by Tony Dunbar
CHAPTER IX
Angelo was deeply in love and enthusiastically looked forward to the simple things, like going to work every day, because he was building a future for himself and Aimee. And he was also motivated— and this was the wonderful thing— because he was certain that his Holy Water actually worked.
But over his world dark clouds began to appear. The first sign of trouble was that one of Angelo’s bicycle delivery men got pushed off the street by a panel van on Dumaine. The bike rider crashed into a group of tourists who were taking a haunted-house tour. A couple of people were knocked to the sidewalk, and Angelo got calls from lawyers threatening to sue. Angelo hung up on them.
The next day some graffiti artist spray-painted an obscenity in bright blue over the “Angelo’s Elixir” sign on the fence outside.
Then someone threw a dead possum over the fence. It didn’t endanger the well, which was now covered by a clever aqua top with hinges and handles molded from acrylics, but the carcass stunk up the yard. The possum’s throat had been cut. Someone was clearly bent on disrupting Angelo’s peaceful life.
The Fat Man had been a criminal recently enough to know how these things worked. Personal protection was required. But because of his police record for armed robbery, he couldn’t just take a bus to Walmart and buy a handgun. He had no such difficulty, however, getting one from the old man who ran the laundromat around the corner and who had several pieces to select from. For $300 Angelo got a heavy piece of metal, a European American Armory 9mm made in Turkey, and a couple of boxes of bullets.
“Somebody is screwing with me,” he told his financial backer, E.J. Chaisson.
After listening to Angelo explain the situation, E.J. insisted that he call the lawyer Dubonnet.
But Angelo held out for a few more days. Lawyers were part of the system, and the system had always been out to get him.
Then the same man who had tried to buy his Holy Water business walked through the gate a second time, and Angelo thought about shooting him right then and there.
After saying hello with his big smile, Frenchy Dufour asked Angelo again whether he had developed any more interest in selling the well.
“No, I like what I do! Alone!” the proprietor said forcefully.
“I could make it worth your while. You’d get a lot of money right off the bat. We could keep you on the payroll, too, as the ‘esteemed founder’, the face of the brand.”
“You just get the hell out of here!” Angelo yelled. “I like my business just the way it is.”
“You could become a lot bigger,” Dufour persisted. “You could get more wells. Maybe we could even use city water. People say it tastes good.”
“Screw that! My water heals people.” Angelo had turned off his music and risen from his stool.
“Really.” Frenchy Dufour looked at him and smiled even more broadly. “Really?” he repeated.
Angelo pushed him in the chest. “I told you to get out of here. Do I need to get rough with you?”
“No, no,” the man said, shaking his head and raising his palms. “But I’m truly sorry. Maybe you will change your mind when things get too rough for you.” He turned and calmly left by the gate.
Angelo went back into his shed and picked up his phone. He stared at it angrily, then punched in the number that E.J. had given him.
* * *
In anticipation of the call from E.J. Chaisson’s well-water friend, Tubby had been making a historical study of the drinking water supply in New Orleans. He learned that there had once been many, many wells, and naturally dozens of statutes and regulations dealing with them. No surprise there. New Orleans had from its earliest days been devoted to passing an abundance of ordinances.
In olden times, people had also relied on natural springs or on the rain water they collected in wooden cisterns, which they allowed to settle out in large pots. Then innovative entrepreneurs figured out how to make ice, and the city flourished, but that’s another story.
Nowadays people were stuck with drinking the Mississippi River, unless they preferred to drink wine. The river’s murky fluids were thoroughly fluoridated and chlorinated on their way to the customer. Despite these measures, some citizens had come to view the entire public water system as a fearsome public enemy because of the frequently issued “boiled water advisories” which caused many to avoid the tap. These “advisories” were to avoid subjecting the population to brain-eating amoebas.
Maybe the city was ready to rediscover its roots, Tubby thought. Artesian water could be the real deal. So he was prepared when Cherrylynn announced that Angelo Spooner, E.J.’s associate, was on the phone.
“Hey. Angelo here. This dude, Chaisson, said I should call you. I have a water business. It’s called ‘Angelo’s Elixir’. I’m the owner.” The voice was gruff— no nonsense.
“Why, sure, Mr. Spooner. E.J. said you might be in touch. What can I do for you?”
“I have some questions, uh… I’m having some trouble.” He stopped there.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tubby said sympathetically. “Would you like to come to my office?”
“I could do that.”
They made a date.
As Angelo hung up he remembered that he was supposed to pick up Aimee at work. He ran out of his shop and unlocked the borrowed purple Cadillac.
* * *
When Angelo walked into the Subright at four o’clock to get his date, loud hip-hop was playing on the sound system. There were no customers in the restaurant. Behind the counter a pimply-faced kid with a chipped tooth was being ordered around by a heavy-set man with a rectangular mustache. Angelo figured the older man to be Mr. Momback, the boss.
“Is Aimee here?” he asked, bristling with hostility. “I’m her ride.”
“Yeah, she told me you’d be here,” Momback said without appearing the least bit perturbed. He sneered and Angelo sneered back.
