Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 02 - City of Beads

by Tony Dunbar

  “I’m sure he will, too,” Tubby said. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes. It’s time I was getting back to my apartment. I have to study.”

  “No dessert?” he asked mournfully.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t. But I’ll sit here if you’d like to have some.”

  “No, I guess not.” Tubby patted his stomach virtuously.

  He paid up and drove Debbie back to her new apartment on Hampson Street, the one she shared with two other girls.

  “Thanks a lot for dinner, Daddy,” she said when she got out. “And thanks for offering to help save the river. And, oh, I’m so sorry about Mr. Aucoin.” She shuddered and was gone. He watched her get inside the door, then drove away cautiously, the street made narrower by all the students’ Jeeps and Japanese cars parked along both grassy curbs.

  The mystery of Potter Aucoin’s death took an interesting twist the next morning. Kathy Jeansonne, the newspaper reporter, called.

  “You’re a real butt,” she said, by way of hello.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Real cute, ditching me at the morgue.”

  “You writers always talk that way?”

  “I watched two more stiffs get wheeled in before I figured out the Aucoins weren’t coming back.”

  “You’ll probably get some good stories out of it.”

  “Sure, watch for my byline.”

  She asked Tubby if he knew anything about the Aucoin drug connection. He wanted to know what she was talking about.

  “Did you know the police found a package containing more than a quarter-pound of cocaine in his office?”

  “No.” Tubby couldn’t believe it.

  “That’s right. They’re keeping it, a secret, but not from me. So how do you think this figures into the murder?”

  “I don’t know. It’s news to me. If Potter was shipping drugs I’d be shocked.”

  “And wild-eyed, no doubt,” she said, unable to resist a dig.

  “Yeah, well, thanks for calling me.”

  After she hung up, he conceded that it might be true, considering what he knew about Potter’s past. Maybe you never could really give up cocaine once you started. Maybe the lure of big money had just been too strong for Potter.

  But he hadn’t seen any indicators that Potter desperately needed cash. They had sent the books over to a CPA, Jerry Molideau, to review, and the preliminary report was that the company had good funds in the bank. Tubby had collected the legal documents from Edith, who got them out of her safe-deposit box, and they showed that Export Products had leased its spot on the wharf from the New Orleans Levee Board, that the company had options to renew running fifteen more years, and that the rent was current.

  Edith had put Broussard back to work processing the last of the oil shipments Potter had secured. With the boss gone, no new contracts were being bid. Broussard was shutting things down. It stood to reason that if the police had found drugs in a dead man’s office they would be checking the barges that were still passing through. And if they had found anything big, there would no longer be a secret about drugs. Edith would at least have been questioned. The whole thing didn’t make sense, but it raised disappointing questions about Potter.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tania had the gun in her purse when she stalked Charlie Van Dyne on Tuesday and again on Wednesday night. She lacked confidence in her aim, since the only weapons training she had had was watching cop shows on television. There was no way that, seated in her car, she could hit the man when he came out of his front door, and she could not even picture herself hiding in a hedge and running across a lawn with a pistol in her hands. So she would get him at a restaurant.

  On Tuesday night, however, he set off in a new direction and ended up at Clancy’s, which had valet parking. On Wednesday he went to the Upperline, which paid an off-duty policeman to hang around on the street.

  But on Thursday she followed the Cadillac back to Derbigny Street and eventually back to the Bouligny Steak House. This historic establishment served one of the largest porterhouses in town, but the place was so old that almost all of its customers had died. It hadn’t yet been discovered by a young crowd so it was the perfect choice for an intimate meal. Like nobody else might be there. And if you really wanted isolation you could eat in a curtained booth. On this night neither valet nor lawman was visible in the parking lot.

