Fat Man Blues: A Hard-Boiled and Humorous Mystery (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 9)

by Tony Dunbar

  “The dumb fuck was going to shoot you,” Mathewson said nonchalantly. But sweat trickled down his face. “A split-second decision was needed,” he said to himself.

  Obviously, Tubby thought, the cop’s anger management class wasn’t working very well.

  The detective went to look at the other corpse on the street, the man, who was hanging out of his car with his long black hair dragging in the street. Tubby followed.

  “He wasn’t killed with an axe,” the lawyer pointed out to the policeman.

  “No, his neck is broke. But your client has one big motherfucking tomahawk on his front seat,” the detective said.

  This time Tubby did not protest. “I’d like to talk to my client now.”

  “Okay with me,” Mathewson said. “But stay outside of the car. Where I can see you at all times.”

  Flashing lights and sirens announced the arrival of other police cars and a contingent from the Police Academy a few blocks away.

  Tubby looked into the back seat of Mathewson’s vehicle. Angelo was there, calmly biding his time, with his head back like he was sleeping. But he was aware enough to say, “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  Tubby thought his client sounded a little bit surprised about this unexpected realization. Angelo tried to wipe the perspiration off his forehead using his shoulder.

  “You didn’t kill that man on the street, that’s for sure,” the lawyer persisted. “Somebody beat you to it.”

  “That’s Frenchy Dufour,” Angelo said. “He tried to steal my well.”

  “We know that part, but who killed him?” Tubby asked.

  Angelo shook his head. “I got lost driving over here,” he said softly. “Otherwise I would have done it.”

  “Any particular reason?” Craning his neck Tubby watched the street filling up with cops.

  “Lots of reasons,” Angelo said. “He laughed at my holy water. He sent a gangster to beat me up. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Well, you sure took care of that gangster, the one who came to your well. Didn’t you?”

  Angelo didn’t respond.

  “Probably self-defense,” Tubby prompted.

  “He also didn’t like Swamp Pop,” Angelo mused, which sounded somewhat unbalanced to Tubby.

  “Say again? I’m not following you.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Angelo repeated.

  “Who’s the guy outside with the rifle, the one the cop shot?”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t actually kill anybody.”

  Tubby took a deep breath. “I got that part. Do you want me to represent you?”

  Angelo’s hands were chained behind his back. He nodded.

  The street was now abuzz with uniformed officers, recruits, sheriff’s deputies and photographers.

  “I expect you’ll be sitting here for quite a while,” Tubby told his client. “Say as little as possible to the good officers. Maybe they’ll let you go, but I doubt it. I’ll go and see if I can divine their intentions.”

  Tubby walked back to where a number of policemen were inspecting Frenchy Dufour’s corpse. They had located another witness, a tiny man who had seen something from the grimy window of a nearby storefront.

  “It was three Vietnamese dudes,” the man said excitedly. They were hanging around on the street when he drove up. I bet they grabbed him when he got out of his car, and Ughhh…!” He made a strangling sound and squeezed his neck to demonstrate.

  “Tell me what happened?” a cop asked. “Did you see it? Was there a fight?”

  “No, I didn’t see it. The phone rang and I went back to work. But it must have happened fast. He woulda’ had no chance. No chance at all. They woulda’ ganged up on him and did him in. It was over like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that,” he repeated.

  “Did you get a good look at them?”

  “I can’t tell ’em apart, but I do know they was Vietnamese. And all of ’em was wearing shiny suits.”

  “What about their car? Did you see their car?”

  The witness thought for a second.

  “No,” he said shaking his head. “I was working inside. I don’t know how they got here or where they went.”

  Tubby walked away from the interrogation. He wanted to look at the body on the ground, the stranger with a hole in his chest who had tried to shoot him. Mathewson was writing something down.

  “Who is he?” Tubby asked the cop.

  “License in his wallet says ‘José Guerrero’. He has a submachine gun in the back seat. Why would he want to pop you?” the detective asked.

