pages of the Louisiana Civil Code and the annotations in the Revised Statutes in search of what dead justices might have said about a scrap involving who owned stock in a family oil business – like Denise DiMaggio’s Pot O’ Gold.

He thumbed through one case involving heirs to a local tobacco company. Uh-oh. This one seemed to come out the wrong way. He quickly shut that book and reached for another one.

One day, glancing through the bar journal, Tubby had seen an article that suggested that attorneys were supposed to bring contrary authority to the attention of the judge. Surely, that could not be right. What was the other lawyer supposed to be doing?

Ah, here we go. This case was much better.

“To what do I owe the honor of this call, Mr. Dubonnet?” George Guyoz sounded sarcastic, even when he was being polite.

“I’m representing Denise DiMaggio, and I understand that you’re representing her uncle, Roger DiMaggio.”

“Pot O’ Gold Oil Company?”

“That’s right.”

“Isn’t she the one who says she owns more stock than the company records show?”

“Correct. And she has a stock certificate for one thousand shares that your client says does not exist. But the fact is that it does exist. The company issued it to her father back in 1974, he kept it in his safe deposit box for years, and he passed it on to her in his will when he died.”

“I know that’s what she claims, but in the corporate books and records there is no evidence of that certificate ever being issued, and I have checked them carefully.”

“Your client keeps the stock register, so I don’t think that disposes of the matter by any means.”

“Then we might just have to dispose of it in court.”

“We might,” Tubby agreed, “but there’s a case you ought to know about.”

“What’s that?”

“De St. Romes versus Levee Steam Cotton Press Company. It’s from 1879, back when the world was young. It stands for the proposition that if you possess a stock certificate for ten years, believing in good faith that you own the shares, they are yours by acquisitive prescription.”

“You mean squatter’s rights for shares of stock?”

“Right on. Possess the stock certificate long enough and it’s yours. And Denise and her father have possessed this one for a long, long time.”

“That doesn’t make a great deal of sense to me.”

“Sure it does. It means that a properly issued stock certificate, signed by the right corporate officers, is good even if somebody changes the books.”

“Well, I’ll look at your case, but I can’t believe it applies.”

“It’s right on point, George. It’s been cited a bunch of times. Check it out, then let’s settle this thing.”

“Of course I’ll check it out,” Guyoz harrumphed, “if I can pull up a case that musty on my computer. But I can’t believe that it will settle anything.”

I bet you’re wrong, Tubby said silently after he hung up the phone. Computer?

Tubby enticed Detective Fox Lane to meet with him to discuss the case by offering her dinner at the Upperline. It was a very sophisticated bistro, tucked away on a back street uptown. Just the spot to lure cooperation from the most sophisticated policeman he knew. He parked in front, beneath murals of angels trumpeting up caldrons of z’herbes, and went inside.

He received a hug and an excited description of a garlic based appetizer from the owner, shook a few hands, and got a table in the back.

He was contemplating a cocktail when Detective Lane arrived.

The waiter walked her back, and she got an interested stare from one or two of the suit-and-tie guys having an after-work restorative at the bar. At five foot ten and about 105 pounds, Fox made an impression. She was built to run. Tubby stood up to greet her.

“Hi, counselor.” She beamed, showing a great talent for white teeth. “You knew just what would bring me uptown after my shift.”

“I’m pretty smart, aren’t I?” Tubby agreed, and held her chair to get her seated. Lane was what New Orleans called a Creole of color, meaning some European and some African ancestry, cafe au lait skin, and a socially secure attitude. The message was, “We were here before you.” She was dressed nicely for having just come from work – a smart red suit with gold buttons, only a little wrinkled from what homicide lieutenants do all day.

“How about a drink?” he offered.

“What are you having?”

“I hadn’t quite decided. I was thinking about an old-fashioned.”

“Whew. What’s that?”

“Lots of bourbon and a cherry. It’s something my aunts all drink. I like to see if bartenders know how to make them.”