  Only one other car, maybe the cook’s, was there when the Cadillac pulled in. Both men got out at the same time. Tania watched from across the street, as she had once before. After half an hour of smelling beef grilling in the distance she started up, made a U-turn, and got closer. She slowly entered the lot and took the exact spot next to the Cadillac, on the passenger side. She switched off her lights. Except for the two other cars, the place was deserted. She got the .38 revolver out of her purse and warmed it up in her lap. It was fully loaded and the safety was off. She had checked those things a dozen times. It really took no genius to operate a hand gun. If you didn’t believe that, it was time for you to wake up and smell the coffee. That’s the way Dear Abby put it, and Tania read Dear Abby every morning at her breakfast table at her house.

  She thought about other remarkable advice Abby had given to other troubled people, pregnant girls and women whose husbands snored, over all those years. Thus her mind stayed occupied while she waited for Charlie Van Dyne to finish his steak.

  Abby was like Tania, caring but capable. Practical. Problems were to be confronted and handled. You did your best. A panicky doubt passed over her just then, that killing the man was the wrong thing to do. The feeling had come before, and she erased it in a second. What she was about to do was necessary for her well-being, it was that simple. It was fair, and it would make the world a better place. Thank you, Dear Abby.

  Voices came suddenly from the front of the restaurant, and she saw Charlie Van Dyne and his manservant round the corner. They paused, as she had seen them do before, while Charlie fished out his cigarette and his bodyguard found a match.

  They said something to each other and Charlie shrugged. The driver started to come around the car to the passenger side, but Charlie mumbled, “That’s all right,” and the man changed course toward his own door. Charlie walked past the headlights of his own car and waited, just a few inches from Tania, while his driver got in and popped up the door lock. Charlie opened his door and stooped to get in.

  He had taken no notice of Tania, but now she quickly rolled down her window.

  “Mister,” she said softly.

  Charlie was in the car now, in his seat with his hand on the door to pull it closed. He was startled by her voice and looked at her with questions in his eyes.

  “Do you have a light?” she asked sweetly.

  Charlie turned away to get the lighter from his driver, and when he turned back Tania had the pistol pointed out the window right in his face.

  “Whoa,” Charlie said.

  Tania hissed like a cat, and with both hands tight around the butt she pulled the trigger with all her strength.

  Charlie’s forehead split apart, and he slammed back against his driver. The inside of the car was littered with gore.

  “Jesus Christ, lady!” the driver cried, moving his terrified eyes back and forth from Tania’s and her gun. His face was speckled with organic matter, and he had involuntarily hugged Charlie’s body against his own as a shield. What remained of Charlie’s head rested wetly against his shoulder.

  Tania didn’t want to kill the bodyguard. He was not a part of the justice equation.

  “You stay where you are, all right?”

  “All right, lady. Jesus,” the man said, pulling Charlie closer to him. Tania put her gun back in her lap and started the car. She backed up fast. As she left the lot she saw the front door of the restaurant open a crack and a head poke out, a cautious investigator. Then she was gone.

  Her mind raced ahead of her all the way home, replaying the event again and again, while some attentive mass of
cells remembered to tell her to stop at red lights, to find Laurel Street, and to park by her house.

  She got inside and locked the door behind her. She went to the cupboard where there was a dusty bottle of Canadian Club left over from Kip’s last party, and she poured herself a drink. Once she sat down and tasted the alcohol she began shaking uncontrollably. It lasted about a minute, during which she whispered a rambling prayer to God. And the peace came to her.

  She sighed and finished her drink. She picked up the pistol where she had dropped it by the front door in her haste and carried it into the kitchen. Pulling a nearly full garbage bag out of its plastic can, she thrust the pistol, cartridges and all, wrist deep into the trash. Then she tied the bag and dragged it outside to the street. Tomorrow was garbage day. In the morning it would be gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Tubby met Adrian, better known as Monster Mudbug, in the cathedral-ceilinged hallway of the Criminal District Court, Section T, at Tulane and Broad. Adrian was very happy to see him, and he jumped up with his hands waving. He was nervous. He had been worried that his lawyer wouldn’t arrive, even though Tubby had faithfully appeared the last half dozen times Adrian had been in a jam.

