by Tony Dunbar
One of the uniformed policemen, a young blond kid with an oversized hat, noticed Tubby.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“My name is Tubby Dubonnet. I’m a lawyer. Potter Aucoin is my client. His wife asked me to come down.”
“This is a crime investigation. You need to move away.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah, he’s dead. What is your name again, sir?”
“Who is that?” one of the detectives below called up.
“He says he’s a lawyer,” the policeman yelled.
“Hang onto him,” said the detective, and started up the ladder. He got to the top panting.
“Put your yellow tape all around the area, and the shed,” he told the officer. “We’re going to have to secure it until we can pump out the whole damn barge.” He turned to Tubby. “What’s your interest?” he asked.
“My name’s Tubby Dubonnet. I’m a lawyer and friend of the Aucoin family. His wife called and told me to come down.”
“Well, she’s not here. She’s down at the coroner’s office probably, waiting for the body.”
“What happened?”
“We don’t know yet, but we fished your friend out of a barge of oil.”
“Did he drown?”
“Maybe. He’s got some funny bruises, too.”
“When did it happen?”
“We don’t know yet. Something can stay fresh packed in oil a long time. Do you want to see him, Mr. Dubonnet?”
Tubby thought about that.
“I guess,” he said.
The detective led Tubby to the ambulance and opened the back door.
Tubby could see the stretcher inside with a sheet covering it. The sheet was wet. The detective beckoned, and Tubby climbed inside, bending over. The two EMTs in the front seat turned around to watch but didn’t say anything. Tubby pulled back the sheet, and there was the glossy face of his friend, open-eyed and serene, making a puddle on the floor.
“Peanut oil, I think,” the detective said.
Tubby didn’t reply. He closed his eyes and tried to collect himself. He started to pull the sheet back up neatly, but couldn’t because he had to get some air. He climbed outside the van and steadied himself against the side. The day was starting to get very hot. The sound of distant thunder rolled across the river.
“Is that Potter Aucoin?” the detective asked.
“Yeah, it was,” Tubby said. He was in a little swoon, aware of all the beer pitching around in his stomach.
“When did you see him last?” the detective asked, inspecting Tubby carefully.
“It’s probably been two months. I’ve been out of town for a while.”
“When did you get back?”
“Just this morning. Can we do this somewhere else? I need to go find Edith.”
“Sure. You got a card or something? My name’s Kronke. We can talk later.”
Tubby found one in his wallet and handed it over.
“You think they’ll still use the oil?” he heard one of the officers ask.
“Undoubtedly,” said another. “Who’s going to know?”
Tubby got in his car and backed out, almost colliding with a forklift coming down the wharf.
* * *
Tubby had always looked up to Potter. He had seemed older and wiser in some way, though he wasn’t really either. But Potter had men working for him. He moved big barges up and down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers and shipped tons of vegetable oil out of the country. Nobody else Tubby knew did that, or understood how to do it. Tubby sure didn’t understand how Potter did it.
He had known Potter from college, and even then he was in business—selling T-shirts that advertised a list of “BEST BARS” on the back and featured announcements like “I Fear No Beer” on the front. Master Potter wholesaled to the bars and retailed to the students, and he still passed his courses. He organized private parties at the Lions Club hall at which the Irish Rovers or Ramblers or Renegades, Tubby couldn’t remember, played, and he collected a substantial cover at the door from kids who would get carded other places. He was a great hustler, and the remarkable thing was he pulled his crazy deals off.
They lost track of each other for a few years after college. Then Potter called one day and they had lunch at Copeland’s on Napoleon and St. Charles. Tubby fondly recalled the crisp little popcorn shrimp, with that tangy sauce. Potter’s idea then was to get a group of inventors, innovators, and daring businessmen together to improve the city’s business climate.
“The chamber of commerce is just a bunch of old guys,” he said. “They don’t understand that this is already the twenty-first century, and we’re just part of a world economy.”
“How would you know?” Tubby asked. “I didn’t think you were a member of the chamber.”
“I’m not, actually,” Potter had to admit, “but I want to start something new.
So Tubby had gone to the first meeting in the living room of Potter’s house on Henry Clay. He took along Jason Boaz, a client of his who was the wild-haired inventor of Fruity Swizzles, with which you could stir a Coke and turn it cherry, as well as Men’s Total Body Spray, which you could use to deodorize yourself from chin to toenail. Jason made big money off his ideas, in sudden spurts, then he would lose it all at the track.
Potter also had recruited a couple of others. One was a guy named Farron, who had a growing business designing T-shirts and posters with your basic New Orleans themes—jazz, booze, and seafood. Another, named Booker, owned a jazz bar where he served booze and seafood. Booker and Farron got along fine. In fact, everybody had a good time swapping stories and knocking back the drinks that Potter’s wife, Edith, kept serving them. Then someone brought out a deck of cards with pictures of Earl Long on the backs, and they had to teach Farron how to play bourré. The evening ended well, though expensively, for Tubby, who dropped about $80.
