Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8)

by Tony Dunbar

  As usual Tubby got lost as soon as he crossed Esplanade Avenue into the Faubourg Marigny. All of a sudden the streets angled off in crazy directions. No big deal to the local man. It was still only seven-forty-five. However, he was challenged and blocked. On Chartres Street, a Rock Star Waste Disposal truck idled in his path. The workers slammed gigantic plastic garbage cans over the curbs and gave each other commands in an unintelligible tongue. When he finally burst free, he found himself in a neighborhood he knew virtually nothing about.

  But it wasn’t hostile. Little girls wearing school uniforms were carrying their backpacks to class. Delivery trucks were dropping off bread and vegetables at the corner stores. There were lots of quaint restaurants and special shops, all closed at this hour but emitting people who rented the apartments upstairs and at this hour had to hustle to work. Such cool people, Tubby thought. Mostly young and looking healthy. Jeans and sneakers and flowery cotton prints and layers were the style. And here he was, still stuck in a suit and tie.

  The scene took him back to his own street-people period. All 72 hours of it. These kids had energy, like he once had, and were undoubtedly more clear-headed than his youthful friends had been. They looked like they were headed somewhere to apply themselves and pick up a paycheck. He found a place to park in front of the abandoned Toledo Iron Works.

  Opening the door of the café he almost got run over by a tall woman wearing a spotless white polo shirt and black slacks, both of which hugged her trim figure. She looked like a prep school gym teacher and had a phone pressed against her short brown hair. Tubby got an apologetic smile as she brushed past. She had no obvious lipstick. Her black eyes were spaced far apart.

  The restaurant was full, and it was lucky that the police officer was already seated and noticed him, which wasn’t hard. He was the big lawyer wearing a tie. The cop waved Tubby over. The décor was striking, walls covered with cryptic sayings like, “Don’t Tread on Me,” written in splashes of color, Dr. Bob’s version of folk art in wooden frames outlined in bottle caps.

  “Ireanous?” he inquired.

  “Close enough,” the cop said. His blue uniform shirt was crisply pressed, and his badge shone brightly on his broad chest. His skin, exposed above the neck, was nearly black. He wore a heavy mustache, but his head was shaved smooth. “Have a seat,” he directed.

  Tubby did. “Thanks for meeting me, Officer. I hope I can buy you some breakfast.”

  “Already ate, but I’ll join you for another cup of coffee if you like. The Redneck Eggs are good.”

  Tubby shot him a glance to see if he meant something, but the ebony-toned policeman stared impassively back. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

  “Dubonnet.”

  “Rhymes with ‘Make my day’?”

  “That’s it.”

  A waitress appeared, a dainty girl in a pink frock. Tubby pointed to the first special on the menu.

  “So what’s up?” Ireanous asked. “Your man Flowers didn’t say much. ’Course I hardly know him.”

  “There’s really not a whole lot to it. I represent the lady who owns the Monkey Business club over on St. Claude, and apparently she’s run afoul of some local ordinances.”

  “Yeah? I know where that place is. They get some big crowds on weekends. But I’ve never heard about any trouble there.” Ireanous paused to check his phone. “Of course, I haven’t been in this precinct but a couple of weeks.”

  The waitress brought them both coffee and a plate of Eggs Elizabeth for Tubby. They appeared as a pair of perfect little poached eggs on French bread rounds, each with its dollop of golden creamy hollandaise, garnished with parsley and resting on a pea-green sheen of tarragon sauce, with yellow cheese grits on the side.

  “Impressive,” Babineaux commented.

  “Absolutely,” Tubby agreed, thinking that maybe the dish wasn’t very macho looking. But it was tasty.

  “I heard you just got transferred in,” he said to the policeman.

  “That’s right,” Ireanous said without expression. He didn’t offer the details. His large eyes, starkly white against his skin, studied the lawyer carefully.

  “You like it here?” Tubby asked.

  “What the fuck is there to like about it?” the cop asked. “Drugs, guns, and kids who will shoot you just to prove their manhood. Every single person on the street has been to Parish Prison.”

  This was in stark contrast to Tubby’s impression. “It doesn’t look that bad to me, just driving around,” he said, “but you make it sound pretty dismal.”

  Ireanous shrugged. “Whole city is like that,” he added and took a sip from his coffee. “Take another tour after dark. Believe me, I grew up around here.”

  “Anyway,” Tubby continued, “my friend Janie Caragliano runs the Monkey Business tavern and is getting grief for staging live music at night. Apparently there’s a problem with the quality of life officer in this district.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you know that particular cop and, you know, what my approach should be?”

  “As for approach, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Babineaux said. “But I do know the cop. You passed her when you came in. Tall? White shirt?”

  “Oh, yeah. So that’s what a quality of life officer looks like. What’s her name?”

  “Officer Smith.”

  “First name?”

  “Jane, possibly. Nothing you’d remember.”

  “How would I get in touch with her?”

  “Just call the station and leave a message.”

  Tubby thought he had gotten about as much help as a cup of coffee would buy. But as long as he was here…

  “Here’s another question,” he persisted, though Ireanous checked his watch. “Where would I go to find records about a crime, a murder actually, that happened a long time ago?”