  Tubby looked at the body. Yes, he thought, I do know you, José.

  “I don’t have any idea why,” Tubby said. “Don’t you think that man had his hands up when you plugged him?”

  Mathewson snapped his head back and forth once, as if to clear it. Suddenly he laughed. “We don’t even have to plant a gun.” He pointed to the exotic sniper rifle protruding from underneath the body.

  Tubby gazed at the sky, gathering dusk, and inhaled the exhaust from a dozen police vehicles, motors all idling, lights all flashing. Like Mardi Gras, he thought, without any of the gaiety or the glitter.

  “How about letting Spooner go?” he asked the cop. “He didn’t kill anybody.”

  “On this street, maybe,” Mathewson said. “He’s carrying an axe, that’s for sure, and I’m taking him in for questioning about the other two murders. He’s also got an unregistered gun in the glove compartment of that Caddy.”

  One item had been bothering Tubby. “How did you happen to show up here, Adam?” he asked.

  “I followed you from outside your house. This guy…” he indicated the corpse with the toe of his shoe, “…was on your tail, just like I was.”

  Tubby went to inform Angelo that the police were going to keep him in custody. “I’ve told them that I insist on being present when they question you,” he explained. “If they ask you to say anything before I get there, just say you demand to speak with your lawyer.”

  “Then it’s a deal?” Angelo asked hopefully. “You’re going to front for me on all this stuff?”

  Tubby nodded. “At least for the time being.”

  He left the scene that way, but his mind was working as he headed home. Mathewson, it seemed, had nailed one of the culprits who had beaten Professor Oliver Prima. Tubby ought to tell the policeman about the outdoor barbeque, but he was afraid to supply Cisco’s or anyone else’s name under these excited circumstances. It might be bad for the young man’s health. And he had had enough of Mathewson for one day. It was supposed to mean something if you killed a man.

  He thought about tying one on when he got home, but he had already committed to give up drinking for what was left of Lent.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  “I told you they couldn’t do it,” the Night Watchman told Father Escobar. “All that fool José accomplished was to get himself shot and killed by the police. Now the cops will try to do away with the whole little nest of them.” Saving him the trouble.

  “Paul, listen to me. If they go, we have no next generation,” the priest cried. “No one will be left to carry on the flag.”

  “Not true, Father. It just means we’ll have to recruit outside of the blood line.”

  “You’re so ready to do that because you’re not Cuban.”

  “My mother was.”

  “A Fort Lauderdale Cuban,” Escobar said with disdain.

  Kronke shrugged it off. He had heard this crap before. “Okay. But maybe I’m like my Christian namesake, the Apostle Paul, also a convert. Did you ever think about that, Father? I’m spreading the good word to a whole new flock. You must recognize by now that the problem is a lot bigger than Cuba. There are a lot of strong, purposeful men out there who, given arms, money and inspiring leadership can remake America and take our fight for individual freedom forward to a big win.”

  “Inspiring leadership? Look at how old I am!”

  “That’s bull. Every movemen
t needs a hero leader to look up to. We have your old speeches. You don’t even have to make new ones. We can find others to do that.” You could even be dead, Kronke thought, and we could still use you.

  “Let me consider what you’re saying. I’m tired now.”

  “That’s fine. Get your rest. I’m going to take all the necessary steps.”

  The thought of action brightened Father Escobar’s eyes. “What steps?” he asked.

  “First I’m going to clean up the boys’ mess and eliminate that lawyer Dubonnet. Then I’ll introduce you to the real men of the future.” Kronke had a whole list of them in his head. A bunch were on the police force.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Nordie Magee still had friends on the force, and he knew about the unfortunate demise of Frenchy Dufour almost before the cops on the scene did. He concluded that it was time for a complete bail. The entire Frenchy Dufour project had been a disaster from day one. There were a few bucks in his pocket, but bottom line, Nordie needed to erase this one from his resume and find a new professional situation.

