by Tony Dunbar
“Yeah,” Vodka began. He took the toothpick and stuck it behind his ear. Then he changed his mind and started to clean his fingernails with it. He shot the lawyer a quick glance then threw the toothpick away. “You gotta realize this,” he resumed. “You came to me with information about a crime, the cold-blooded murder of an ex-cop named Kronke right down by the river, and it sort of sounded like the start of a confession. That was bogus, right?” His eyes searched Tubby’s and found them sad.
“Then I get a call from some sheriff over in Mississippi,” Vodka resumed, “Strutmeyer, or something like that, was his name…”
“Stockstill,” Tubby informed the cop without inflection.
“Right. Sheriff Stockstill. About a murder over there. Somebody you knew. And they let you off. You had nothing to do with that one, right?”
“Right.”
“So now we got six dead people who were slashed up pretty bad. And here you are.”
“Were they all in the same room, or all over the house?”
“Funny you should ask. They were all in the same room.”
“So, somebody had to get them together. The victims must have had some reason to assemble with the killer. Or maybe there were several killers who forced them all to get together.”
“Those are two possibilities.”
Vodka’s partner, Daneel, leaned over. “How many killers were there, in your personal opinion?” he asked the suspect.
Tubby feigned annoyance. “I haven’t a clue. I read about this in the papers, officer. Last night, or whenever this happened, I was at home in bed.”
“It was last night, about nine o’clock,” Daneel said, though Vodka frowned at giving that out. “So, can somebody back you up on that?”
Tubby’s thoughts went back to visions of Peggy O’Flarity, whose shoulders he might have been rubbing at about that time. “Yes. I can tell you her name if you need it. We were together most of the night.”
“I never trust these girl-boy alibis,” Daneel said.
Tubby laughed in his face. “Get real, man,” he said. “We’re not youngsters. She had to call her kids, and you can establish the time. I had a call from one of mine, possibly at nine o’clock. You can trace all that. We grown-up people don’t have private moments. I wasn’t anywhere near the French Quarter, and I don’t have a thing against any Sultans or their attendees, or whatever you care to call them.”
Daneel backed off. Vodka stroked his light beard and looked thoughtful.
Tubby took the chance to throw in a question. “What were they killed with?”
“A knife or a sword,” Vodka said absently.
“Was it found?”
“No. There was plenty of cutlery around there, but… no.”
“Were the wounds to a specific area on all of them?”
“Not really. But that’s enough information for you. I want those documents about the Sultan and his harem right away. Like today.”
“Okay. It may be tomorrow, but you’ll get them.”
Tubby stood up. Nobody stopped him, so out the door he went.
* * *
It was almost three in the morning when Raisin got back to his apartment. He had been carousing a little, listening to some late music at Le Bon Temps and playing a few games of pool. He had slight difficulty tapping the right combination into his door lock. On achieving success, he stumbled directly to his bedroom and plunked down to take off his shoes. Under the sheet, there was someone’s leg.
“Yo, dude!” he exclaimed and shot back to his feet. In the moonlight coming through the window, he made out Jenny’s yellow hair on the pillow. How the hell did she get in here? he wondered. Did she slide under the door? Had he told her the front-door combination?
Raisin flipped on the lights and shook her shoulder.
“Hey, Jenny. Wake up.” At last she got up on her elbows and rubbed her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, catching his breath.
“Where is this?” She looked around the room. “I’ve been here before,” she decided.
“Yeah. My apartment. I’m Raisin. Remember me?”
She nodded. “I need a place to stay,” she said, and yawned.
“What’s wrong with your apartment?”
“I can’t go there. I’m in hiding.”
Raisin didn’t like the sound of that. “From what?” he demanded.
Her head plopped back onto the pillow.
“Bad, bad people,” she mumbled. “And I fixed ’em good.”
Snoring lightly, she was gone.
Raisin shook her shoulder some more, but Jenny was out.
He went to the kitchen and poured himself a beaker of water to clear his head.
Finished, he returned to the bedroom and grabbed a blanket from the closet. He slid the pillow from under sleeping beauty’s head. She moaned softly.
Carrying this makeshift bedroll, Raisin exited his apartment, more awake than when he had arrived. On the way out the door he re-set the combination lock. If she ever left, at least she might not be able to get back in.
Grumpily, he made his way to the garage and the cramped seat of his diminutive borrowed automobile.
She was gone when he came back in the morning.
CHAPTER 20
Clancy’s Restaurant wasn’t crowded yet, but it was very noisy. Nothing new there. Since it was only six o’clock, very early by New Orleans standards, Peggy and her date were directed to a table on the main floor and didn’t have to work their way past the small crowded bar, which had been jammed with imbibers since mid-afternoon. In fact, there was space to stretch out around their table and a waiter who wanted to bring them whatever they needed.
“Would you like a cocktail?” Tubby offered.
“Let me look at the wine list first,” she said.
“I’ll have an Old Fashioned,” Tubby told the waiter.
“Shall I get that while the lady makes up her mind?”
Peggy was taking a deep breath and surveying her surroundings.
“Yes,” Tubby said. The waiter went away.