The project never really developed. Tubby incorporated the Progressive Business Alliance, and Potter printed some stationery, but basically the group played cards. Potter sometimes used the stationery to write letters to the editor of the Times-Picayune condemning higher taxes and social welfare programs, which was a little embarrassing to Tubby.
“What’s all this reactionary BS you’re spouting these days?” he asked Potter once after seeing some outrageously bitter broadside in the newspaper flailing at the City for supporting its minority business forum.
Potter was insulted.
“Reactionary, hell. I’m standing up for free enterprise. The government has no business getting involved in these causes. And I’ll tell you, the closer you work with the government, the more you see that scares the hell out of you.”
Potter was not interested in fishing, and Tubby probably might have let him lapse as a friend if he hadn’t once seen another side of Potter’s nature.
Before they got divorced, Tubby’s wife, Mattie, orchestrated a pretty active social life. She invited Potter and Edith over a few times for dinner, and the ladies hit it off. Potter was an entertaining guy, and he really liked the three Dubonnet girls, Debbie, Christine, and Collette. The oldest, Debbie, who was a bit of a rebellious teenager then, seemed amused by Potter’s irreverent opinions about everything. For some reason, the Aucoins couldn’t have children of their own.
One weekend night Debbie went out on a date with some clod named Arn, who in Tubby’s opinion was way too old and shaggy but was a real catch in Debbie’s eyes. She came home around eleven o’clock, and Tubby wouldn’t have known anything was wrong if he hadn’t been walking the family’s faithful retriever and seen Potter’s car drive up and park in front of his house.
Tubby strolled up just as Debbie got out, and he heard Potter say to her, “You can talk to me about this anytime.”
“What’s wrong?” Tubby asked, surprising them both. Debbie had left with “Nothing, Daddy. Mr. Aucoin just brought me home.”
Tubby bent down to look at Potter behind the wheel. The face was guilty. “Wha
t became of Arn?” he asked Debbie.
“We got separated,” Debbie said, avoiding his eyes. “It’s no big deal. Good night, Mr. Aucoin,” and she skedaddled up the walk.
“What’s going on?” Tubby asked, studying Potter suspiciously.
“It would be better if she told you, Tubby. I just tried to help her out.”
“Out of what?” Tubby demanded.
“Look. She’s okay. It really isn’t my place to tell you the story. You should talk to her about it.”
Potter drove off. Tubby was mad.
Debbie was holed up in the bathroom upstairs, so he had to get Mattie out of bed, where she’d been propped up watching a late movie, and send her in to get the scoop.
She was gone about an hour, while Tubby tried to cure his frustration with J. W Dant. The story Mattie came out with, told while she and Tubby held hands on the edge of the bed, was that Arn had taken Debbie to a bar in their neighborhood where teenagers could get served. After they hung out there for a while, Arn suggested visiting a friend of his who lived in the French Quarter. The friend sold pot and cocaine, but Debbie said she didn’t know that at the time. It was an upstairs garret with a balcony overlooking an old courtyard. It felt like an adventure just climbing up the narrow dark stairs, smelling the mossy bricks and the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine. They knocked, and Arn’s friend, an older man with. a full white beard, let them in and took them back to his kitchen. What a surprise to find Mr. Aucoin sitting there.
“Debbie Dubonnet,” he said. “You’re going home!”
He told the host that Debbie was only sixteen, the daughter of a friend of his, and they’d be leaving now.
The white-bearded man got mad at Arn, and they started arguing. While that was going on Potter took Debbie, who was completely bewildered by the scene, firmly by the elbow and escorted her downstairs and out to the street. As he steered her down the block to his car, he explained that Arn’s friend sold drugs, and his apartment was no place for an underage girl to be.
She protested, but Potter got her into the car and drove her straight home. On the way he confided that he had done some drugs in the past, and he gave her various reasons why she should stay away from them. By the time they got back Uptown they were friends again, but she did wonder what had become of Arn.
“I think it was very sweet of Potter to do that,” Mattie said.
“Yeah, so do I, but what the hell was he doing there?”
Tubby went over to see Potter the next day. It wasn’t the kind of thing you discussed on the telephone. He repeated Debbie’s version of events to Potter, and asked him the same question.
“I know the guy who lives there,” Potter explained. “I’ve known him for a long time. There was a period after I got married when I was into cocaine. That’s all ancient history now, thank God, but I go over to visit sometimes to replay the old days.”
“Does he still deal?”
“Maybe. I mean, sure he does, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be his friend. It’s his business, not mine.”
“Then why did you make Debbie leave?”
“I knew you’d kill me if I didn’t,” Potter said simply.
Tubby thought about that for a minute.
“Why did you get into drugs?” he asked.
“Who knows,” Potter said. “Me and Edith were having some problems. We’d just found out we couldn’t have kids, and I took that kind of hard. And I was making too much money for my own good. A lot of things.”
“What made you stop?”
“There’s no profit in self-destruction,” Potter said virtuously. “And,” he added, “I suppose I like myself too much.”
