Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 03 - Trick Question (2 page)

“You two make a very pretty picture,” he said admiringly.

“Why thank you, Mr. Dubonnet,” Jynx said, her smile sparkling, patting the chair beside her. Tubby sat down gratefully and waved at the waitress.

“Did you win lots of money?” Norella asked.

“Jason did,” Tubby said. “I’m not the lucky one today.”

“You’ve had me for the afternoon,” Jynx pointed out.

“That I have,” Tubby acknowledged. “What would you ladies like to drink?”

Jynx said she could stand another margarita, Norella said she couldn’t, and Tubby ordered a gin and tonic for himself.

“Are you having fun ignoring the races?” he asked.

“Oh, yes.” Norella beamed.

“I had no idea watching horses could be so much fun,” Jynx said.

Tubby was going to say something sarcastic, but Jason came upon them, making loud noises about winning money, the science of equestrian spirit, and the hunch he had about any horse with a French name.

They toasted his success, and Tubby was about to suggest wagering on the next race when Jason announced that they should all leave and go to the Belle o’ the Ball Casino out by the lake to play blackjack with his money.

“My treat,” he exclaimed. “Everybody gets a stake. After you run through that, you’ll have to just sit and drink.”

“We can keep our winnings?” Norella asked.

“Half is mine,” Jason said. “That’s the deal.”

“That would be fun,” his Latin beauty said gaily.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Jynx said. “I have to be home by six o’clock. I have a club meeting at my house tomorrow and I need to straighten the place up and plan the menu.”

Tubby said he was following Jynx, because he was a gentleman, and because he had never liked to go into crowded rooms to place a bet.

Norella and Jynx went to the powder room to talk it over.

“You’re involved with the Casino Mall Grande in some way, aren’t you?” Jason asked.

“How do you mean, involved?”

“I thought you did some of their legal work.”

“That never really developed,” Tubby said evasively. “I thought I was going to get some business, but it didn’t come through. To tell you the truth, I’m not sad about it. I love to gamble, you know that, but something about the whole casino atmosphere just isn’t me, I guess.”

“I didn’t know you turned clients away, Tubby.”

“Well, actually, I didn’t turn them away,” Tubby admitted. “My contact there, Jake LaBreau, left and…” He shrugged. His other contact, Nicole Normande, had been transferred to Arizona, and her brother, Leo Caspar… well, Leo had been whacked into little bits and fed to the fish. Tubby grimaced.

“What’s LaBreau doing now?” Jason asked.

“Promoting the idea of a theme park out in Chalmette.”

“Mosquito-World? Crawfish-World?” Jason suggested, referring to the most plentiful inhabitants of “the parish.”

“You’re such a snob. No, jazz, I think. Whatever the politicians think sounds good.”

“What the hell, let’s go play a few hands anyway. And I ain’t a snob. I married a Chalmatian once.”

“And she had the good sense to run home to mama, but if Jynx wants to go, it’s okay with me.”

“She’s got the hots for you.” Jason leered and socked Tubby’s shoulder.

“You think so?” Tubby was hopeful.

“Absolutely. All that stuff about going home early. She’s got something special planned for you.”

“Hey, maybe so.”

The women returned, and the party got moving.

Out in the parking lot Jason helped Norella into his Lexus, but Jynx remained firm about going home. Jason gave Tubby a wink and sped away.

Tubby and Jynx got into his restored Lincoln with the fake convertible top, which he had bought to give his Corvair Spyder a big brother in the driveway, and set out toward uptown. It was a nice evening, and Jynx chattered away all the way down Broad Street about how colorful the Fairgrounds Racetrack was and how she couldn’t believe she had lived her whole life in New Orleans and never once seen the horses run before.

He turned into her driveway, and she gave him another big smile.

“Thank you for a lovely time,” she said as he pushed the shifter into park. “I would invite you in for a drink, but the place is such a mess. Dorene has been sick, and it looks like little ol’ me is going to have to clean it up all by myself.”

“You need some help?” Tubby offered, trying to be nonchalant.

“You’re such a dear, but I certainly can’t ask you to vacuum my house. I’ll let you help me some other time with something you can do.”

“Like, uh, what?” Tubby was asking, but Jynx was out of the car and waving goodbye from her doorstep.

Friday night, and he was on his own again.

