Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 06 - Lucky Man (2 page)

Tubby drove his fat Chrysler LeBaron very fast as a general rule, but this afternoon, lost in thought, he was making a baby-blue streak down Claiborne Avenue. He felt cramped. His six-foot frame and broad shoulders felt compressed in the car. His law practice seemed too small and inadequate to nourish his brain in the days ahead. The recent assassination of the crime czar had removed one of life’s purposes while at the same time leaving him curiously dissatisfied. His home was too populated, and not populated enough. Life was a drag.

A pothole jarred his teeth and brought him back to the present. Raisin was like a brother, but what were virtues in a friend were aggravating as hell around the house. Right now, he imagined that his lodger was probably lounging on the sofa watching the PGA tour, thinking no deep thoughts, and most likely swigging the bourbon Tubby had put out of sight when he forsook the bottle. Well, not quite forsook. He assured himself that he was just giving it up on a trial basis.

The lawyer had not had an enjoyable day. He had argued with two of his clients and had squandered four and a half non-billable hours in court— where a judge had called him excitable. He was tired and stressed and had more kinks than Barq’s root beer could smooth away. Whiskey was good. He remembered that much.

The vexed motorist made the turn onto Nashville Avenue, into the shelter of the live oak trees that covered the narrow street and usually restored calm. A noisy marching band in full crimson regalia paraded in the yard of the high school on the corner. Rows of brass instruments rose and fell in waves, and Big Chief thundered discordantly throughout the neighborhood, bringing wistful memories to shut-ins, but all Tubby noticed was that the long row of parked yellow school buses forced him to slow down.

The Roman Candy Man in his horse-drawn carriage, offering toffee chewing sticks at fifty cents a pop, was resting at the corner of Willow Street. This was a colorful sight that usually rated at least an appreciative pause, but today Tubby sailed past without a thought, so fast that the old nag shuddered in the draft.

A few brisk turns, and he bumped into his own driveway. Briefcase under the arm, he nicked a finger trying to get the front door unlocked, capping a day of annoyances. He stepped into his living room and, just as he thought— suspicions confirmed.

“How’s it going?” Raisin asked, eyes glued to the TV. He was relaxing on the couch, wearing sweats as though he might have spent the afternoon building up his physique. By his elbow was a green bottle of beer, making wet rings on one of Tubby’s fishing magazines. The only missed prediction was that Raisin wasn’t watching the sports channel— he was watching that damn video again.

“Fine, you?” Tubby asked gruffly. He tossed his worn briefcase on a chair.

“Oh, so-so.” Raisin didn’t look up. “Sure is hot outside,” he said.

It was the tape that had fallen into Tubby Dubonnet’s hands during the Sheriff Mulé case. The late sheriff’s personal attorney had kept the item in his office safe. Its origin was unknown, but Tubby surmised its value lay in its potential for blackmailing someone. But who?

On the screen, the young red-haired girl with freckles on her cheeks talked to the man with the soft voice whose face was never revealed to the camera. She was explaining her story for the hundredth time.

The lawyer shook his head and stomped off to the kitchen for a cold ginger ale. Furiously popping the top, he trudged upstairs to change.

Raisin had to go, he decided. The question was how to break it to him.

***

“I didn’t think it would be strange,” the woman with the red hair said, facing the camera as if it could help her. She rubbed her nose and looked down at her hands. She was seated at a small table. There were no decorations on the wall behind her.

“I never answered a personals ad before, but, you know, sometimes I’d read them. I really didn’t know what to expect.”

“But you answered this one.” The man’s voice had almost no inflection. Except for a faint ghost that sometimes moved on the wall behind the woman, her interrogator was invisible.

“Yes, I answered it. It seemed pretty interesting— all right, you know?”

“The ad appeared in
Gambit
on May the 18th?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“This is the copy of the ad you showed me?” A man’s arm, curly black hairs running under a golden wristwatch and up to where the sleeve was rolled to the elbow, pushed a piece of paper across the table. A shadow fell over the woman and then disappeared.

“Sure, that’s it.”

“What does it say?”

