5 Crime Czar

by Tony Dunbar

  “I’ll have to let you know,” she replied and kept moving until she was lost in the shadows of the oak trees that shrouded the broken sidewalk.

  So he woke up alone. It was shortly after the sun came up, when he padded barefoot downstairs to pour himself a good morning grapefruit juice, that he discovered he was not alone after all.

  “Sheez,” or something like it involuntarily escaped Tubby’s mouth when he walked into the kitchen and found Willie LaRue, cowboy hat on his head, sitting at the round table at the window, like a scene from a Greyhound station. LaRue was calmly building a stack of wooden matches.

  “You’re a late sleeper,” LaRue said. He demolished his miniature log cabin with the careless tap of his pinkie finger.

  “If I’d expected you to visit I would have gotten up lots earlier,” Tubby said, trying to get his breathing back under control and his bathrobe cord tied. Any residual sleepiness had fled.

  “I thought I might catch that whore here,” LaRue said. He sounded disappointed.

  “No, I’m here by myself.”

  “I know. I already checked.”

  Tubby went to the cupboard and found a mug. He got his pitcher of cold-drip coffee out of the refrigerator.

  “How did you get in?” he asked.

  “Backdoor.” It was disconcerting that, while LaRue’s hands stayed on the table and his body did not move, his head rotated to track Tubby around the room.

  The homeowner was depressed to see that a pane of glass had been busted out of the door. The shards were in the backyard.

  “I guess I should complain to my alarm company,” he said.

  “It’s not exactly a state-of-the-art system,” LaRue remarked.

  Tubby poured his coffee over ice and sat down at the table to face LaRue.

  “So what do you want?”

  “You tell me. You said you wanted to talk.”

  “Not to you. To your boss. Whoever put together the bank robbery, which I know was just a cover-up to steal a counterletter from one Noel Parvelle’s safe-deposit box. The purpose of your whole robbery was to get that one document to set up an oil deal. I’ve got a deal of my own, and I need a partner. I think your boss is a likely candidate.”

  “Then let’s go. He’s waiting for us right now”

  * * *

  So, twenty minutes later, Tubby was riding in LaRue’s blue Ford Taurus up Carrollton Avenue. LaRue drove with the same exterior calm and interior intensity he conveyed when he conversed, or when he attacked, as though the reactive part of his brain functioned on a precise automatic pilot.

  “No blindfold?” Tubby asked, trying to get a rise.

  No luck. LaRue’s response was a tick of his cheek that might have been one ingredient in a smile. It was just as well because Tubby needed the time to figure out what he was going to say to LaRue’s boss. That part of his plan had not yet gelled in his mind. He had been too busy fantasizing about finding the guy. When they cruised past the College Inn, where in more relaxed moments Tubby had enjoyed many a sloppy Reuben sandwich, he still had no clue about what he would say. It began to dawn on the lawyer that he might be in some danger.

  “Where are we going?” he asked when they passed under the interstate.

  “You’re going to get some breakfast.” This normally inviting sentence sounded menacing coming from a man whose pointy jaw didn’t seem to move when he talked.

  Tubby pursed his lips. He looked out the window at the familiar restaurants they were passing— Angelo Brocato’s, Lemon Grass, Jamaican, Venezia— and tried to think. How had he imagined this part when he explained things to Flowers?

  Without bothering to signal, LaRue hooked a right into the parking lot of Shoney’s in Mid-City. He put the Taurus between the yellow lines and cut the engine.

  “Are you kidding me?” Tubby demanded.

  “Time to eat,” LaRue replied, stepping into the sun.

  “I’ve never eaten here in my life,” Tubby protested, climbing out with less gracefulness than LaRue had shown.

  “Good morning. Smoking or non-smoking?” their perky waitress chirped. Tubby wrinkled his nose trying to identify the odor wafting in the chilled air. Hash browns? Lots of them.

  “We’re meeting the man sitting in the booth over there.” LaRue brushed past her. Tubby smiled and followed.

  On a plush red upholstered seat, framed by a picture window with a view of the palm trees in the parking lot, was Sheriff Frank Mulé.

  He was by himself, hand on a cup of coffee, smoking a plug of a cigar, watching their approach.

  “Oh, Mr. Mulé,” the hostess said enthusiastically, since everybody knew the sheriff. She trailed her new customers closely, carrying a pair of menus the size of checker boards.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” Tubby said. He slid into the booth across from the portly elected official. LaRue snuggled in next to Tubby.

  “Do you know how our buffet works?” the hostess asked.

  “Not now, dear,” Mulé said, waving his cigar at her.

  “I’d like to hear about it,” Tubby said, being difficult.

  “It’s all you can eat for five seventy-five. And the selection is really neat. Or you can order from the menu.”

  “The buffet is what I’ll have,” Tubby said. “What are you guys having?”

  “Just coffee,” Mulé said. LaRue nodded, looking absently out the window, meaning that coffee was all he wanted, too.

  “Well, then you just help yourself,” the hostess said, “and I’ll get your coffee.”

  “Be sure it’s all on one check,” Tubby told her. “I’m paying for everybody.”

  She left smiling.

  “Because this is my party,” Tubby concluded.

  “So, my man here tells me you’ve got something to say.”

  “Yeah, and why am I not surprised I’m saying it to you?”

  Sheriff Mulé shrugged. “So talk,” he said.

  “You know, for a long time I’ve been trying to figure out who could have enough clout to pull off the big jobs in this town and never get caught, or even investigated. Now I know.”