Their waiter returned.

“White wine for me,” Lane said.

Tubby ordered his old-fashioned.

“What’s the occasion, Tubby? It’s been a couple of months since I heard from you.”

“Why do you think that it’s anything other than me wanting to keep up with an old law school buddy? I like to reminisce sometimes.”

“Right. You enjoyed law school about as much as I did, Tubby. I remember how you were killing yourself all the time, riding the Freret jet downtown between classes.” She was referring to the public transportation that ran in front of the law school.

“And I remember how you used to come to school in uniform, which made most of our classmates afraid to talk to you.”

“They weren’t afraid. They were just happy preppy kids and didn’t know what to say to me. We didn’t come from the same part of town.”

“Yeah, those were sure good times, all right.”

“I got something out of it,” she said.

“I’m glad to hear it. I obviously did too. My whole career. But I don’t think the police department has ever appreciated what they have in you.”

“Why thank you, counselor. There are some who do and some who don’t. Used to be, some were suspicious of me because I had a law degree. But you know, the only thing most people hate more than cops is lawyers, so I get the sympathy vote. I’m a double outcast. The force can relate to that.”

Tubby chuckled and sipped the drink in his hand.

“Hey, this is pretty good,” he said.

“What are you going to have for dinner?” she asked.

“Oh, I thought maybe I would try the ‘Filet of Gulf Fish and Salad Nicoise and Tapenade.’”

“Hmmm.” She studied her menu.

“I yearn for olives,” he said. “And you might like the fried green tomato with shrimp remoulade for an appetizer. It’s excellent.”

“What do you think of the roasted quail with grilled portobello mushrooms and bacon?” she asked.

“That’s a good idea,” Tubby said appreciatively. He liked his guests to eat well.

A bearded man with a black apron over his crisp white shirt took their orders. He did not hover too long.

“And?” Fox Lane prompted after the waiter left.

“Okay, I’ve got a case. It’s in your department, but it’s not one you’re handling.”

“And?”

“Well, I mean it’s one of Detective Porknoy’s files, and he is giving it his normal lack of attention and leaving his typical trail of unprofessional screw ups behind him.”

Detective Lane coughed and, despite herself, smiled briefly.

“Tubby,” she said, “I don’t want to hear your complaints about Porknoy. Other people get along with him just fine and have no problems.”

“The guy’s a disaster. What’s your honest opinion of him?”

“No comment.”

“Exactly. I think it’s a wonder he’s still on the force.”

“He’s got a lot of seniority.”

“Well, anyhow, he has built a case against my client, Cletus Busters, for murdering one Dr. Valentine, and the DA has bought it. But it’s so flimsy you could almost drive a truck through it.”

“So you may win.”

“Actually, I may not. It’s all circumstantial evidence, but it’s the kind that a jury might convict on. The problem is, Porknoy has done nothing, so far as I can tell, to develop any other possible suspects.”

“If this is the man caught holding the frozen head, I’m familiar with the case.”

“Right, well, the victim had an adultering wife, he was in bed with one of his students, and he was involved in mysterious medical research, the reports of which are missing. Wouldn’t you say there’s a lot of ground that hasn’t been covered here?”

“Have you brought this to Porknoy’s attention?”

Tubby spread his hands. “Are you kidding? For what purpose? He has no attention span.”

“So why are you telling me?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe you could get involved. I’ve got the services of one investigator, I think you know Flowers, but my trial is in three days.”

“Porknoy’s not going to expand his investigation at this stage of the investigation. Not right before trial.”

“Wouldn’t he, if you went to him?”

The food came. “Hot plates,” the waiter said, sliding the china onto the table.

“Looks just fine,” Tubby said.

“My, my,” she said.

They each tasted their dinners, and they agreed that they were pleased.

“Porknoy would be mad if I tried to tell him what to do,” she resumed.