  “How long?”

  “About forty years ago.”

  “You’re going to have trouble with that, buddy. But the place to start would be at Central Records at Tulane and Broad.”

  “Do you know anybody there who could help me?”

  Officer Babineaux laughed. “It happens that I do. Rick Sandoval. He’s also being punished for being too good of a cop. Central records is police Hell.”

  “Sandoval? Listen, I really appreciate this.”

  “Hope it helps.” Ireanous must have seen something about Tubby that he liked because he suddenly became more friendly. “What kind of lawyer are you?” he asked.

  “I do all sorts of things. Civil and criminal,” Tubby said vaguely. “My clients always seem to have multiple problems.” It was true.

  “Well, here’s one you’ll like. What do you think about a cop who breaks a guy’s jaw with just one punch? It’s in the line of duty, you might say. You think that’s an assault?”

  “Sure, it’s an assault. But you’re a cop. If the punch was justified, that’s what we pay you for.”

  “I was definitely justified. But now my ass is in a crack about it.”

  “Don’t you have a union? I thought they would defend you against anything.”

  “Not in my case. It’s technically an association, not a union, and here’s the thing, the guy I popped is the president.”

  “Oh, that’s bad.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m possibly facing criminal charges.”

  “Have you talked to a lawyer about this?”

  Ireanous ran his palm over his smooth scalp. “I am right now.”

  “Hang on,” Tubby said. “There’s more to it than that. You haven’t asked me to represent you, and I haven’t agreed to do it either.”

  “Flowers said you’re a winner, but that you don’t work for free.”

  Tubby nodded his head. No argument there.

  “What’s your fee?” the policeman asked, stroking the holstered gun on his belt for comfort.

  “It varies a great deal,” Tubby said. “It all depends on what I have to do.”

  “What would you ch
arge for, what do you lawyers say, an initial consultation?”

  Tubby made up a number.

  “I can do that,” Ireanous said.

  Tubby wished he had gone higher. “Can you come to my office?” he asked.

  “I guess so. Where is it? I have to go to work now.”

  Tubby gave the directions and they shook hands.

  “I can give you Jane Smith’s cell phone number,” Ireanous said gruffly as they walked out to the street together.

  Outside there was an orange parking ticket on Tubby’s windshield. The cop laughed and waved goodbye.

  Tubby tossed the ticket into his glove compartment and pulled out his phone. Jane Smith didn't pick up, but Tubby left his number and asked her to call. Driving slowly , he looked in the recessed doorways of Chartres Street for the mystery meter maid, but she was well hidden.

  Next stop was Tulane and Broad, a destination Tubby knew well. He found a parking spot in a pay-lot full of Lincolns and BMWs, dented pick-ups and old Impalas, representing the spectrum of who came to this place. There were those here voluntarily— hustling lawyers— and those who were here against their will— sad and poor defendants. Tubby took a deep breath to ready himself for this world: city blocks packed with jail buildings, sketchy bail bondsmen, the towering criminal courthouse with its bold stone relief of what appeared to be an African-American cannoneer turning away in shame from an armed Caucasian civilian and a Louisiana statesman, the municipal and traffic courts dedicated to delivering justice to the proletariat, the Police Department, the District Attorney, and the loud city buses belching clouds of exhaust.

  He ran across busy Broad Street together with a cluster of women and little children all evidently headed to the fortress-like gates of Orleans Parish Prison for visiting day. Separating from his crowd he made his way through a concrete plaza, baking hot and filled with memorials to slain officers, to police headquarters and presented himself inside at the information desk.

  There he was informed that the office he was looking for was called the Records and Identification Division, first floor to your right. Through wide glass doors there was a long tin-topped counter. It was staffed by a receptionist who sat behind a computer with a cash register immediately beside her. She peered at him, her only victim, over her reading glasses.

  “I’m looking for some old police records,” Tubby said. “Am I in the right place?”

  “Yes, sir,” the receptionist said tonelessly. “You might want to review this brochure first, and then I’ll be happy to explain the process further.”

  She plucked a blue and silver pamphlet from a stack and handed it to her customer with a tight smile. It took Tubby only a few seconds to figure out that he had to put in a “public records request,” that it would take some unspecified period of time before the Custodian of Records determined which of the records he sought were public and which were protected by a Constitutional right of individual privacy, or were “police work product,” and most importantly, what the appropriate fee was. Helpfully, there was a comprehensive and not inexpensive schedule of fees for procuring copies of everything.

  “I guess you don’t give out much for free,” he said.

  “I’m sorry? What did you say?”

  Tubby pocketed the brochure. “I meant to say, is Officer Rick Sandoval here?”

  “Yes, he is,” she said, with misgivings she wanted him to know about. “Your name, sir?”

  He told her and stared absently at the walls of file cabinets while she made a call.

  A few minutes passed before a brown-haired policeman with straight shoulders, the chest of a weight lifter, and a crisp blue uniform, came out of the stacks. He took his sweet time walking up to the desk.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, as if he didn’t think he could. He was erect and good-looking, but not young.

