by Tony Dunbar
* * *
Following dark streets, the air suggestive of powdered sugar, a young man walked through the French Quarter. On broken sidewalks crossed by shadows he stumbled along, ignoring the quiet oaths and whistles of the lost, to reach the business district, no less forbidding in the small hours before dawn. He had a purpose and kept going.
A man driving a street cleaner noticed him and thought him oddly dressed. “Toga party,” the workman said vaguely to himself, and he went on with his work.
Young Paraclete Bazaar didn’t know exactly where his Uncle Kabatsin lived, but he did have his iPhone, an old address, and Google maps, and he had a nose for blood.
CHAPTER 22
Tubby took some time to think things over. When the phone didn’t ring, when Cherrylynn was out to lunch, when he could step away from his desk, where he could recline in the red leather chair the clients used and gaze out the window, his office was an excellent place for reflection.
The morning was overcast. It had started with fog, not unusual on rainy days, which covered up almost everything below his 43rd floor window to the world. A ball of golden light radiating into the cottony mist let him know that it was daytime somewhere. Sure enough, the fog began to blow away, replaced by a bewildering quick sequence of bursts of showers followed by sunshine. Tubby could now gaze down upon the wet streets and rooftops of the French Quarter far below. Pockets of rain deluging New Orleans East, Algiers, and the lands across the river to the west came into view. The Mississippi River became visible, an ominous gray force barreling through the landscape. Struggling upstream was a slow moving push boat forcing before it a long string of barges. In the opposite direction, a fast oil tanker passed it to port, bearing toward the Gulf of Mexico. This entire spectrum of weather and the city’s relentless commercial pulse went on every day, every hour, even while the wheels of suspicion and petty conniving and deviousness – and murder – were silently spinning in the little minds of the people who lived in the streets below. The people who never looked up to see the blessings the skies could hold. But such was the way of the big city. The people on the streets were absorbed in mysteries of their own making, and they missed the big one – why the world was showering them with beauty. Tubby could hear sirens somewhere, rising and receding.
So, who was behind all the violence? Who had killed Faye Sylvester? And her boyfriend Jack? More sirens. Maybe there was a fire somewhere. Who had killed the strange Ottoman man and his entourage? A doomed group of travelers who had shown up from nowhere and briefly, like sparklers, lit up the city? They had been strangers in these parts, and they had died gory deaths in the spectacular manner so enjoyed by locals one and all. And it had happened in the French Quarter, where legends are born and rarely if ever die.
And he couldn’t forget the two Vietnamese goons, the ones Ednan was initially believed to have delivered up. No one had yet been arrested for those crimes.
Was it a coincidence, he asked himself, while watching an orange ray of sunlight slice through a bleak cloudbank, that he had some personal involvement, or link, to each of these crimes? Tubby did, in fact, believe in coincidences, but how likely were all these?
First, Faye and the boyfriend had a relationship to him, and also to Rev. Buddy Holly, Faye’s boss and confidant. Then, that doctor, what was his name? Kabatsin. He had shown up at Faye’s memorial service. So what? He was her admirer, for all of the kindnesses and tolerance she had shown his troubled son. Most of the parents were grateful to Faye, and most of her students were similarly difficult. Or else why would they be shipped off to a religious school in Waveland instead of matriculating happily at Country Day, Jesuit, St. Aug, Newman, or Trinity? But even stranger was the fact that Dr. Kabatsin was there the night of the big party and turned out to be the brother of the Sultan.
And weird, too, that Tubby had been invited to the bash in the first place, since it was not the sort of event that would normally be his cup of java. Sure, it was a fund raiser for his lady friend’s charity, but no stranger could have anticipated that relationship. Nobody should be gunning for him, for that matter. Trying to frame him. That would be paranoid thinking. Yet, people were dying all around him.
It was also more than a little bit strange that his client, Ednan, was involved with the Sultan as a gardener; but that could just be why they call New Orleans the world’s largest small town.
The phone beeped. It was Flowers, checking in.
“I found out a couple of things,” he told Tubby. “First, that boyfriend of Faye Sylvester’s was a private detective.”