Tubby Dubonnet had been the proud proprietor of Mike’s Bar for about three months, but he hadn’t changed it much. From the outside it was still the same nondescript place, advertised only by a faded Falstaff beer sign hanging from a rusty iron rod above the door. Weeds still grew on the curbs, and trash can lids still blew down Annunciation Street in the Irish Channel. Kids played in the sunshine on the sidewalks outside. At night the people kept their doors open and watched TV. The bar had no windows, just a one-way glass in the front door so the bartender could see who wanted to come in before he pushed the buzzer that worked the lock.

“Two down, one up,” the dealer at the table in the back announced. “King bets,” she said.

“Thirty cents,” said Judge Duzet.

“And fifty,” said Mrs. Pearl.

“Feeling good,” the dealer said. “How about you?”

“I’m in.” Rodney sighed.

Coins clinked against each other on the table.

Tubby, sitting at the bar, put Jynx Margolis out of his mind as he listened to the betting and smiled. Raisin Partlow, his buddy, held down the stool next to his. Raisin had a pretty good head of curly black hair and what you would call a mature, rugged look. Women liked him – and he hardly ever worked, which made him an easy guy to pal around with. He followed Tubby’s gaze across the room.

“What are you grinning about?” he asked.

“’Cause the same crowd is still coming to the ol’ bar even though Mr. Mike isn’t around anymore,” Tubby said. “I’m pretty happy about that.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a crowd, Tubby, and they don’t seem to be drinking all that much either.”

“This isn’t about money, Raisin. This is about tradition and continuity. Look around you.” The sweep of Tubby’s arm took in the trophies above the bar, earned by softball teams of years past; the team photographs on the wall signed by old baseball players; the jukebox, now playing Louis Prima; and Larry, the ghostly bartender hidden in the shadows beside the cashbox.

“It’s a monument, all right,” Raisin agreed. “How come you don’t ever sit in the nice chair?”

He meant the worn leather armchair at the card table, where Mike, the previous owner, had held court.

“Maybe when I retire,” Tubby said. “For now it’s reserved for Mr. Mike, whenever he drags in. In fact, I’m thinking of having a little plaque made up and hanging it there.”

“Like the Half Moon Bar used to have? ‘This table reserved for Victor Bussie, AFL-CIO’?”

“Yeah. It could say: ‘Reserved for Mr. Mike when he isn’t fishing.’”

The door buzzer sounded, and Larry’s arm emerged from the darkness to press a button.

Tubby and Raisin both turned around and watched a tall thin man in a rumpled suit, silhouetted by the lights of a passing car, enter unsteadily. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the perpetual dimness of Mike’s, and then he made his uncertain way to a stool at the far end of the bar.

“Don’t I know him?” Raisin asked Tubby.

“Yeah. That’s Mickey O’Rourke. He was in law school about ten years before I was. I know you’ve noticed him around. But Christ, he’s seen better days.”

“He don’t look like he’s doing too good,” Raisin agreed.

“He had a couple of big cases a long time ago, like real big. He won one of the first seven-figure judgments we had around here. I haven’t heard much about him lately though.”

“Tubby Dubonnet,” O’Rourke exclaimed. He got off his stool and, gripping the large glass of Scotch and something Larry had just served him, weaved down the bar to say hello.

His tie was loose and he smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke, as if he had been taking his meals in a tavern. The lines on his face turned to deep creases when he grinned at Tubby and grasped his hand.

“Howya doin’, Mickey? You know my friend, Raisin Partlow?”

“Raisin? Good to meet you. Tubby’s friends are all good people.” He pumped Raisin’s hand. “What y’all drinking? I’m buying.”

“Wild Turkey on the rocks,” Raisin said.

Tubby waved, and Larry floated over to take their orders. He checked Tubby, who nodded to indicate he wanted his usual for this week, a Barq’s root beer and lime. He was experimenting with various nonalcoholic combinations in an effort to cut his toxicity level a little.

“It’s been a while,” Tubby said. “What’s been happening to you?”

“Things have not been too good. My wife left me. My kids won’t return my calls. I’ve been drinking all the time. I lost my house, and my law practice has just about dried up.” Mickey knocked back whatever he had in his glass and signaled the barkeep for another. “I think that sums it up.”

“Gee, that’s too bad,” Tubby said.

“How’s your dog?” Raisin asked.

Mickey studied Raisin. “I like your friend,” he said, putting his arm around Raisin’s shoulder and giving it a hug.