“But couldn’t you just peek around the edges? I’d bet Porknoy’s too intimidated by you to say anything. I mean, we’re talking about a potential embarrassment to the whole police department. Here, let me pour you some wine.”

Denise pulled the cork out of the bottle. One little glass wouldn’t hurt, no matter what Coach said. She could fix a nice tomato-and-onion salad and relax for a while at least. Later on she had to go out with Carmella, her sparring partner, and she was kicking herself for agreeing to do that.

But while Denise was slicing up the tomatoes, the doorbell rang. She placed her glass on the kitchen counter and went to the front. Through the spyhole she saw the inflated face of Roger DiMaggio.

Bracing herself, she opened the door.

“By what right do you think you can have some lawyer stick his nose into my business?” her uncle demanded without preamble, barging past her into the living room. He was white-haired and red-faced, dressed in peach and green golfing attire, and built like a bear. He turned fiercely to face Denise.

“If you think you’re going to scare me, you’re dead wrong.”

Denise kept the door open and her hand on the knob.

“I’m not trying to scare you, Uncle Roger, I just want what’s fair.”

“You don’t know what fair is,” DiMaggio yelled. “Your father didn’t have the brains God gave a crawfish. If I hadn’t been around to tell him what to do he couldn’t have gotten his pants unzipped, and he sure couldn’t have run an oil company.”

“That’s a very mean thing to say,” Denise protested angrily.

“It’s the damn truth!” her uncle retorted. “He never was a strong man. He couldn’t even run his own house. Your mother and even pretty little you would have starved if I hadn’t bought the groceries.”

“We would have been better off if you had never set foot in our house.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Denise was fighting hysteria. “Don’t you think I remember what you did?”

“I never did anything that wasn’t intended to help you both. Nothing that wasn’t good for you.”

“Then you’re a liar, Uncle Roger. You made me feel guilty, and used, and worthless…”

Roger’s face had gone from red to purple.

“Enough of that, you dumb little bitch!” he yelled. “I’ve got a good mind to…” He raised his arm as if to strike her.

Denise dropped into her stance.

“Don’t even think about it,” she threatened.

Slowly, Roger lowered his hand.

“You never were very smart, Denise,” he said.

“But I’m getting there,” she prayed through her teeth.

Roger set his jaw and stomped out the door. She immediately locked it behind him. Then she went quickly into the kitchen and downed her glass of wine.

That was about the bravest thing I ever did, she thought to herself. All these years he had been a cloud over her life. Roger’s hardly secret affair with her mother. Taunting her father. Taking liberties with her. Telling them to call him Papa Dom DiMaggio.

Would she ever get free of him, and all the men like him that she kept letting in the door? Denise filled her wineglass up again.

What do you suppose Roger will do now? she asked herself.

It didn’t occur to her that she might have won the round.

Watching the late news on television, his feet propped on a black leather trial case full of material about Cletus Busters, Tubby unaccountably had the feeling he was being observed. He took his eyes away from the footage of a blizzard in Buffalo and fixed them on the narrow horizontal blinds that covered the windows across the room. It was as though they were staring back at him. He shivered. Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog was barking.

Nonchalantly he stood up, left the room, and went upstairs to the table beside his bed. He pulled open the bottom drawer and carefully extracted his aging Smith & Wesson .38. He loaded it and, holding the pistol by his side, slipped back downstairs.

As quietly as he could, he turned off the lights in the kitchen and opened the back door. His yard was almost completely dark.

Cautiously Tubby stepped outside, holding the gun down. The night was cool and misty. He could feel the dew on the grass seeping into his sneakers.

Trying not to feel like a paranoid ninny, he made a furtive circuit of his home, peeking around each corner as he went, praying that none of the neighbors could see him. He checked the den window and found to his surprise that you actually could see the television show inside, if you came up close to the glass and looked through the slats at a sharp angle. If you moved your head up and down you could get a pretty good view. A car door slammed somewhere, and Tubby almost discharged his weapon into his foot.