by Tony Dunbar
“I guess,” Flowers replied. “I’ve got my man, Jackson, watching LaRue’s house, which turns out to be his mother’s house. There’s a nurse at the old folks home who promised to beep me if LaRue shows up there again.”
“Just let me know when you find him.”
“What will we be doing then?” Flowers, always curious, inquired.
“I’m going to try to arrange a meeting with him and talk him into leading me to his boss.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.” Tubby leaned back in his leather chair and stared at the painting behind Flowers’s head. “I’ll have to think up something that appeals to his nature.”
“Might be better to break his legs first.”
“That’s a possibility. LaRue trusts me just a little bit though, from the last time we met. When he kidnapped me, I led him to believe I might be somewhat crooked. A lot of the loot from his bank robbery was never recovered. LaRue may think I ended up with it. If I did, he’d be really impressed with me.”
“But you actually didn’t.”
Tubby smiled and shook his head. A lady tourist named Marguerite Patino had managed to get out of town with a sack of Krugerrands, diamonds, and Rolex watches that LaRue and his men had stolen from the safe-deposit vault at First Alluvial Bank. More power to her.
“It’s not my business, Tubby, but why don’t you just turn LaRue over to the police?”
“How am I gonna turn him in? You don’t even know where he is. But even if you did, most of the witnesses against him are dead or way out of state. I’m sure he has a convincing alibi, and the people he works for are powerful enough to manipulate the police and the court system.” Truth was, the police were tired of hearing Tubby’s theories about a crime czar.
“That’s a hypothesis?” Flowers asked.
“That’s my working assumption,” Tubby said firmly. “There’s some sick, dangerous mind, some menacing force, at the core of our city. That’s what I want to root out, Flowers.”
“Whew,” The detective gently lowered his pen. He wasn’t positive, but he thought Tubby was serious. “That’s a very tall order. Usually I just bust people for cheating on their wives.”
Tubby studied Flowers’s face to see if he was being cute, but all he got back was that wide-eyed innocent stare.
“Yeah, well you got to do something with your life,” the lawyer said. “You can’t just steal widows’ pensions and get criminals off all the time.”
“So we’re going to do good?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Tubby tried not to smile. “There may be a way to make some money out of it.”
“You’re the boss. If you want to clean up the city, sounds like kicks to me.”
“The first step is to find LaRue. Again.”
“I’ll find him. He has stung my professional pride.”
“God help him, then.”
Flowers got up, and Tubby followed him out. He had a Judge Hughes campaign meeting to go to— another investment in good government.
He would cash it in one day.
CHAPTER XVI
The Al Hughes Campaign was excited to locate its cochairman. A meeting of the entire brain trust was scheduled for that very afternoon in the Fellowship Hall of Reverend Weems’s St. Pious the Third Church. Although frazzled by his emergence from the alcohol-based cocoon in which he had dwelled for the past month, Tubby promised to be there.
The aging brick edifice of the St. Pious the Third Church rose high above the slate roofs of the shotgun houses on Orleans Avenue. Many of the residences needed paint. A stray dog investigated the dented trash cans on the sidewalk. But the church itself glowed with respectable prosperity.
New black asphalt covered the parking lot, the lines freshly painted yellow. The first half-dozen spaces were reserved, according to neatly printed signs stuck in the flowery border, for the pastor, the associate pastor, the music director, the chairman of the deacon board, the church secretary, and the custodian. The lot was half full, and Tubby saw Deon trotting up the concrete steps to a solid metal door, open at the side of the building. He followed and entered the long pea-green hallway festooned with children’s drawings in time to see the campaign manager huddle with Reverend Weems beneath the framed portrait of a brown-skinned Jesus. He could not hear what they were saying, but his “Good morning, gentlemen,” caused the Reverend Weems to jump.
“Mr. Dubonnet, so good to see you, so good to see you,” the reverend said warmly and clasped the lawyer’s hand in both of his own. He pumped heartily. “Go right into our meeting room. Have some coffee, and we’ll be underway shortly.”