  “I got your name from Ireanous…”

  Sandoval coughed loudly. “Come on, over here.” He moved further down the counter out of the receptionist’s earshot. “Let’s not block Missus Mogilles’ desk.”

  They shifted fifteen feet away. Sandoval leaned in with his elbows on the dented counter-top.

  “Let’s try that again,” he said.

  Tubby also bent over, a co-conspirator. Their foreheads almost touched.

  “Ireanous Babineaux. I asked him how I could locate some old police records, and he gave me your name.”

  “What’s he to you?”

  “I’m a lawyer. He might or might not end up being a client of mine. But this has nothing to do with his situation. This inquiry is personal.”

  “By situation, you mean him busting up that crud Alonzo’s pretty smile?” Sandoval’s voice came out of lips that were barely parted and a whiskery square jaw that didn’t move.

  Tubby shrugged.

  “How old is the case? I mean, if it’s historical a lot of those records are online at the Public Library.”

  “Nineteen seventies.”

  “That ain’t old. That’s when I was a kid.”

  Tubby gave him a smile. “I’m about the same age as you, and it’s still a long time ago to me. I saw a kid get shot. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t. I’ve always wanted to know what really happened.”

  “What was it? Some kind of a robbery?”

  “An anti-war protest.”

  Sandoval grunted. “I did my part in Grenada on Operation Urgent Fury.”

  “I was in the Army. Military Police,” Tubby said.

  Sandoval thought it over. “Tell you what. Give me what you’ve got on the incident, and I’ll see what I can find. Give me a number where I can reach you.”

  “Thanks. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  That got a laugh.

  “They already got me working in in a file room where nobody gets any files. I get to take the bus to work. I’ll be passed over for promotion this year. What more can they do to me?”

  * * *

  After leaving Sandoval, Tubby hung out in the reception area of the police building where it was air-conditioned. He checked his phone. Nothing from Jane Smith, the quality of life officer, so he called her one more time. This time she answered. Her voice was clipped and official. He explained that he represented Janie Caragliano, the owner of the Monkey Business Club.

  “You’re an attorney?”

  He admitted that he was.

  “We don’t usually talk to attorneys.”

  “Well, I’m really just a concerned citizen, and Janie is an old friend of mine. I’m only trying to find out what the problem is. We want to get it corrected.”

  “She’s only gotten about five notices of violations.”

  “Really? She didn’t give any of them to me.”

  “They were all properly mailed and posted.”

  “I’m sure they were,” Tubby hastily agreed, “but something must have happened to them. Could I come to your office to pick up copies and see what this is all about?”

  “Not unless you get here in the next thirty minutes. I have a community meeting to go to at two o’clock.”

  “Sure. Fifth District headquarters is where?”

  “Thirty-nine hundred North Claiborne.”

  “No problem.” Back to the same neighborhood where his day had begun. He checked in with Cherrylynn, told her about his upcoming meeting the next day with Officer Babineaux, and asked her to open a file and prepare a contract for the client to sign. She was pleased to learn that he was working.

  “What’s the nature of the representation?” she asked.

  “Put down police brutality.”

  “Oh, good. We haven’t had one of those for a while.”

  “Are you in class tomorrow?”

  “No, not till Thursday afternoon,” she said.

  “Good. I’d like you to go online, or go over to the New Orleans public library if you have to and look at their microfilm. See what you can find out about a death-by-gunshot that occurred on or about…” He had to check a note in
his pocket for the date.

  “What’s the name.”

  “I never actually knew his full name. He went by ‘Parker.’ ”

  She was doubtful of success but agreed to try. Tubby was sure she would succeed. He had great faith in Cherrylynn’s research abilities.

  The Fifth District precinct station was a lot easier to locate than the morning’s coffee shop, and any doubts you were in the right place were washed away by the twenty-or-so blue and white cruisers parked outside a functional concrete orange and cream-colored building with windows too small to jump out of.

  Jane Smith did in fact have an office, but it was a tiny one with a tiny desk and no windows. There was a blue plastic chair in front of the desk, and the officer waved him into it.

  “Here’s the copies you wanted.” She pushed a few papers across the desk along with a brown envelope he could use to carry them in.

  “I appreciate your speedy service,” he said. “What’s the gist?”

  “Two gists, actually,” she replied drily. “The neighbors have complained about the noise level and have even sent me some of the decibel readings they took. The other gist is that the property isn’t allowed to have live music at all under the new Comprehensive Zoning Ordinance.”

  “Wait a second. I thought the whole question about how loud music clubs could be was still being debated. And isn’t the new zoning ordinance still pending final approval?”

  “Yes, but no matter which decibel level applies— and you are correct, everybody seems to have an opinion about which level is best— this bar is exceeding it.”

  “If you believe the neighbors’ readings. Have you done your own?”

  “Our equipment has been broken for a month, but I was out there last Saturday morning at six a.m. and the music drowned out the garbage trucks coming down the street.”

  The lawyer stroked his chin, pondering.

  “And as far as the zoning plan,” Smith continued, “that side of the block is zoned residential and light commercial and no one gets to sell alcohol or present live entertainment to the public unless they are grandfathered in.”

  “Which means, the bar has to have been in continuous operation for a long time?”