“Are you her boss?”
“That’s me.”
“Well, I’m her boyfriend!” Angelo said with meaning.
“So I hear, fatso,” the manager said with a grin. He turned to the kid. “You’re in charge for a while,” he told him, and the boy’s head bobbed up and down. “I have to run an errand.” He walked calmly out the front door.
Angelo started after him, but then controlled himself.
He turned on the kid. “Why do you play this junk music?” he demanded.
“The manager likes it. Me, I’m into electronics like Datsik.”
“Crap,” Angelo muttered.
“Do you want to order anything, sir?” the boy asked pointedly.
“No. I wouldn’t listen to that junk for all the Subright sandwiches in the world. I’m just picking up Aimee. Is she ready?”
“She should be,” the boy said. “You can check in back.” He indicated the narrow doorway by the bread oven.
Angelo rapped loudly. “It’s me, Aimee,” he called.
He heard sobs and kicked the door open. Aimee was standing by a metal desk with her back to him. She was straightening out her dress, and she was crying. He rushed to put his arms around her tenderly, but she recoiled.
“Oh, no, no!” was all Angelo could say. “I’ll kill that son of a bitch!”
“You’re squeezing me too tight, baby,” she said, adjusting her bra.
He loosened his fingers, helped her with her shoes, and escorted her out the door. The kid was rocking to Ghostland Observatory and barely noticed them leave. If Angelo had taken a moment to stop and listen, he might have liked the music, too.
* * *
It was time to call it a day, and Tubby went to retrieve his Camaro from the seventh floor of the Place Palais garage. Lost in pleasant thoughts, he didn’t realize he was being watched by the driver of another vehicle parked nearby. Backing out of his reserved space and proceeding tediously down the ramps to the street and St. Charles Avenue, he never picked up the red Impala that was slowly following behind him.
CHAPTER X
Sure enough, Peggy’s Porsche was parked in front of his house. She left the driveway to him.
He found her sitting on a plastic chair on the back porch wearing a wool sweater, for the evening was cool, and sipping a mug of Chai tea. In Tubby’s estimation Peggy was an extremely attractive woman— youthfully middle-aged.
“It’s very nice to see you here.” He waved at her from the back door.
“Is it?” she looked at him for confirmation. She still wasn’t sure where things stood between them.
“Absolutely,” he said, and meant it. He stepped onto the deck to rub her shoulders. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
“That feels so good.”
“Any dinner plans?”
“I had a business luncheon with the Arts Council, but I’ll do whatever you want.”
“We could go out. We could stay here and order a pizza.”
“If you keep rubbing my back, I won’t care what we do.”
“I think I’ll shower off,” he said.
She stood up, breaking his grip, and turned around. Running her fingers into his hair she kissed him tentatively. Her breasts just grazed his chest.
“Maybe I’ll join you,” she said with a sheepish smile.
“Well, you would be welcome,” Tubby replied— also with a smile— but not a sheepish one.
Alone, he climbed the steps to his bedroom, relieved that his occasional maid had deigned to come just that morning and the sheets would be fresh and the bathroom spotless. Not that he usually worried about such things. But since his divorce and the purchase of his new home, he had invested in certain luxuries— like the rain forest shower with multiple, strategically-focused shower heads. With hopes of good things to come, he turned down the sheets before stepping into the shower.
Tubby soaped up and was rinsing with the pulsating water when he heard a timid knock at the bathroom door. “Come in,” he boomed, over the flowing water. It opened and Peggy walked slowly into his foggy field of vision wearing nothing but her birthday suit, a very alluring birthday suit, in Tubby’s opinion. He extended a dripping hand, “Come on in, the water’s fine.”
She stepped into the shower and into his warm and wet embrace. He accepted her softly, their bodies relaxing into each other as the water worked its magical charms.
“Here,” he said, pushing her gently away, “let me help you wash up.” He picked up the bar of soap and began the long journey down her voluptuous body, spending a bit of extra time soaping her hard nipples and soft belly. Peggy seemed transfixed. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You could spread your legs a bit.” She protested but he was encouraging, “Come on, baby, just a little bit.”
Peggy did as she was told, and the soap continued its journey through the swollen folds and crevices of her body. When completed, Tubby took her shoulders and firmly turned her around. He placed her hands on the wall of the shower and bent her slightly forward. “Just let me finish up,” he said… and he did… giving the back of her body the same solicitous treatment he had given her front.
A certain urgency was developing between them, and Tubby turned off the water and led her out of the shower, grabbing one of his new, plush bath towels and wrapping it around her. Her eyes were closed, and she relaxed back against the vanity while he slowly patted her body dry. He dropped to his knees on the matching bath mat. Peggy shivered and pressed her legs closer together. “Come on, baby, just for a minute… you know what it means to me.” He kissed her belly and Peggy felt her defenses melting. Her legs parted and Tubby explored the same crevices and folds that he had just so thoughtfully washed.
Peggy’s knees weakened and she had to clutch Tubby’s shoulders to keep from sinking to the floor. With shocking speed, her body tensed and she came, pulsating wildly as his hands pulled her hips close to him and his tongue circled her relentlessly.