Judge Hughes, three men whom Tubby did not know, and Kathy Jeansonne, a newspaper reporter, were standing around a silver urn swapping jokes and grinning like crocodiles. He went to join them.
There were hellos and introductions all around, and Tubby shook hands with Lewis Pardee of the political action group COMP, Amadee Nesterverne from DINERO, and Johnny Papaya “from the mayor’s office.”
“And I know this lady. How are you, Kathy?”
“Fine, Tubby.” The tall redhead eyed him suspiciously. Tubby did not usually call her a lady. “I look forward to working with you,” she managed.
“What?” he asked in surprise. “Aren’t you still with the Times-Picayune?” Jeansonne had on occasion reported unfavorably on Tubby’s clients, and he had, in the spirit of revenge, fed her irresistible tidbits of misinformation.
“I took a leave of absence to work as press liaison on the campaign,” she explained.
“Reporters can do that?” he asked, but her answer was cut off when Reverend Weems and the campaign manager joined the party. Judge Hughes suggested that everyone find a chair and get down to business.
“Ahem,” the Judge began from his place at the head of the table. “Deon, why don’t you take us away.”
“Greetings everybody,” Deon told the room, his eyes fixed on a pile of notes. “Since our last meeting, which most of you were able to attend”— he shot a significant glance at Tubby— “we have made steady progress. We have identified those sectors of the community where we must target our greatest efforts, and we have begun to build our war chest. Brother Pardee, maybe you and Brother Nesterverne can report on the efforts to secure the endorsements of your respective political organizations.”
Brother Pardee, a gentleman in his thirties with a well cut, three-piece black needle-striped suit of admirable fabric, gold rings, and wristwatch, and a face as smooth and brown as a chestnut, looked troubled when he said that no firm decision had yet been made by COMP (Communities Organized for Maximum Progress). In fact, he expected a tough fight from certain forces within the organization who supported the judge’s opponent, Benny Bloom.
“What’s it going to take for the COMP endorsement?” Deon wanted to know.
“I’d say about six thousand dollars.”
Tubby woke up.
“The regular contribution is five thousand dollars for city races,” Pardee continued, “but where there’s some opposition within the organization I estimate that an extra thousand dollars will be needed to smooth the wrinkles away.”
“I guess we all knew this race wouldn’t be cheap,” Deon said. “Okay, Brother Nesterverne, how are your people looking?”
“Our executive board met last night,” said the slight gray man with a wispy goatee, whose hands waved constantly in the air while he spoke, smoothing ruffled feathers. “I was able to bring the vote around to Judge Hughes— unanimously, I might add.”
There was polite applause around the table. DINERO (Dollars Invested in New Orleans Region Only), as everyone knew, was one of the largest grassroots organizations in the parish— fully capable of flooding the streets with campaign workers on election day who could wave signs at motorists, stuff leaflets into mailboxes and under windshield wipers, and drive old ladies and drunkards too weak to walk to the polls.
“What’s the cost?” Deon asked.
; “The organization is requesting a contribution of ten thousand dollars,” Nesterverne said solemnly.
Tubby whistled, and everybody looked at him.
“That’s a lot of money for one poor judge to raise,” Hughes said woefully. “I could see that much if I were running for district attorney or sheriff, but not for judge.”
“The expected contribution for the sheriff’s race is twenty thousand dollars,” Nesterverne said, sticking to his guns, sculpting feather pillows with his hands.
“What do you say?” The judge looked at Deon.
“Eighty-five hundred would be more like it,” his campaign manager said sourly.
“Amadee,” the mayor’s representative spoke up for the first time, “you guys are getting too expensive. See if DINERO won’t come onboard, and I mean full stroke, for eighty-five hundred. If not, get your chairman to call me, and we’ll see what can be worked out with my discretionary fund.”
“Glad we’re all on the same team,” Tubby said. “How much do I get?” There were a few chuckles around the table, but not from the mayor’s man.