“Lemme tell you a joke,” O’Rourke said. “See, this Jewish guy goes into the church, right? He goes into the confessional. ‘Padre,’ he says, ‘I went out last night with this beautiful twenty-two-year-old girl. She’s gorgeous. Looks like Jodie Foster, whatever. And I got laid, Father. It was great.’

“‘Mr. Katz, why are you telling me this?’ the priest says. ‘You’re Jewish.’

“‘You don’t understand, Father. I’m telling everybody!’”

They all laughed.

“But seriously,” Mickey said, “my life is hell.”

“You think it might have something to do with the booze?” Tubby asked casually.

O’Rourke nodded – no argument there.

“You should maybe try giving it a rest,” Tubby suggested. “There are lots of programs.”

“I’m a lush, Tubby.” Mickey was sad. “It’s got ahold of me deep down. There’s no use me trying to quit.”

“That’s bullshit, of course,” Tubby said. “I’ve seen you in the courtroom. I know you can control yourself.”

There was a sudden spurt of laughter and groaning from the table in the corner. Mrs. Randazzo in her black wig slapped her cards down and cackled.

“I just got where I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Mickey sat down on the stool. His shoulders slumped. He turned away from them and rubbed his eyes. Tubby and Raisin exchanged glances.

“Take it easy, man,” Tubby said. He patted O’Rourke lightly on the back.

Mickey swiveled around.

“I need your help, Tubby,” he said, almost sobbing.

“Sure, Mickey. What can I do?”

Raisin rolled his eyes.

“I’m in a situation. I got a trial in a week. It’s a murder trial. And I don’t have the faintest idea what my defense is. You understand me?”

“No,” Tubby said.

“I’m telling you I’m defending a man for murder, and I haven’t done a fucking thing.” Mickey’s eyes were wide open. He was frightened.

Tubby was shocked. “You ought to withdraw or something, Mickey. You might do some serious damage to your client. You could get disbarred for that.”

Mickey nodded his head. He knew.

“Have you talked to the judge about this?”

“Yes, and the son of a bitch won’t let me out. Tubby, I need help. You’re a good trial lawyer. Be a pal, will you?”

“No way,” Tubby said.

“Bravo!” Raisin roared.

Mickey gripped Tubby’s arm. “It’s like a gift from God running into you, Tubby. Everybody I know avoids me. You’re a good lawyer, a great lawyer. I can’t do this alone. I’m a fucking drunk, for Christ’s sake.”

“Mickey, there’s no way for me to drop everything and jump into some murder trial at the last minute. It would be malpractice.”

“Look, Tubby, I could pay you.”

“Really?” Tubby was doubtful. “How much?”

“A whole lot. Whatever you say. My Aunt Anne, bless her heart, is gonna kick the bucket any day now. She’s gonna leave me a bundle. I’ll be able to take care of you.”

Tubby was insulted. “That’s ridiculous, Mickey. That’s the kind of thing some poor guy in Central Lockup would try to put over on me.”

Mickey shrugged his sad shoulders and studied the last of his ice cubes. “Yeah, you’re right.” He squinted and turned to face Tubby. “But you owe me.” His voice was raspy.

“Owe you! For what?” Tubby exclaimed.

“It was me” – O’Rourke pointed at his sunken chest – “who introduced you to Mattie.”

“Jesus,” Tubby barked. “Mattie left me, in case you didn’t know. I should show you all the bills I got for marriage counseling. Maybe you want to pay those.”

O’Rourke shook his head. He took his glass and drained it. Then he stood up and brushed imaginary crumbs off his chest.

“I understand, Tubby. See you around.”

With dignity, he took a wobbly path toward the front door.

Tubby watched him go.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Hey, Mickey,” he called.

Mickey halted and rotated.

“Sleep it off. Call me in the morning. If you remember to do that, I’ll have lunch with you and we can talk about your problem.”

Mickey saluted and banged out the door.

“Can you believe this guy?” Raisin asked the bar. “Tubby, you should have been a priest.”

“I’m a Protestant,” Tubby said, and sipped his root beer and lime.

“So you think you owe this guy something?”

“Hell no,” Tubby said. He thought about what the last year with his ex-wife had been like – the life of the walking dead. Then he remembered his first encounter with her on Mickey’s yacht, back when Mickey was flush. Mattie, buxom and redheaded, full of herself in a white cotton dress blowing in the wind, had given him her special smile from across the deck, and his life had changed. Together they had brought three children into the world. The way he cared for them was a secret thing. Maybe he did owe Mickey.