That was news.
“He worked for a security company in Ohio. And his real name was Jasper Nomes.”
“Nomes? Who hired him?”
“I don’t know yet, but I have some contacts and I may be able to get a lead on this. Another fact. The remains of the Sultan and all of his kin have been autopsied and have been shipped to their home country.”
“Who claimed them and arranged all that?”
“Still working on it.”
* * *
Albert Louis, the young hood, soon reported to Adam Mathewson, a.k.a. the Night Watchman, that he was making progress.
“I caught up with Cisco. You know he sells cars?”
“Sure. What’s that got to do with it?” They were again at Priebus’s Trumpet Lounge, which was now Mathewson’s “headquarters.”
“Nothing. I just never knew what he did for a living. I just seen him in church. But I got him out in the car lot where I had a couple of guys with me, and I told him I was helping you out. That seemed to freak him out. He said something about you being a homicidal maniac.” Albert Louis laughed.
Mathewson hacked out a chuckle of his own. “Good,” he said.
“So I told him we was taking over the money and the guns, and he acted like he didn’t know what I meant. We was between some new cars, nice ones, and I kneed him in the nuts.”
Mathewson nodded his head enthusiastically. “And…”
“And he said all that belonged to Father Escobar, and I said we were working for the Father, so where was the money? He said he’d have to check this out and we could meet. His guys and my guys.”
“When?”
“He said this Saturday night. He’s got some soccer game to go to with his kids, but we can all sit and talk about it afterwards.”
“Where?”
“City Park.”
“You dumb shit. He’s setting you up for an ambush. There’s going to be a sniper around somewhere. I’m telling you, they may not have balls, but they’re sneaky.”
“Not to worry, boss. We got some street fighters that can take care of a bunch of Cubans. It’s kind of nice, the way it’s all planned out and scheduled. You’ll see. We’re going to get everything you want.” He paused. “Some front money wouldn’t hurt,” he added.
“I told you you’d be taken care of,” Mathewson said. “There’s a big pot of dough.” Or at least there used to be. How much he couldn’t say, but Kronke had hinted at millions before he got shot.
“Still,” the boy spread his hands.
“Here’s five hundred bucks,” Mathewson said, cleaning out his wallet. “This is for a big cause, you know.”
“I got it.”
“And if you don’t come through, I’m gonna ream the guts out of every one of you.”
“I know, boss. They all know that.”
Mathewson got in Albert Louis’s face. “Don’t let my drinking fool you,” he whispered, breathing beer over the boy’s chin. “I’m the meanest fucking bastard you’ll ever meet, and I will cram your nuts right down your throat if anyone ain’t up to this job.”
“We know that,” Albert Louis said, backing up. “We’re going to pull this off.”
“And I’m also loyal,” Mathewson said, smiling. “You stick with me and you’re in for life.”
Albert Louis’s head bounced up and down.
Mr. Priebus, the owner of the Trumpet Lounge, was behind the
bar and trying to overhear as much as he could of this conversation. He liked to listen to crazy people say crazy things. That’s why he had a bar. Everything in this place described a reality that was superior to the boring world outside.
When Albert Louis scooted, Priebus filled a frosted mug with beer and set it down in front of Mathewson.
“On the house,” he told his customer. “Did you place your bet on the Final Four?”
“I don’t gamble,” Mathewson grumbled.
“What’s to gamble? You just pick some names and you win or lose. It doesn’t have a thing to do with facts or strategy. It’s pure luck. It’s a complete crapshoot. A blind monkey could do as well.”
“Why do I want the odds of a blind monkey?” Mathewson asked him.
“Cause it’s the most fun? And it’s a huge, huge pot,” Priebus told him. “You could win really, really big.”
“I’ll take my chances with my brains,” Mathewson told him. “Even though I think I’m losing them.”
* * *
The rest of Tubby Dubonnet’s day was spent answering correspondence, and he packed up to leave early.
Except that the phone rang, and it was someone named Willie Hines.
CHAPTER 23
Hines had a voice smooth like cane syrup and almost as sweet.