  “Mr. Tubby, it’s real good to see you, yes sir.” He grabbed Tubby’s hand and shook it.

  “All right, Adrian, how’re you making it today?”

  “Not so good. I don’t want to be here, that’s for sure.”

  “This shouldn’t take too long. Have you got some paperwork with you?”

  “Yeah. Here’s what I got. I’m sorry it’s kind of crumpled.”

  From the back pocket of his jeans he produced a blue Notice to Appear and a wrinkled receipt from a bail bondsman.

  “You gave the bondsman twenty-five hundred dollars for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bond?” the lawyer asked, translating the faded carbon copy.

  “Right. My dad came down with the money to get me out of Central Lockup. I’m going to pay him back.”

  “Okay, you’re charged with theft of a movable. Car theft?” Tubby knew nothing about the case. He had just gotten a message from Adrian’s father telling him his son was messed up again and what court he was in.

  “A motorcycle. Ain’t that a trip?”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t even know.” Adrian shook his head like he was trying to clear the sawdust out of it.

  “Well, bear down a little on this one, Adrian. Real quick now. They’re going to call the docket in just a minute. Tell me what you do know.”

  “Okay. I’m down at Bennie’s Bar, listening to music. We’re all drinking. I’m out of it. I mean totally out of it. And these guys tell me their motorcycle won’t start, or something. So I help them put it in the back of my truck, and then whoop, whoop.”

  “Whoop, whoop?”

  “The cops show up and we all get arrested.”

  “It wasn’t these guys’ motorcycle?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Who are these guys?”

  “I don’t even know their names.”

  “They got arrested with you?”

  “Yeah, I think they’re still in jail.”

  “Where did you think you were taking the motorcycle?”

  “I don’t know. To the guys’ house or something. They couldn’t get it started was the story. I’d had quite a few beers.”

  “How’d you get it in the truck?”

  Adrian made a motion to show he had lifted it. He was a towtruck driver, and he was seriously muscular, like he worked out with weights.

  Tubby massaged his forehead and looked at Adrian through his fingers.

  “You’re in a real tough spot, Adrian. I can’t sugarcoat that. This isn’t like a traffic ticket or something. It’s a major charge. Let’s see if we can get you out of it.” He guided his client through the tall doors into the courtroom. The benches were filling up, and there was considerable activity among the clerks surrounding the judge’s bench. Several prisoners from the jail wearing orange jumpsuits were led in, shackled, and put in the jury box. The judge might not take the bench for an hour, during which time a great many matters would have already been disposed of. Tubby hoped Adrian’s would be one of them.

  “Have you ever been arrested before, Adrian?” Tubby asked as they pushed into the throng.

  “You know me, Mr. Tubby.”

  “No, I don’t mean for traffic offenses.” Tubby knew all about those. Adrian had been stopped numerous times for piloting his Monster Mudbug float, known as the Rolling Boiler, down public thoroughfares without benefit of a parade.

  “Sort of,” Adrian admitted, worried.

  “What for?”

  “There’s the DWI, and my ex-wife had the cops talk to me once for coming around to see my kid.”

  “But nothing like stealing something? Nothing like with a gun?”

  “No way, Mr. Tubby.”

  “Okay, you sit here.”

  He planted Adrian on a crowded pew in the back and made his way forward through the swinging gates that separated those who were part of the system from those who were not.

  He stopped to chat a minute with the clerk, located Adrian’s file in the pile on the table, and with a sober look carried it through a door behind the judge’s bench. There were already two other lawyers waiting to see the assistant district attorney, outside a tiny room used for that purpose. Tubby didn’t really know the other attorneys, but he recognized their faces.

  “How’s it going?” he said to one and all.

  “Same ol’, same ol’,” the man in front of him grunted in response. A couple of the others nodded.

  “Mr. Dubonnet,” the lucky guy at the head of the line said. “I know you don’t remember me, but I was in your class on trial techniques three years ago at Loyola. Johnny Rolland.”