“It says: Single white male, thirty-two, six feet tall, good job, good looking like Mel Gibson, lonely, seeking adventurous attractive single or divorced woman twenty-one to thirty-five, redhead preferred, for dining, dancing, sweet nothings, possible long-term relationship. It won’t hurt to call.”

“That appealed to you?”

“Yeah, especially the part about red hair and dancing.”

“What did you do?”

“I answered the ad.”

“With a phone call.”

“Yeah. I called the number and, you know, left a message.”

“And?”

“I didn’t think much about it, but he called me back a couple of days later.”

“At your house?”

“My apartment, actually.” She brushed some hair off her forehead.

“What did he say?”

“Oh, it sounded great. He had a real nice voice. He came on as so sincere. He said maybe we should exchange photos. I said I didn’t have one, which I didn’t have a good one at the time. Then we talked some more. I remember he said he liked to swim and had a pool.”

“Then you made a date.”

“Yeah. Just for coffee, at a place on St. Charles Avenue. I think they call it Java, or something. He was late, so I just waited for him. They have TVs you can watch.”

“But he showed up?”

“Sure did.”

“Describe him, please.”

“Oh, he was good looking, all right. Wavy black hair. Not actually like Mel Gibson at all, but younger. He combs his hair back, like, with a mousse. He has a good tan. There’s a dimple in his chin. Well built. What do you want me to say?”

“That’s fine. What did he say his name was?”

“Harrell. Harrell Hardy. I don’t think that’s really his name.”

“What happened then?”

“We had coffee. We talked. He invited me out for dinner.”

“When?”

“That same night. We went straight from the coffee place. First we went out for drinks. I think it was called the Bombay Club. I’ve got the matches somewhere. Then some Italian place. I don’t remember its name.”

“And?”

“And we’re eating spaghetti, and he asks me do I dance. I say yes. He says did I ever do it professionally. I told him no, even though I do, sort of. I just didn’t want to get into it, but… anyhow, he says maybe I can learn, which I thought was odd. Then he asks what I think about escorting important men to parties.”

“Escorting?”

“That’s his word. He said it paid extremely well, and it didn’t have to involve, you know, sleeping with anybody. That was up to me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That he was out of his fucking noodle.”

“And his response?”

“’Just something to think about, doll. It’s easy money.’”

“After that you went to a hotel and had sex with him?”

“Do I have to say?”

“Sure. It’s part of your complaint.”

“Well, we didn’t have sex right away, but, yeah. We did.”

“After he’d asked you about the escort service.”

“That’s right. I didn’t say I was proud of myself.” She looked away from the camera, and when she turned back there was a tight smile on her lips as if she had just told herself a little joke.

“What happened then?” the voice asked.

“Another man came into the room and got into bed with us.”

“And then?”

“I tried to get out of the bed. Nothing like that ever happened to me before, but they wouldn’t let me.”

“They raped you?”

“I’d say so.”

“Well, did you resist, or did you consent?”

“I told them no way, but they were touching me all over my body, if you must know, and it’s kind of hard to think straight in a situation like that.”

“Okay, what happened?”

“Nothing. They did lots of things to me. I did lots of things to them. I’m not going to describe it in graphic detail. Later on, the other man left. Then Harrell took me home. He gave me two hundred dollars and said it had been a great time.”

“You took the money?”

“I tried not to.”

“Well?”

“He stuck it between my… in my bra, and he rode off in his car before I could do anything about it.”

“Did he call you again?”

“Yeah, a bunch of times. I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because I felt bad about what happened. It was very degrading, and I didn’t want it to happen again.”

“Why did you report it to us?”

“Because I don’t want somebody else to get tricked like that. You read these personals, you think that something good might happen for you. You get to dreaming. It’s not fair.”

“How old are you?”

“I turned eighteen last week.”

“You were seventeen when this occurred?”

“Right. What’s the difference?”

“If you were a little younger, it wouldn’t matter if you consented. It would be unlawful of him to have carnal knowledge of you in Louisiana.”

She shrugged.

“Anything else you can add to describe this man?”

“Harrell smells like the seashore. The other man had real hard skinny fingers. He kept saying ‘Sweet Mary, sweet Mary,’ when he was coming.”