“Well, thanks for what you did,” Tubby said. “It makes me trust you.”
“Okay, but I’m a crazy, independent fool if there ever was one.”
“No joke,” Tubby said. “But you’re all right by me.”
After that he thought of Potter as someone he could rely upon, if ever the need arose.
CHAPTER 4
The Morgue was in the basement of Charity Hospital downtown. Why are they always underground? Tubby wondered in the elevator. Because that’s where you store things you don’t need? Because the dead don’t require a room with a view? The door clunked open and Tubby stepped out into a tiled hallway, brightly lit and clinically clean. It was empty and quiet. A plastic sign pointed down the hall to the coroner’s office. He followed the arrow.
Edith Aucoin was sitting in the small waiting area between a man and a woman who bore a distinct family resemblance to her. The widow’s unlined face was strained and her eyes were red. Her black hair, normally loose about her shoulders, was tied back and hidden in a purple scarf.
Tubby took the hand she offered and kissed her cheek. He murmured how sorry he was, and she thanked him for coming. She introduced her sister, who said they had met, and her brother, who gave Tubby’s hand a firm shake.
“Is there anything I can do?” Tubby asked.
“Just be here awhile,” she said. “They told me they would be bringing him soon.”
“I stopped by the shop on the way over,” Tubby told her. “The ambulance was about ready to leave,”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes, I did,” Tubby said after a pause.
“How did he look?”
Tubby shrugged. “Very peaceful.” Surely the crew would clean up the body before showing it to the wife.
“He would still be in that hideous barge if Broussard hadn’t checked on things. I laid him off when Potter disappeared, but he still passed by the shop every so often to see if anybody was stealing stuff.”
“Broussard looked inside the barge?” Tubby asked.
“Yes, I don’t know why, but he did. He said he saw Potter’s hair floating. And he called me from a pay phone.”
“I know this is just terrible for you,” Tubby said.
“He was a good man,” Edith sighed, and started to weep. Her brother and sister both surrounded her with their arms.
“Yes he was,” Tubby said simply. He was moved and very uncomfortable. An attendant pushed open a swinging door and asked Mrs. Aucoin to come with him. She got up, straightened her shoulders, and walked inside with her family. Tubby remained behind in one of the red plastic chairs.
In a few minutes Edith was back. Her face was flushed and angry. She sat down hard beside Tubby and clutched his hand. Her blue eyes -gone gray -locked on his.
“Who did it?” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Will you find out for me?”
“Well, I’ll sure try,” Tubby said doubtfully. “I’m just a lawyer, though, Edith, not a detective. For detective work I call on pros like Sanre Flowers.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just all so distressing. You’ll help, won’t you, settle the estate and figure out what to do with the business?”
“Of course.” He patted her hand.
“Thank you, Tubby. You were his friend.”
After that she had to fill out some forms. The coroner passed by to express his personal sympathy. He took Edith into his office, maybe for an official purpose or perhaps to offer her a drink.
Tubby was discussing what a shame it was to the brother and sister when a newspaper reporter he knew, Kathy Jeansonne, walked into the room.
“Ah, hello, Tubby,” she said, surveying him with interest, hoping she had caught him in the act of creating news. She was tall and was wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans. She was a veteran crime reporter for the Times-Picayune, and Tubby was not glad to see her.
“Hello, Kathy. What brings you to the basement?”
“I picked up some reports on the police radio about someone dying in a barrel of oil, and I thought there might be a story in it.”
“It was a barge of oil, Kathy. Try not to get too graphic. These are the relatives.”
“Oh?” She licked her lips and moved in to introduce herself. Tubby had a problem with this reporter, and it
stemmed from a case long ago. She had covered his client’s murder trial and reported, unfairly he thought, that his client was “wild-eyed and jittery” when he testified about the shoot-out he was accused of instigating.
“You need your contacts checked,” Tubby had complained at the time. “The man was not ‘wild-eyed.’ He was just broken up over his poor friend who got shot.”
“Yeah, like an alligator is sad when it eats its young,” she retorted sarcastically.
They hadn’t spoken much after that.
“Excuse me a minute, please,” he said, leaving the greedy newshound alone with Edith’s brother and sister. Tubby walked down the hall to the coroner’s office and poked his head inside. Edith was sipping a cup of coffee, and the doctor was signing his name to some documents on his desk.
“We’re just finishing up, Tubby,” she said.
“Are you the lawyer for the family?” the coroner asked.
Tubby said he was.
“I’ll call you after the police give me the okay and tell you the results.”
“Thanks, Doctor. Could you do me a favor? We’ve got a reporter out here. I really don’t want her pestering the family right now. Could you bring Edith’s brother and sister back and show them all out of the delivery entrance, or something, while I keep her busy up front?”
“Sure, no problem,” the coroner said. “We’re finished here. Why don’t you go and send them in?”
Tubby told Edith’s relatives that the doctor wanted them. While the Aucoins were making their escape, Tubby told Ms. Jeansonne what little he knew about Potter’s death and about the export business he had run before he died.