  It would have to be a deal where he could bring his guy along with him. Gums might be a nut case, but he was as faithful as an August day in New Orleans was long. And Gums had a sister with long, skinny legs who thought Nordie with his Elvis sideburns hung the moon. Keeping his team intact was paramount.

  It didn’t take long, working the phones, to connect with an old acquaintance who ran swamp tours out in the East where the tourists got a charge out of seeing big scaly alligators swallow itty-bitty marshmallows. His friend was having a problem. Duck hunters were disturbing the solitude of the marsh, scaring the reptiles off, and jarring the customers. It was a very appealing proposition. Working out in nature, away from the city streets would be very nice. Nordie and his last man could clear out those duck hunters in no time.

  And the best part, a personal perk, was that it would be good for the birds. Nordie had always been a big fan of birds.

  * * *

  Even without Tubby’s help, Detective Mathewson found Cisco. The police showed up at the young man’s ranch-style duplex in Lake Vista just as Cisco was about to leave for a mid-week check-in with Father Escobar.

  “What do I know?” Cisco told the officers. “José was just a friend of the family. Maybe a little crazy about guns. I have no idea why he would try to kill some lawyer.”

  Professor Oliver Prima? Cisco had never heard of him. And he had a beautiful alibi for the time when Prima was being assaulted. In fact he had been handing out trophies in front of a hundred kids and their parents at an elementary school soccer tournament off of Florida Boulevard way up in Baton Rouge. He knew friends who would so attest.

  “I know what you dumb kids are up to,” Mathewson barked into Cisco’s ear. “I just can’t figure out how you killed Frenchy Dufour.”

  The blood drained from Cisco’s face, and he backed away.

  Mathewson shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said to his men.

  After the cops left Cisco shivered and had trouble locking the door. He shed a tear about Jose and wondered what else could go wrong?

  His phone beeped in his pocket. It was Father Escobar.

  “I thought you would be here by now,” the priest said on the phone. “Where are you?”

  Cisco sighed. “Father, I’m on my way. I just got delayed by a stupid interview with some policemen. I will tell you about it as soon as I get there.”

  “Policemen? That doesn’t sound good. Just get here quickly. But I don’t want to sit around talking today. I want you to take me to see the treasury.”

  “You mean…?”

  “Yes, I mean the Rosary Box. I just want to see what’s in it.”

  “Father?”

  “Yes, and I’m going to bring with me a man you know, Officer Paul Kronke.”

  “The Night Watchman?”

  “Hush, Cisco,” the priest said. “Don’t forget security.”

  * * *

  A pastor named Randy Esop Horton called Tubby, and though he wouldn’t explain his business on the phone, Tubby invited the preacher to venture downtown to the Place Palais building. To his surprise the lawyer recognized the big man when he was ushered in. He had seen him before loitering on the sidewalk outside of French Dufour’s office on the day Tubby had passed by on his way to the Blue Crab for lunch.

  Wearing a checkered suit the man looked like he might prosper preaching on television. He was wearing white socks and pink golf shoes. In his hands he clutched an alligator skin attaché case.

  Tubby rose to shake his hand. “Good to see you again, Rev. Horton,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  Horton took the offered chair.

  “Coffee?” Tubby inquired.

  “No, thanks. Had plenty.”

  “We’ve met before,” Tubby said.

  “Yep. And you gave me your card. That’s how I knew where to find you.”

  “You were standing there on Hennessey Street, and you told me what kind of car Frenchy Dufour had.”

  “Right. That poor man wanted to buy my business. I thought I might talk to him about it. But he wasn’t there.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  “Yes. So sad.” Horton patted his knee as if to comfort himself.

  “Your business is?”

  “At-sea cremation services. The only one in the area. Actually, we say ‘at-sea’ but it’s really done on the Lake. We lay souls to rest in nature’s own waters.”