“Your job is the giving, not the getting,” Deon said. “Here’s a list of all the members of the Bar the judge wants to tap for support. Most were with him the last time around. You can add as many more names as you can think of. All will be contacted by mail, and some by phone, to solicit their endorsements and plan receptions, etcetera.”
“I could put on a crawfish boil in my yard,” Tubby suggested.
“Swell idea,” Deon responded.
“We’d have lots of beer, and corn on the cob, and boiled potatoes and mushrooms. I could grill some smoked sausage and maybe even some oysters.”
“I believe I’ll attend that party,” the Reverend Weems boomed.
“I project a media budget of two hundred seventy-five thousand dollars,” Kathy Jeansonne broke in, deflating the conversation.
“Holy smokes!” Judge Hughes exclaimed. He rocked back so far in his chair that he nearly tipped over.
“Want to break that down for me, Kathy?” Deon interjected.
“Sure. I recommend emphasis in three areas. First is yard signs. Five thousand signs at three dollars apiece is fifteen thousand dollars. Second is black radio. A ten-second spot and a thirty-second spot played with increasing frequency on gospel, soultrain, and rap programs on the five radio stations that target the African-American audience equals thirty-five thousand dollars. Third is television. A thirty-second ‘positive’ ad, which we begin three weeks before the election, and a thirty-second ‘response’ ad to smear dirt on our opponent, in response to whatever attack he makes on us, which we will blanket the airwaves with during the final four days. Cost— two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Damn, ’scuse my French, pastor, but I’m not running for governor.”
“With all due respect, Judge, the last governor’s race cost the major candidates over four million dollars. What I’m projecting is the minimum amount needed to win at the parish level. You can bet Benny Bloom is seeing these same figures. And look at it this way, it’s only about five dollars for each vote you’ll need to get elected.”
“You might get better results just handing out five dollar bills,” Tubby suggested.
“You can’t hardly get ’em for five dollars anymore, Mr. Dubonnet,” the mayor’s man said sadly.
“And that’s not legal,” Kathy fumed.
“Of course,” Tubby said quickly, “I was just kidding.”
The gentlemen from COMP and DINERO were both studying the ceiling.
“What makes you think Benny Bloom is going to be attacking me, anyway?” Judge Hughes asked, a doleful expression on his round face.
“Because you’re the incumbent, and that’s how it’s done,” Jeansonne said in a tone sometimes used to send five-year-olds to the corner. “And in this case his media consultant is Bridges and Madison. They’re famous for attack ads.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” the mayoral representative said. “They worked for us in the last election. They’re nasty guys.”
“Better be prepared then,” Deon said. “Part of Miss Jeansonne’s job is research, and she has already begun digging up the, let’s say, unpleasant facts about Mr. Bloom’s career.”
“Yes, according to his ex-wife…”
“Please,” said Judge Hughes. “I’d rather discuss this somewhere else.”
“Right,” said Jeansonne and snapped her notebook shut.
“Thank you,” Deon said. “We may have to tweak that media budget somewhat and see if we can trim some fat. But it gives us all a target to work toward. Mr. Papaya, can you give us any kind words from the Mayor?”
“The judge has the mayor’s blessings, and he will be on the mayor’s ticket. Barring unforeseen circumstances, our people will be out there in force on election day, pushing the ticket.”
“What unforeseen circumstances?” Tubby asked.
“If I knew, they wouldn’t be unforeseen,” Papaya said.
Good answer, Tubby thought.
Judge Hughes let out a belly laugh. “No comeback for that one,” he said. “Does that about wrap it up? I’ve got a banquet to go to.”
“I believe we’ve got it,” Deon said. “Reverend Weems, will you give us the benediction?”
CHAPTER XVII
Daisy began her search for the nameless killer with the hooded eyes by connecting up with the mob. It was easy. An acquaintance of hers from the Tomcat Inn, who was in the same line of work, knew the telephone number of a guy named Courtney, whom she described as a white pimp. He collected cash from the girls twice a week as a licensing fee for being permitted to stand out on Airline Highway with their dresses hoisted up to their panty lines. Daisy went to the pay phone outside of the Taco Bell and tried the number. She got voice mail.