  “Sure, Johnny. I remember,” Tubby said, shaking his hand. “You doing everything we taught you?”

  “Trying to, and here we go.”

  The door to the inner sanctum opened. A lawyer clutching a briefcase came quickly out, and she gave a secret smile to the line as she passed. Johnny Rolland slipped inside and said, “Good morning, Mr. Pettibone,” loudly as he closed the door.

  “The DA’s name is Pettibone?” Tubby asked the man in front of him.

  “Yeah. He’s easy to deal with. Just doesn’t like drug dealers though.”

  Tubby leaned against the wall and relaxed. His client wasn’t a drug dealer. The picture of Potter Aucoin’s body came back to him. He tried to shake it off, but it wouldn’t leave. Why would anybody kill Potter?

  Rolland came out.

  “Piece of cake,” he whispered to Tubby as he squeezed past. The next man went in, and Tubby was on deck.

  He looked at Adrian’s trial notice again. What a stupid way to get busted. The door opened. The lawyer emerging said, “Thanks a lot, Joe,” and held the door for Tubby.

  “Good morning,” Tubby said.

  The assistant DA was an extremely underweight black man with neatly clipped hair. It was obvious that he was tall, since his knees could barely squeeze under the small metal desk he was sitting behind. There was a chair next to him, but no other furnishings. It was worse than an interrogation room at the police station.

  “What can I do for you?” Pettibone asked, without much interest.

  “I’m Tubby Dubonnet, Mr. Pettibone, and I’m here to see you about Adrian, or Monster Mudbug.” He handed the file to the district attorney, expecting to get a smile.

  The man did not oblige. He took the folder, but did not open it.

  “I’m familiar with the case,” he said.

  “Then you know that my guy was just an innocent bystander. He’s actually kind of a babe-in-the-woods. I’m sure you’ve seen him in costume at Mardi Gras, Monster Mudbug?”

  Pettibone made no comment.

  “Anyway he thought he was just helping some fellows whose motorcycle broke down. He had no idea they were stealing it.”

 
; “Tough luck for him,” Pettibone said.

  “Well,” said Tubby, “it was just a mistake. He wasn’t trying to steal anything.”

  “That’s his story.”

  “Yes, and it makes sense. He doesn’t have any record. He’s employed full-time as a towtruck driver. He’s a well-known public figure. He’s got no need to steal a motorcycle.”

  “He was caught in the act. Who knows why people do things?”

  “This guy is innocent, Mr. Pettibone. Can we do anything here today?”

  “If he’ll plead guilty to first-degree theft, seeing it’s his first offense, the judge might put him on probation for three years.”

  “That’s no deal at all. He’s not guilty, except of being stupid.”

  “Let’s go to trial.”

  “How about agreeing to a bail reduction. He’s working steady. How about we release him on his own recognizance.”

  “I’m not agreeing to any such thing. You can always take it up with the judge. He might do it. I don’t know.”

  “How about reducing it to five thousand?”

  “No, Mr. Dubonnet. I’m not going to agree to cut your client any slack.” Pettibone slapped his hand on the table. “I’ve talked to the arresting officer. He wants to make the case. I’m agreeable. So let’s go to trial.”

  Tubby couldn’t think of anything else to say. The old charm was about tapped out. He had been completely shut out before, but it had been a long time ago.

  “Okay. See you down the road.” He got up and left.

  “Piece of cake,” he muttered to the next lawyer waiting in line. On the way out he said a few more words to the docket clerk and got the case continued for two weeks. Tubby was suddenly very tired of being a lawyer. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to keep doing this.

  Adrian was fidgeting in his seat at the back of the courtroom. Tubby walked right past him, so Adrian jumped up and followed him out into the hall. He could tell by the look on Tubby’s face that things were less than perfect.

  Tubby stopped outside and leaned against the marble wall. He thought about how this would be a good time to light a cigarette if he still smoked.