Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 00.5 - Envision This

by Tony Dunbar

  * * *

  Cherrylynn got them all settled in the big conference room with its panoramic view of cruise ships and grain barges toiling up the Mississippi River. She took everyone’s orders for coffee and sodas.

  “Find Jason and Raisin,” Tubby whispered in her ear before taking a seat at the head of the table. The three wise men assembled there looked at him expectantly.

  “Mr. Boaz is on his way,” Tubby said with hope in his voice. “You gentlemen have already seen the capabilities of his invention?”

  Pratt nodded but Pillsbury Bastrop, the math whiz, fielded the question.

  “We’ve seen his monograph describing the lenses conceptually, and Mr. Boaz gave us an interesting demonstration on Skype. That’s why we’re here. Seeing is believing, as it were.”

  “Then you know these lenses could revolutionize how we access knowledge.” Tubby was bullshitting, not having actually seen any “monograph” or anything other than what could have been ingenious bar tricks in a fancy dining room. Where the heck was Jason?

  “Not every twinkle in the eye leads to ‘Honey, I’m home,’” said Foxx Beamer. He had the drawl to go with the speech. “And not every drop of oil is a gusher. We’ve got the dough to make great ideas grow, but you better believe we’ve got to see the goods.”

  “We have our firm brochure right here to show you what we do,” Jerry Pratt said, popping open his briefcase, “and of course our form contracts if we get that far.”

  Tubby sniffed at the idea that any client of his would ever sign a form contract, but he reached for the documents as they came sliding down the smooth marble table. Happily, Cherrylynn showed up with a tray of coffee cups, cream and sugar.

  “Mr. Boaz is in the building,” she reported.

  And indeed he was, but Tubby’s relief was short-lived. Jason came in unsteady and rumpled, khaki pants and guayabera shirt, looking like he’d slept in them and maybe on the floor. His bleary eyes and sheepish worried expression completed the look. Even his goatee seemed to be off center. It pointed toward his right shoulder.

  Raisin slunk in behind him, wearing shorts and an Izod shirt as if he was about to take off for the tennis courts. He sported shades, which was probably a blessing. He was carrying a briefcase, too. Undoubtedly it contained the invention the inventor was too hung-over to be trusted with.

  The visitors from Mississippi exchanged glances but rose as one to greet the meeting’s unsteady center of attention. Jason shuffled around the table to pump their hands and introduce himself. Tubby, watching silently, could feel the dollars floating out the window. He began thinking of more pleasant things he could be doing with this Saturday morning. A walk in the park with one of his daughters. A Bloody Mary at the horse track.

  He stopped himself and boomed out, “This is Raisin Partlow, Mr. Boaz’s associate.” He pointed Raisin and Jason to their chairs.

  “Let’s have some more coffee,” he called to Cherrylynn, who was standing by the door disapproving of everything. She was a Puritan except when it came to her unexplained disappearances once or twice a year. She shook her head and split.

  “Jason,” the lawyer proclaimed, to get everyone’s attention, “I understand that these fellas met you, uh, electronically…” Tubby wasn’t quite sure what a Skype was…. “but they have travelled here to meet with us and for the purpose of seeing a demonstration of your work…” He looked around the table and saw three heads nod. “I understand that their business is bringing venture capital to great ideas, so, of course, one of the objects of this meeting is to talk about whose capital, how much capital, etc…” This time when he looked around only Raisin nodded back, “So, uh…”

  “We’d like to see it work,” Pillsbury interrupted, making a church of his hands and touching them to the tip of his nose.

  Raisin burped.

  “Sorry,” he murmured.

  Cherrylynn brought in two more cups of coffee and plopped them down in front of the latecomers.

  Jason inhaled deeply, blew it out, and took a long swallow from his cup. He inhaled deeply again and coughed.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “you see before you a man in less than stellar shape. My brain is obviously not working at its best. But it is in just such a situation as this that my innovation, which I have decided to call ‘Myenvision,’ proves most…” He was at a loss for the word.