When her waves of pleasure ebbed, her lover stood up slowly, turned her around, and firmly bent her over the vanity. Her eyes opened briefly and locked with his in the mirror. Neither one of them smiled. She closed her eyes.
When it was over, he gathered her in his arms and carried her to his bed, tucked her under the covers with a promise to return shortly. She awoke an hour later to the smell of steaks sizzling on the grill.
CHAPTER XI
Professor Prima walked across the Loyola campus carrying his thermos of tea and some salad and granola from the Danna Center. He met Cherrylynn under the lions at the entrance to Audubon Park. The pair had begun lunching together occasionally since discovering their mutual interest in the Latin history and politics of New Orleans. Prima was an authority on this subject, having also had access to family members and acquaintances who had emigrated to New Orleans after the Cuban revolution and who had created a cauldron of anti-Castro and anti-Socialist agitation and scheming, some of it very well-funded.
Cherrylynn’s interest was far more recent. It began with her tantalizing glimpses into the records of “La Asociación para la Infanteria Nacionalista Cubano,” which some called the Papal Scrolls and which Mr. Dubonnet had found, then quickly lost.
What the papers purported to show was the existence of a cell of ardent plotters whose below-the-radar activities touched upon the Bay of Pigs invasion and even the Kennedy and Oswald assassinations. The era of the sixties and seventies was full of conflict and mystery everywhere in America, and New Orleans was not an exception. For those who had a professional interest in solving historical mysteries, there was nothing better than a local one.
“If the old guys stole their papers back from the library, who would they have used for the job?” Cherrylynn asked. “Where would they have hidden their records once they got them back?” Those were the questions she posed while watching kindergarten children feed Bunny Bread to the white ducks in the lagoon.
“Carlos Pancera was the key, the ‘Recorder’,” Prima said, “but he’s dead.”
“He killed himself, right?” she asked.
“So they say.”
“If he’s the one who ordered the papers stolen before he died, where did they go?”
“To a church somewhere, I’d guess. Pancera was very big in Catholic circles.”
“Or maybe he had them destroyed.”
“They would never do that. They were too proud of their achievements. Their contribution to history.” Prima was sure of that. He remembered how his own father had felt about “The Movement.”
“Or, it could be the…”
“CIA? That’s always a convenient answer,” Professor Prima said. “But from an intellectual perspective it’s far too convenient. What can’t you blame on the CIA? That answer is also unsatisfactory from a researcher’s point of view since, if it’s true, our pursuit of the documents would be entirely unsuccessful and therefore pointless.”
Cherrylynn nodded thoughtfully and munched her celery sticks. “If these guys from your father’s generation were deeply involved in the Bay of Pigs and killing the president wouldn’t you think that they would have needed a lot of money?”
The question triggered a memory of a party given for Prima’s father when he retired from the American Can Company on Orleans Avenue. It had been held in the Primas’ little living room on Toulouse Street. Oliver’s father had enjoyed a few glasses of wine before he pushed his chair back and offered a toast.
“To the heroes of the past,” Oliver’s father had begun unsteadily. “And to those in whom we entrust their memory.” Gaining strength, he nodded to his son. “And may they make good use of the resources we will leave in their care!”
Oliver Prima had occasionally wondered about what his father meant. Unfortunately the beloved patriarch had suffered a
heart attack about a week later. After that the family got by on a little Social Security and his mother’s wages selling ladies garments at D.H. Holmes. Oliver had thought that the inherited “resources” his father had spoken of were the honest upbringing his family gave him in the church and his American citizenship. With those things he had been content.
Cherrylynn, however, had asked a good question. Where had all that money for anti-Castro propaganda come from, and where had it gone?
* * *
It was Friday, when all the restaurants served fish, and Tubby made his own lunch plans. He invited Peggy O’Flarity to what he promised would be a fabulous meal at Parasol’s. She had been on some tour of fancy homes in the Garden District, but it was drawing to a close and she agreed to meet him at the restaurant. She had never been there before but thought she could find it with her GPS.
All but one of the half-a-dozen tables in the small Irish Channel po-boy shop were occupied, and they grabbed it. After discussing the menu, Peggy guarded their space while Tubby went to the counter to order. For the table he got the Irish Sundae, which was potato salad topped with bits of roast beef and smothered in gravy and, for himself, a meatball on French bread dressed with extra Marinara and provolone. For her it was the Firecracker Shrimp. From experience he knew that the portions were out of control.
They made small talk while waiting for their food. She revealed some of the intrigue about the politics of which galleries would get featured in Steven Forster’s “Party Central,” and then she said, as if an afterthought, “I thought that was quite beautiful last night.”
“It was indeed.” Tubby smiled.
Peggy blushed and toyed with her napkin.
“Things seem to be moving rather quickly,” she said.
“Is that a bad thing?”
She shrugged. “Maybe not.”
“You just want to be careful, right?” Tubby asked.
“That’s me,” she said. Embarrassed now, she looked longingly toward the counter hoping that their sandwiches would appear.