“I’m sure you don’t remember me,” the voice said. “Willie Hines. I’m a friend of Marina Sylvester and I met you at the funeral.”
“Right,” Tubby responded. He had some recollection of a portly dude who looked like he was happy even when he was offering his condolences. That’s just the way some people are.
“I’d like to talk to you if you have a few minutes, Mister Dubonnet. I happen to be downstairs in your building, right now, in a coffee shop, and I wonder if I could come up.”
“Come up?” No, Tubby thought. He didn’t want to spoil the good karma his office, with its view of the universe he cared about, had bestowed upon him today. “No, I’ll come down to you.”
He packed his briefcase, a canvas bag that was basically empty of everything except a list of his computer passwords and some old letters from his father, and locked the place up.
Hines was sitting at a tiny table facing the front of the bright space off the building lobby so he could see Tubby when he showed up. He stood and waved. Tubby nodded and went to the counter to order. He got a café au lait and watched to see if they steamed the milk, which they did. The coffee came in an oversized white china cup and he carried it to the table Hines was holding for them.
“Thanks for indulging me,” the man said as Tubby got a chair under him.
“I can always use some coffee this time of the day. What’s on your mind?”
“Right to the point. Right to the point. That’s what I like.” Hines was smiling. He had a limp tea bag hanging out of his mug.
Tubby laughed along, being in a good mood.
Hines was encouraged. “I’m a friend of Marina Sylvester.”
“So you said.” Tubby took a sip.
“She is mortified over the loss of her sister.”
“Of course. Everybody is.”
“Were Faye and you very close?”
“Funny question. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
“Fine,” Tubby said. “Are you and Marina very close?”
“Ha, Ha! Good, indeed!” Hines appreciated the rejoinder. “We’ve had a few dates, yes. I care about her welfare. She has had a sheltered life, a former nun and all that, and needs guidance from time to time.”
The lawyer nodded and concentrated on his café. There would be a point to this eventually.
“I think I also saw you at the Sultan’s party,” Hines said. He pursed his smiling lips and nodded conspiratorially, eyes stretched wide as if they were in a tug or war.
Tubby rubbed his forehead. “Please get to the point, Mister Hines,” he said. “The coffee’s helping, but I’m kind of tired.”
“Understood, sir. As I’m sure you are aware, the Sultan, who I believe was actually a Sheik Bazaar, was quite wealthy.”
“I would guess. He gave quite an extravagant party. What are you, some kind of investigator?”
Hines winced. “Well, well. I’m really just an interested party.”
“Interested in what?”
Hines laughed and waved a hand in the air. Tubby’s eyes tracked the fluttering fingers. “I’d say I’m probably most interested in the Sheik’s money and where it went. Do you have any ideas about that?”
“I can’t imagine what the hell you’re talking about,” Tubby told him. “I don’t know a thing about the Sultan or his money. And what’s that got to do with Faye Sylvester, or Marina Sylvester, anyway?”
“Probably nothing,” Hines said. “I’m just a curious person, that’s all.”
“Leave me out of it,” Tubby said. “I have enough problems of my own. I don’t need any of yours, the Sultan’s, or Marina’s.” He got up.
Hines leapt to his feet. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
Tubby shook his head and left.
* * *
He was driving home when his phone buzzed. He dug it out and saw that it was Flowers.
“Yo.”
“Here’s something else. All the arrangements for shipping the Sultan and his family home were made by that Doctor Kabatsin, who turns out to be the brother.”
“That much I knew,” Tubby told the phone while with the other hand he steered onto Poydras Street.
“Did you know that Kabatsin also has his legal troubles?” Flowers asked. “Let me think where to start.”
“Usually there’s a wife.”
“Right on. He has a wife who is filing for divorce and wants tons of money. And the doctor has significant debts, including to some Mississippi casinos. He has a very high income, like seven figures, but he can’t pay his credit cards. He’s got lawsuits and rumors.”
“All doctors do.”