“It’s been a couple of years since I was here last,” she commented. “It looks just about the same.”
“It’s been awhile for me, too. Did you notice Archie?”
Her eyes focused. “Where is he?”
He raised a finger off the white linen tablecloth to point discreetly. The football great and solid citizen of the Big Easy was with family a couple of tables away.
She tried to look over her shoulder without being too obvious.
Catching a glimpse, she sighed, “You know, I visited Ole Miss when he was the quarterback, and he was so dreamy.”
Tubby was sorry he had mentioned it.
“They used to always have nice pork chops, and great fish, of course,” he said to change the subject.
The waiter reappeared and Peggy ordered a Bonneau du Martay White Burgundy. “Bring us the bottle,” Tubby said, and the waiter gave him a huge smile.
“I’m not sure we’ll drink all that,” Peggy remarked.
“Well, we’re celebrating.”
“Really? What are we celebrating?” She leaned back while another waiter brought them bread.
“I don’t know. Getting through a lot of harrowing adventures. Like you getting almost run off the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway last fall and living to tell about it.”
“That was certainly a big one,” Peggy agreed. The wine came, and Tubby had it poured into her glass. His Old Fashioned appeared.
“A toast to you. A survivor.” He raised his glass. She did the same, and they clinked. Tubby was avoiding any mention of the Sylvester murder.
More diners arrived and quickly filled the waiting tables. The volume of voices rose dramatically.
“But why do you say we are through all that?” Peggy asked. “It was months ago, but don’t you suppose that somebody tried to hurt me on purpose? Didn’t you say as much?”
“I believe that’s over.” Tubby’s
voice was rising. “I think I’ve taken care of that.” Paul Kronke, the retired cop who had intimidated both Peggy and Tubby, was now in the ground.
“What did you say?” she yelled.
“Come closer.” They each leaned over the table, heads nearly touching above the candle. “The danger to you has been taken care of,” he shouted.
“Was it the murder of that woman in Mississippi that ended the threat against me?”
“Faye’s death?” Tubby was confused. “No, that’s entirely separate.” But was it? He started to wonder.
“So, what happened to make me safe again,” Peggy asked, “when four months ago somebody was trying to kill me?”
The waiter reappeared. “Are you ready to order?” he inquired loudly.
“Yes,” Tubby said, while she said, “No,” at the same time.
Obligingly, the waiter left.
“We lawyers can make problems go away. We have our tricks!” he yelled.
Otherwise, nobody could hear a word.
“They must be good ones,” she mouthed at him.
To be absolutely sure that the threat to Peggy had really gone away, Tubby needed one more thing. He needed to hear it from Detective Mathewson, the scariest man who had ever invited Tubby to be his friend. The intentions of the tough ex-cop, with anger management issues, were still an unknown, but Tubby didn’t tell this to Peggy.
“Here comes our waiter again,” he warned. She gave the menu a quick once-over.
“I think I’ll have the Oyster and Artichoke Gratin and the Baby Drum, sautéed,” she announced.
“Excellent choice, ma’am,” he said while scribbling. “Would you care for some crabmeat with that?”
Peggy nodded.
“I’d like the Smoked Pork Loin,” Tubby volunteered, “and the Fried Oysters with Brie to start.”
She crossed her eyes at him for always ordering meat, or was it for the fried food? Was he imagining things, or was she starting to act like they were married?
The waiter went away, and Peggy eyed Tubby with a glint of humor over her wine glass. She reached across the table to touch his hand.
“The other night, after the Sultan’s party,” she said to his ear, “I realized that I have some things I ought to tell you about, too.”
“That’s not really necessary. We all have a history.”
“True, but I gave you grief about not telling me about an old affair – one that was apparently not so old.” She raised one eyebrow at Tubby, but went on. “I also had one recently that maybe I ought to mention.”
“I don’t see why. Is it over?”
“Yes, it ended abruptly. Do you remember who I was with the night we first met?”
“At Janie’s Monkey Business Bar?”
She nodded.
“I didn’t think you were with anybody. I was there with Raisin, and you were there with some girl.”
“That’s it. Her name was Caroline.”
“And?”
“And we were, uh, together for a while.”
“You mean together-together?”
Peggy blushed.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tubby said and reached for his glass. He took a thoughtful sip.
The waiter appeared with their meals, which both diners acknowledged only slightly. Disappointed, he withdrew quickly.
Peggy played with her fork. “So, there it is,” she resumed.
“Why did it end so abruptly?” Tubby asked her, ignoring his food.
“Because you came along.”
Her date looked off into space. “ ‘Like the fella once said…’ ”
“ ‘Ain’t that a kick in the head,’ ” she finished for him.
Tubby smiled at her. She smiled back.
“I don’t see it as a problem,” he said.
“You don’t?”
“I can understand something like that. I mean, women are very pretty. They’re understanding, and supportive, and probably listen to you more than men do. Hell, I love women.”
She couldn’t help herself from laughing.
“But it’s in the past, yes?” he asked.
“I’ve only got eyes for you, big boy.”
“Okay. Well, then that’s settled.”