  “Ah,” Tubby said. He made a steeple with his fingertips.

  “Indeed,” Horton said. “But let’s get down to business.” He laid his attaché case on Tubby’s wide cypress desk, where it sat.

  “I’ve been hearing about you for some time, Mr. Dubonnet,” Horton continued, leaning back.

  “Go on.” Tubby also sat back, ready to bask in the glory.

  “One of the sinners in my small flock, Carrie Mae Sunshine, has spoken very well of you.”

  Tubby controlled himself. He was happy to hear that Carrie Mae was staying below radar and had found a spiritual home. “Quite a lady,” he remarked.

  “Yes, she is,” the reverend agreed. “And she tells me that you do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”

  Tubby nodded.

  “I don’t know any other lawyer I could say that about,” Horton continued. “So many seem only to work for whoever will give them the most shekels of silver.”

  “I do actually work for some silver,” Tubby pointed out.

  “I would expect that,” Horton said, “and here’s what.” He reached forward and unsnapped his case. It popped it open for Tubby to see.

  Inside was a pleasingly arranged display of green hundred-dollar bills in neat compact packs.

  Tubby cleared his throat, as one does before addressing a grave matter.

  “That’s some money, yes, sir,” he commented.

  “Yes, it is,” the preacher agreed.

  “How much is it?” Tubby asked.

  “Exactly $250,000 in twenty-five tidy packages. Pretty, ain’t they?”

  “Oh, yes. Very pretty.”

  “I need your help investing it.”

  Tubby’s eyes narrowed. He rubbed his chin.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “A lifetime of toil,” Horton said.

  “Why me?”

  “I judge men quickly, and I’m rarely wrong.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not a financial consultant. I could recommend one. There’s a Jerry Molideaux…”

  Horton held up his hand. “I’d like to hire you to give me advice when I need it. I want you to take this, as a retainer you might say.”

  “I’d have to put it in my trust account,” Tubby said, almost to himself. “It wouldn’t earn you any interest. The government would have notice of the cash deposit.”

  “I don’t give a hootin’ holler about any of that,” Horton said. “It’s been under the mattress in my boat. ‘Trust account’ has a very nice ring to it, si
r.”

  “Maybe there’d be a way to move some of it into an escrow account where you could earn some interest, but it wouldn’t be much.”

  “I’m not so worried about that either. I don’t think the money will need to stick around for too long.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll be looking for a place to invest it. Maybe in another boat.”

  A light bulb went off in Tubby’s head. “How about a bar?”

  “I’m not opposed to bars. Of the right sort. But I have no interest in any venture that isn’t run by honest people and doesn’t make money.”

  “Well, since we’re just jawboning about it, I do know of a potential investment in the tavern business.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A friend of mine has a bar on St. Claude Avenue and is looking to expand.”

  “That’s the wrong side of town.”

  “Not any more, Reverend Horton. Not anymore. And the owner is a saint among sinners.”

  * * *

  Tubby went to the new sheriff’s new jail to meet with his client. The recently constructed visiting room for attorneys smelled a lot better than the old one had, but the layout was basically the same. Lawyer and inmate talked to each other through a steel wall and a solid plane of bullet-proof glass.

  “Howya doin’?” he asked the fat prisoner, attired in an orange jumpsuit, who was seated in an orange plastic chair, under a camera, on his side of the room.

  “Don’t ask.” Angelo had to talk on a hand-held phone, which crackled in Tubby’s ear.

  “Food?”

  “Bad.”

  “Sleep?”

  “It’s getting better. I would like to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “The police have two axe murders that they have you pinned for. You had the axe. They’ve sent it off to the lab.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Can I see Aimee?”

  * * *

  Tubby barged into Mathewson’s cubicle at the District Police Station.

  “He’s not confessing to anything,” he told the detective. “And he isn’t giving me any information. Let him see his girlfriend. She knows hell from high water, and maybe she can talk some sense into him.”