  “Useful?” Tubby suggested.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Jason said gratefully. “Useful. So let me give you an example. I am wearing my devices now.”

  “What’s the square root of 2012?” Pillsbury blurted out.

  Jason rolled his eyes. “45.855323,” he responded.

  “What’s the torque of a Magnabell converter shaft?” Pratt shot out.

  Again with the eyes. “For the Marine Torpedo Deflector? Three thousand and eighty-two foot-pounds.”

  “I think that’s classified,” Pratt said, impressed.

  “What’s the market going to do tomorrow?” Beaner asked. Raisin perked up his ears for that one.

  “Haven’t got a clue, guys. But of course this is just a prototype. You could develop almost any program you want for this. And guess what? These lenses are also pretty damn good sunglasses. I can make them go from red to green. Even black if you want to go to sleep on a sunny day. Just tap it in from your cell phone.” Jason demonstrated with the iPhone in his hand. “Even a child can do it.”

  “You say that what you’re wearing is just a prototype,” Pratt mused. “Is that the only set there is?”

  “Why, yes it is. They weren’t exactly cheap to make.”

  “And you haven’t yet patented your idea?”

  “No, I haven’t. I figure I could leave that project up to you.”

  “It could be quite involved,” the mathematician opined. “I would surmise that you are borrowing from similar technologies.”

  “No doubt about that,” Jason agreed, “but I have put them together in an original way. I would guess that the Microsofts and IBMs might make things tough for a while.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Beaner complained.

  “The upside is in the billions,” Tubby threw in.

  “Hundreds of billions.” Raisin added. “Maybe thousands of billions.”

  That sat there for almost a minute.

  “Well, what is it you want from us?” Pratt said finally.

  Tubby was about to make something up, but Jason got there first.

  “A million dollars and a piece of the action.”

  “How big a piece.”

  “Fifty percent,” Jason said.

  Pratt snorted. “Five percent is our standard.”

  “Thirty-Five,” Jason responded.

  “Wait, wait,” Tubby and Beaner were putting up their hands at the same time. “We can get down to specifics later,” the lawyer said hastily. “I see that these men are definitely interested.”

  “I’d have to see it work.” Beaner said. “In my own eyes.”

  “We can do that,” Jason said. “Some lens cleaning solution, my man, if you please.”

  Raisin opened his briefcase.

  It took quite a while to fit Beaner with the contact lenses. He and Jason had to retire to the men’s room to accomplish the task. The others waited patiently and exchanged stories about life on the Gulf Coast, the lingering effects of the BP oil spill, and how the Saints’ draft was going.

  Finally they returned and Beaner looked quite normal, or as normal as before, though he used the edge of the table as a guide while he made his way to his chair.

  “As I was just explaining to Mr. Beaner,” Jason said, “the lenses can actually be adjusted to your personal vision, just like prescription glasses, except you can do it yourself. That alone is worth a fortune even if you weren’t able to link them to the Internet. Our friend Foxx here has assured me that his vision is perfectly ok the way it is. But would you like a little tint, my man?”

  Jason tapped his iPhone. “Just a hint of gray to shie
ld out the bright lights?”

  “This is pretty cool.” Beaner sounded enthusiastic. “How about some green. Yeah, I like that. Okay. Give me something to do.”

  “Let’s see, what would you be doing if you were in your Biloxi office?”

  “Probably checking the Dow futures.”

  “Okay, can you see that keyboard in your left eye? Think where your eyebrow is.”

  “Yeah, I sure do.”

  “See how you can scroll along. Look at that “D.”

  “Got it.”

  “All right. Just give us a “Dow” and a “Jones.”

  “By God!” Beaner exclaimed. “I see it! This thing might be worth some money after all.”

  After that they all got downright chummy.

  The other men wanted to try the lenses, but Beaner was reluctant to give them up.