“Thank you,” she said and looked down at her plate.
“It does give me some interesting ideas, though.” She noticed his sparkling eyes.
“You can forget them right now,” she said. “Just go ahead and concentrate on dem ersters.”
CHAPTER 21
Tubby walked into the Trumpet Lounge on Monday. The time was nearing five o’clock.
Bright lights illuminated the dart boards and video games crowded against the walls, but the bar itself was in shadows cast by the soft glow of several beer signs and a television turned to a basketball game. The sound was off. The hulking form bent in prayer over the scarred mahogany turned out to be Lt. Mathewson. Eyes closed, he was nodding off, and his lips nearly kissed the rim of his glass of dark beer.
Tubby took the empty stool next to him.
Mathewson didn’t notice this at first, but when Tubby said, “I’ll have the same as him,” he came to.
“Fuck you doing here?” the retired cop asked. He roused himself and sat up straight and belligerent.
Tubby shrugged. “Fuck yourself,” he said.
“You didn’t shoot me,” Mathewson said.
“No. I didn’t want to.” A beer showed up, and Tubby put some bills on the bar.
“You think I ought to be grateful to you for that?” Mathewson’s gruff laugh sounded like a death rattle. He found his glass of dark fluid and drained it.
“I’m just trying to put a nail in this, buddy,” the lawyer said. “Is all that over with? I mean, are we over and done? I don’t shoot you? You don’t shoot me? That’s all in the past?”
“Why? Are you worried about me?” Mathewson bared some teeth in a smile. He had a large square head and a mustache. He looked like a wounded but still-dangerous lion.
Before Tubby could answer, they were suddenly interrupted by a young man who appeared out of thin air. His black hair was slicked back, and he had on a leather vest studded with silver. He had a couple of darts in one hand. He put his other mitt protectively on Mathewson’s shoulder.
“You’re the boss,” he said. “Whenever you say, we’re ready.” It was like a devotion, or a thinly disguised threat directed at Tubby.
“We?” Mathewson asked.
“Me and my whole fucking pack, man. We are ready like you wouldn’t believe.”
Mathewson nodded thoughtfully. He ignored the youth and locked his eyes on Tubby’s. “Over, it ain’t,” he hissed.
“Then I should have shot you when I had the chance,” Tubby said and finished his beer. “Have fun with your little boyos.” He sneered at the dart player, who opened his mouth to start something, but the big lawyer walked out of the place unmolested.
So, he concluded, Mathewson was back in the game.
* * *
The short encounter with Tubby stirred up the coals in Mathewson’s brain, and he gestured to the young man to stick around.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked.
“Albert Louis. We met like ten times. Don’t you remember? The kids call you the Night Watchman.”
“Albert Louis?”
“Yeah, that’s my name.”
“I don’t remember as well as I should, my friend. But I trust you, Albert Louis. Do you know a young fellow named Cisco Bananza?”
“Sure. We was all together when you was introduced by the priest, Father Escobar. The father told us that you were the one we needed to take orders from, with Detective Mister Kronke being deceased, and all.”
“That’s right. It’s coming back to me.” Mathewson motioned to the barmaid. He turned back to business. “Do you know where the guns are, Albert Louis?”
“No, sir. That’s been up to Cisco, and I guess you.”
“Right. I want you to get them. Now,
do you know where the money is, the treasury, or what’s called the Rosary Box?”
“No. Cisco does, and I guess Father. And you.”
“And there were some papers. The Papal Archives. Do you know about them?”
“I just heard something about those. I don’t know what they are.”
“That makes you not very special because nobody else fucking knows what they are either. But first things first. Here’s what I want you to do. Go see Cisco, and get him to turn over the guns and the money to you. By that, I mean turn it over to me. How many guys have you got?”
Albert Louis looked around the bar and grinned.
“If there’s some money and guns in it, I guess we’ve got five or six for sure.”
“That should be more than enough. Cisco and his bunch are all sissies. But you bring it all to me. You understand? I’ll see to it that everybody gets his share. You might have to kick some butt, Albert Louis. You heard about drain the swamp? We’re the alligators who rise out of the swamp’s mud.”
“Yes, sir. Is Father Escobar behind this, too?”
“He told you to take orders from me, didn’t he?”
“That’s what he said, the night we all took confession together.”
“Right on,” Mathewson told him and patted the back of the boy’s hand. In truth, he couldn’t remember a thing about the meeting. He must have been really drunk. Maybe he was mourning the blasting away of Detective Kronke, another man Mathewson had tried to make friends with, an anger management deal suggested by his police department shrink.
“What do we do,” Albert Louis inquired, “if Cisco, like, doesn’t want to turn over the guns or the money?”
“Then he’ll be an outlaw. You can bust his ass, dude. You have my authority to do whatever needs to be done.”
“All right. I get it.” Albert Louis beamed. “You’re our Night Watchman, ain’t that right?”
A shudder ran down Mathewson’s back. The gruesome fate of the last Night Watchman remained vivid in his otherwise clouded mind.
“Don’t ever say those words again, son. Understand? Don’t ever say them again.”
* * *
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.