“Well.”

“Not much help, huh?”

“What exactly does it mean to smell like the seashore?”

“Fresh, salty, I guess. I’m sorry. I’m a musician. I write country songs. It’s just the way I talk.”

“You sometimes dance professionally and you sing country songs?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Anything else you remember?”

“When the other man was getting dressed, I saw a pin on his shirt that said FROG on it.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a club, I thought. Maybe that’s his name. He was a frog, as far as I was concerned.”

“You ever see either one of them since that time?”

“No, but that same personals ad is back in the paper this morning.”

It was no big surprise that Judge Al Hughes called Tubby Dubonnet at home. After all, they had been friends for twenty years. Tubby had recently concluded his reign as cochairman of the Hughes reelection campaign. The surprising thing was the fear in the judge’s voice.

“I’ve got a problem, Tubby. Have you got some time? I would like to discuss it with you right away.”

“Of course I’ve got time. How big a problem is it?”

“Big enough. When can we meet?”

“Right now if you want. I could be down at your office in half an hour.”

“I’m not sure how private that is. What about your house?”

“Okay with me. It’s a mess, but you know the way.”

“I’m leaving in a few minutes,” Hughes said and hung up.

Within half an hour the judge— portly and elegant— was sitting at the round table in Tubby’s kitchen. The dishwasher was humming from a last-minute cleanup job, and Tubby was putting CDM coffee into the pot.

“I’d offer you a beer, Al, but I haven’t got any.”

“That’s not like you. Getting in shape for a pool party?” the judge asked, making a small attempt at humor, but the twinkle was missing in his eye.

“Coffee it is then,” Tubby said, looking around for napkins.

“Forget it. Just listen to me for a few minutes.”

“Roger, chief.” Tubby sat down. He had never seen Al Hughes this distressed, and he feared he was about to hear about a terrifying medical diagnosis.

“I’ve been a judge for fourteen years,” Hughes said. “I’ve made some good calls and some bad calls, but I always could face myself in the mirror. Now I…” He choked. “The bastards are out to get me,” he said, showing his teeth.

“Which bastards, Al? What are you taking about?”

“The goody-goodies, son. The holier-than-thous. To name names, Marcus Dementhe, our extremely repressed and rapacious district attorney.”

“Marcus Dementhe?” That was bad news. The celebrated race in the recent election had not been for judge but for district attorney. Dementhe was the new man in, succeeding the crusty old Boy Scout who had retired after holding the job for a couple of generations. In victory, Marcus Dementhe was arrogant. Tubby thought him a bitter, crafty person. His literature said he went to church every Sunday. In protest Tubby had voted for Yvonne Pews, who got her customary twenty-six per cent.

“Yeah, the prick.” Hughes looked around nervously. “Anybody else here but you?”

“I wish,” Tubby said. “No, I’m here alone. I have a temporary boarder, but he went down to the newspaper for some reason.”

“No girlfriends, huh?”

“It’s been a bad year.”

“For me, too, it looks like. I’m under investigation.”

“What in the world for?” Hughes was straight as an arrow.

“For having a relationship with a woman other than my wife.”

“You?” He was dismayed. Recovering, he said, “That’s not illegal in Louisiana, except in the most technical sense, of course.”

“This is pretty damn technical, I can assure you. The point, however, does not seem to be to put me in jail but to humiliate me and threaten me into cooperating with a full-blown investigation of what our new DA perceives as corruption in our local judiciary.”

“Wait a second. Better start at the beginning.”

“It’d quite embarrassing talking to you like this, but I am forced to conclude that I do need a lawyer.”

“Well, sure.”

“And this doesn’t go any further than you.”

“Of course.”

“There’s this girl. Let’s call her Peggy Sue. She has apparently told the DA that she and I had sex in my chambers at the courthouse.”

“I see.”

“That I touched her genitalia,” Hughes said dryly. “That’s the way Dementhe put it. He summoned me to his office with a telephone call. He mentioned the young lady’s name, and I couldn’t say no. I had to actually postpone a trial in progress for the first time in my career.”