“Sure. He’s got women saying he botched their surgery, that’s normal, but expensive. Worse than that, there have been hushed-up allegations from women saying he took advantage of them while they were under anesthetics, and even photographed them in the nude. And his ex-wife has people hopping all over that.”
“That’s too bad,” Tubby said. The traffic was backed up on Tchoupitoulas Street. “Do you think that would give him a motive to kill anybody?”
“Maybe the ex-wife,” Flowers suggested.
“But she’s not dead, is she?”
“Not that I know of.”
Tubby got through the light. “Keep on digging, baby,” he said. “And check out this guy who’s been showing up wherever I am. His name is Willie Hines. Other than the fact that he may date Marina Sylvester, and that he talks like he’s from up north, I don’t have anything else on him.”
“Okay. I’ll put the scope on Willie, Bill, William and Billy.”
“Thanks, Flowers. My lady friend is out of town and I’m heading home for the night to just take it easy.”
Tubby could picture himself on the back porch, an icy Bourbon, a soft evening breeze. Maybe scramble some eggs and gruyere cheese for dinner. Slice up a tomato and chop some of the sweet basil that was growing in a clay pot on the back steps. Maybe the phone wouldn’t ring.
* * *
After dark, a man with a flabby, friendly face sidled up and sat down on the stool next to Mathewson. “Whatcha drinkin’, my good man?”
The ex-cop slowly turned around. “Who are you?” he growled. His eyes were hot.
“I’m not anybody. I just hate to drink alone. Name’s Willie Hines,” he said and stuck out his hand.
Mathewson looked at it without much interest but finally gave it a limp shake. “I’m doing beer. Good beer,” he added.
“Then I’ll order us each one,” Hines said, and waved at the bartender.
“No thanks,” Mathewson told him. He shoved his stool back and got to his feet. With
a farewell wave to the whole scene, he plodded out the door.
“What’s it going to be, mate?” the bartender asked the remaining customer.
“Never mind,” Hines said. He dropped a five on the bar and hustled out to see where Mathewson had gone. But the street outside was empty.
CHAPTER 24
Maybe it was Ednan who noticed it first. In reading about the exploits of his alleged crime, and hearing his lawyer explain what he was being charged with, the prisoner realized that the math didn’t add up. He remembered the Sultan’s household as being the Prince himself, the wife, two splendid sisters, or maybe daughters, two young sons, and the two other boys, or whatever they were. That made eight. The paper said Ednan had killed six people. That’s how the charges read, too. A sister had discovered the bodies. That made seven. Somebody was missing.
Was it one of the boys? Or one of the girls? He didn’t know how to raise the issue. He certainly didn’t need any additional charges. So he let the matter hang, pending further developments. A bigger problem was getting along with a particular guard, who was in charge on weekend mornings. A fat slob who called Ednan “Rag Head” and “Goat Fucker.”
“You’d be lucky to get a goat,” Ednan said under his breath. Personally his only acquaintance with goats came from pictures in school books. He kept his observations about the guard’s manhood and the unusual practices of the Sultan and his family under his hat.
* * *
The missing victim, Paraclete, had taken refuge in Dr. Kabatsin’s garage, slipping in quietly before dawn. The doctor’s sleek black Ferrari Modena occupied most of the space, but a door at the back led to an adjoining “pool room.” It wasn’t locked and Paraclete found some creature comforts there. From its windows, during daylight hours, the boy could keep his patient watch on the comings and goings to and from his uncle’s large house. There was also a small window in the garage, and he slid it open slightly to let in some air. On his first day, a bony orange cat hopped through the space to keep him company. It came and went as it pleased.
The boy had inherited his father’s respect for and suspicion of Uncle Kabatsin, whose actual last name could have been Bazaar if he had wished, but he had long ago discarded it. This uncle’s prestige in America, his great skill as a doctor, and his secure place in the community were all legend in family lore. Paraclete was a smart boy, the one his father had groomed to succeed him, and early on he had figured out that Kabatsin had been entrusted with a lot of money, a pot that was constantly replenished with wires from home whenever the oversight of the authorities was lax. The doctor somehow was able to convert this clandestine fortune into legal United States funds.