  Tubby tried to turn the discussion back to money. Raisin just hummed “billions,” every few seconds. No one pulled out a checkbook, but all the lights were green.

  “I want to see how these things work on the street,” Beaner insisted. “If I can walk and talk with these doo-dads on and still carry on a conversation then I know we have something special. Man, just think of the bets I can win if no one knows I have these on.”

  “You could even count cards in Blackjack,” Raisin offered. “I bet you could compute the odds of the next card being an Ace.”

  The Mississippians stared at him stone-faced. Then Pillsbury started laughing and the other two joined in. “Maybe you could at that,” he chuckled.

  “Billions,” Raisin said again.

  “Let’s give these babies a real test in the real world,” Beaner said pushing back from the table.

  “Great idea!” Jason agreed. “We can walk right over to Bourbon Street and I’ll buy you a Hurricane.”

  Beaner’s eyes may have been full of sorcery and magic. Jason’s were full of dollar signs.

  “I’ll skip the trip,” Tubby said, though nobody had invited him. He didn’t fancy this particular company and anyway they would probably expect him to pick up the tab. “Let me know when you’re ready to do the deal. I’ll be right here.”

  * * *

  At a little table under a banana tree in the courtyard at Pat O’Brien’s, the three entrepreneurs, the inventor, and Raisin were entertaining themselves hoisting tall pink drinks and throwing questions at Beaner, who refused to part with his Myenvision glasses.

  “Who won the fifth race at the Fairgrounds?”

  “Switch-hitter,” he yelled triumphantly.

  “Where did Moses meet the magicians?” Pillsbury asked.

  “In Cairo, of course. Book of Exodus 9:11.”

  “What form of government was least favored by Plato?” Raisin queried.

  “Uh, timocracy, the rule by the rich military elites,” Beaner said with confidence.

  “I’m headed to the head.” Raisin got to his feet.

  “I want to see how the GPS thing works on this baby,” Beaner said. “Jerry, go bring around my car.”

  Jason thought it sounded a bit un-timoctratic to tell Pratt, the former test pilot, to fetch the car. But maybe Pratt knew which side his bread was buttered on.

  That’s how, half an hour later, Jason explained the whole sad episode to Tubby.

  * * *

  “Before I realized what was going on, they were all getting up and going for a ride. Raisin was still in the john. I had to get the waiter to take my credit card. As soon as I got out to the street I see all three of them in a car, this white Mercedes convertible. Beaner is behind the wheel, and Pillsbury is in the back seat, and he waves at me as they take off down St. Ann Street. I was standing there waiting for them to swing back when Raisin came outside.”

  Raisin was shaking his head, crestfallen. “All my fault, Tubby. I guess I’ve just lost my edge.”

  “No comment,” Tubby was unforgiving.

  “No, it’s my fault.” Jason was in mourning. “I was so nervous about this whole thing that I just turned into my idiot self. I go there sometimes.” He pulled at his beard. “A personal character flaw, I know. I shouldn’t be allowed outside in normal society. People can snow you so quickly nowadays. I have this terrible problem….”

  “Enough!” Tubby said. I am not a shrink, he didn’t say. “Was that really your only model?”

  “Yes,” Jason said hiccupping. “I mean, I can build another, but so can they. At least I think they can. It’s really simple when you take it apart and look at it. They could probably show Myenvision to a halfway-smart 15-year-old and he could figure it out. It ain’t that hard. I just got there first.”

  Tubby made a plan. “You gents sit here for a few minutes and I’ll see what I can do. I believe I can track down a lawyer in Hancock County, Mississippi, who can put together a temporary restraining order and get it served over the weekend. We may be able to get these guys into court by Monday afternoon.”

  “That will be too late,” Jason moaned.

  “Well, we do what we can do.” Tubby hastened off to his office and his phone, calling Cherrylynn to follow him.

  * * *

  “Monday will be way too late,” Jason repeated. “They’ll know everything about it by then.”

  “Maybe they aren’t as sharp as you think.” Raisin was trying to make him feel better.