“Hello. My name is Daisy. I’m trying to reach Courtney. I want to start work tonight. Call me at this number right away.” She recited the number on the pay phone.
She was halfway through her Tostado Supreme, sitting on the grass, when the phone rang.
“This is Daisy,” she said to the smoke-scented handset.
“Do I know you?” It was a man’s voice, husky.
“Yeah. I’m the Daisy stays at the Tomcat Inn. Where do I sign up?”
“You the Daisy that was there a week or so ago? There was an incident.”
She almost choked. “Yes. That’s me,” she whispered. She knew the voice now. It belonged to the man who had put the arm on her, who had acted surprised when his partner blew Charlie away.
“What are you up to, lady?”
“I ain’t up to nothing. I need to work, don’t I? You don’t want to talk to me, fine, but don’t give me no more trouble either.”
“I’ll talk to you. Be at your room at nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be outside my room. We can talk in the fresh air.”
“Okay, but don’t pull no shit.”
“Same to you,” she said and hung up.
* * *
Daisy was sitting on the curb outside Room 119 at the Tomcat Inn, swatting mosquitoes, when Courtney drove up in his Cadillac Seville. She felt herself starting to flip out when she saw the car, but she pinched her thighs hard to stay in control. Courtney was alone, and he sat by himself in the big car for a minute, looking around.
Apparently satisfied, he climbed out and sniffed the air. He was a big man with broad shoulders, and his tan blazer threatened to pop a seam. He had on jeans and penny loafers and a heavy gold bracelet on his wrist.
Daisy did not get up when he sauntered over, just watched him steadily and blew cigarette smoke in the air.
“Hey, Daisy,” he said, thumbs in his belt. He took off his sunglasses to polish them on the sleeve of his jacket, and she saw that his eyes were like crowder peas with woolly caterpillars crawling over them.
“Hello,” she replied and snuffed her cigarette out in a crack in the concrete.
“You wanna talk inside?
” he asked.
“No. Here.”
He breathed loudly but then sat down beside her, his knees at a level with her nose.
“You called me,” he pointed out.
“Your name is Courtney?”
He shrugged.
“Never mind. I need to go back to work, and I don’t want any more trouble.”
“If you want to stay out of trouble,” Courtney explained, “you’ve got to be part of the organization. The whole city is that way now. You can’t be a independent anymore, not around here.”
“Okay, so what do I have to do?”
“Somebody will come by every day at a time I tell you and collect a hundred dollars. You’ve got to pay it. If you want to do extra work, like a private party, you can call me on a phone number I’ll give you, and I’ll tell you what the deal is. If somebody places a special order and you fit the bill, or if we need an extra girl, we’ll call you. In that case, you drop what you’re doing— or who you’re doing— and get ready. The pay is good for special jobs. If you want to get on the A list, you have to get tested for AIDS. You can go down to the blood bank and try to give blood. They’ll test you. Some like a girl to be clean. Some don’t give a shit.”
“What if I don’t have a hundred dollars a day?”
Courtney put his glasses back on.
“Then you get off the street and don’t come back. It would be better for you to leave town.”
She nodded and watched the trucks roar past on Airline Highway.
“About the other time,” Courtney said. “Things got out of hand.”
Daisy couldn’t speak. A tear formed in her eye.
“Anyway, you won’t be seeing that guy again.”
“Why?” she asked sharply. “Has he gone somewheres?” Finding the guy who had pulled the trigger on Charlie was the whole point.
“No, he’s around. He’s just doing other things.”
“Okay.” She was relieved.
“Now, let’s go in your room and have a little toot and, uh, consummate our understanding.”
“Fuck off,” she said, standing up. “I’ve got to go to work.” She walked off toward the highway. She just wanted to be away from him.