  “They don’t have to be brilliant,” Jason moaned. “It might slow them down not to have this,” he tossed his phone on the table, “but not for very long. They can program a phone of their own.”

  “Do you think Beaner is still wearing the lenses?” Raisin asked.

  Jason studied the device resting on the polished mahogany. “I wonder where they are right now.” He picked up the phone and powered it on with a tiny tap. Gracefully he slid his finger along the bottom to unlock. “Let’s see. How about ‘Total Blackout’.”

  * * *

  The sun was behind them as the three men in the Mercedes convertible sped onto the Twin Spans crossing Lake Pontchartrain. The sky was blue and the waves were shining brightly as they blew southward toward the Rigolets.

  The men weren’t talking much, just staring at the Interstate ahead, listening to Rascal Flatts on the radio. In their own ways, each was contemplating the ease of their adventure in espionage. Pratt was thinking about the Makers Mark he would soon be stirring for himself and his girlfriend back at their bayside condo where they would be cooled by the evening breeze. Peacock was running analytical problems through his mind. It would be up to him to decipher the workings of the optical devices, starting as soon as he got back to his highly digitalized man-cave in Biloxi, and just as quickly as he could get the lenses away from Beaner. And Beaner, he was quietly singing to himself as he drove, but the faint lyrics had to do with his awe at having a global positioning system in his mind. It was telling him where the potholes were, what fine restaurants were ahead, and how high the tides were in Mobile Bay.

  “Lane change in 2.8 miles. Merge left. Whoa, I could almost close my eyes and drive this baby.” Beaner was juiced.

  A fat dude on a Harley pulled alongside. The biker turned to stare at them. He ginned through his beard, gave them a one finger wave, then shot past.

  “That ain’t nothin’ buddy,” Beaner said, his head bobbing to the music. He pushed down hard on the accelerator.

  Suddenly the lights turned off.

  He could hear the motorcycle and the seagulls and feel the wind, but where was the road?

  “I can’t see!” he yelled.

  “Look out, fool!” Pratt screamed.

  The Mercedes bit into a concrete barrier, bounced across the highway to the other side, climbed over a metal rail, and sailed in a pretty arc into the Lake. The car flipped over, spinning wheels to the sky, passenger side down, then sank.

  * * *

  “The law has a solution for this,” Tubby said, returning triumphantly to the room. “I got a judge…”

  “Their signal just died,” Jason said. He pocketed the
phone.

  “What color is the sky in your world?” Raisin mused to no one in particular.

  THE END

  The complete

  The Complete Tubby Dubonnet Mystery Series (in order of publication):

  Crooked Man, G.P. Putnam’s Sons (New York, 1994)

  City of Beads, G.P. Putnam’s (New York, 1995)

  Trick Question, G.P. Putnam’s Sons (New York, 1996)

  Shelter From the Storm, G.P. Putnam’s Sons (New York, 1997)

  The Crime Czar, Dell Publishing (New York, 1998)

  Lucky Man, Dell Publishing (New York, 1999)

  Tubby Meets Katrina, NewSouth Books (Montgomery, 2006)

  For more about the first Tubby Dubonnet book, CROOKED MAN, go to www.booksBnimble.com

  Sign up for the booksBnimble mailing list: www.booksbnimble.com

  “Crooked Man is the literary equivalent of film noir—fast, tough, tense, and darkly

  funny…with an ending so deeply satisfying …that a reader might well disturb the

  midnight silence with laughter.”

  —Los Angeles Times Book Review

  “The sense of place in Crooked Man is so thick you can smell the chicory in the coffee.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tony Dunbar is a lawyer and the author of the Tubby Dubonnet mystery series set in New Orleans. He is the winner of the Lillian Smith Book Award, and his mysteries have been nominated for the Anthony and the Edgar Allen Poe “Edgar” Awards. He has also written non-fiction books about the South and civil rights and has lived for more than thirty years in this beautiful and complicated city.