  “Now you think you know,” Mulé said, venting smoke. “Actually you don’t know shit.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Sheriff. I’m not putting you down. I’m saying this with admiration. Of course it has been you. When there’s drug smuggling out in Terrebonne Parish and somehow a boatload of drugs gets away, you are there. When the old mob boss Joe Caponata gets whacked, it’s the night he’s going to have dinner with you. When the safe-deposit boxes at Alluvial Bank are ripped off to camouflage the theft of one piece of paper, and so-called local investors turn that piece of paper into millions of dollars, why sure, you’re a local investor.”

  “Why are you dragging this out?” Mulé asked. “I’m very busy.” He squashed his cigar on a saucer.

  “I’m just figuring a lot of things out. But it doesn’t matter. Here’s the deal. Is it okay if he hears?” Tubby pointed at LaRue.

  “Rue, go over there and have a seat.”

  Whether LaRue liked it or not, he didn’t show. He slid out of the booth and moved to a table nearby, out of earshot, but from which he had a clear view of the back of Tubby’s head.

  “Okay, Sheriff. Have you ever watched women’s boxing?”

  “I’ve seen ’em bite and scratch each other at the jail, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, no, I’m talking about the ring. Prizefighting. Just like men.”

  “I’ve heard about it.”

  “Well, if you’ve never actually seen it, it’s an exciting sport. And it’s not just tits and ass, like you might think. It’s an organized sport. They’ve got an association and everything. The association ranks the boxers, decides who the champion is, stuff like that.”

  Mulé shrugged.

  Happy Holly returned with coffee, reminded Tubby that he could “belly up” to the buffet, and learned that everything was fine.

  Tubby leaned over conspiratorially and got clos
er to Mulé. A plan had formed in his mind.

  “Women’s boxing is going to be big. Very big. I’ve got an exclusive option to buy a franchise for Louisiana, Texas, and Mississippi. Let me explain. The cost of a franchise is reasonable, but it’s more than I can handle alone. And I need certain things arranged. Here’s what I have.” Tubby stuck out his hand and began ticking off his fingers.

  “I have the league’s option. I have the boxers. I manage the premier female fighter in Louisiana. Ever hear of Denise DiMaggio? No? Well, she’s hot. She’s all the time over at Coconut Casino in Mississippi. I’ve got a line on the perfect place to erect the arena. I’m talking first-class. Down by the river near Napoleon Avenue. And I’ve got half a million bucks.”

  Mulé smiled, the way an alley cat does when it’s got a rat’s tail in its paws. Tubby winked at him.

  “And here’s what I ain’t got, Frank. I ain’t got the other half a million I need to close the deal with the league and get up and running. And I ain’t got the site for the arena locked up. I could probably get the money somewhere else, though I figure for you, with all the stuff you’re into, it should be a piece of cake. The tougher thing is getting the property. It’s not exactly available, and it needs to become available. Seeing how you planned the bank job, and seeing who you got working for you…”— Tubby looked over his shoulder at LaRue— “I thought I’d come to you first.”

  “Where’s the property you’re talking about?” Mulé wanted to know.

  “You may be familiar with it. It’s right beside the Napoleon Avenue wharf. A company known as Export Products used to lease part of it. So did a company named Bayou Disposal. Then the Casino Mall Grande people decided it would be a great location for a gambling boat to dock. They’ve got the lease on it now. I know, because I sold the lease to them, representing Export Products. Now I want it back.”

  “How do you propose to get it back?”

  “Here’s where my intuition comes in, Sheriff.” Tubby took a sip of coffee. I should have been in theater, he thought. “I speculate that you and the casino crowd are in the same mud hole, so to speak, that you play in the same dirt, that if you tell them you want the fucking lease, they’ll give it to you. They may want a piece of the action in exchange, but hell, riverboat casinos aren’t worth what they used to be, so they’ll make a deal. And if they won’t, you’ll run them out of town.”

  “You’ve got a big mouth, Dubonnet.” Mulé’s face had turned a couple of shades redder.

  “You’re damn right, Frank. I project that as soon as the first bell rings, the arena is going to gross two hundred fifty thousand dollars per fight. That’s the gate plus the television. On top of that, you can bet the fights over the telephone to Las Vegas. And I manage the fighters, get what I mean?”

  Mulé’s beady eyes were studying Tubby. His hairy fingers beat a tattoo on the Formica.

  “It’s a cash cow, is what I’m telling you.” Tubby summed it up. “A damn erupting volcano of cash.”

  Mulé stared at him in silence.

  Abruptly he pushed his heavy behind out of the booth and stood up.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  LaRue was on his feet.

  “Tell you what,” Tubby said quickly. “Come see the girls. I can fix up a match especially for you. We’ll make it real private. If you see it, I know you’ll like it. We can talk business some more after.”

  Mulé stroked his chin.

  “When and where?” he growled.

  “Make it Friday night,” Tubby suggested. “Say, ten o’clock. You know where Swan’s Gym is, under the bridge?”

  Mulé nodded. LaRue watched in silence. His eyes said he’d like to mash Tubby’s face.

  “The night’s on me.” Tubby winked.

  The sheriff pointed a stubby finger at Tubby’s nose. “I’ll be there. If I do decide to do a deal, I’ll want to see your cash. I’ll want to see that right away.”

  Tubby opened his mouth to say more, but Mulé was threading his bulky body through the tables and was out the door. Tubby watched the two men cross the parking lot and pause to talk beside LaRue’s car. Then the sheriff went to a black Cadillac, got in, and drove away. LaRue backed out and followed him.

  Tubby got stuck with the check and had to spring for a cab to get home. On top of that, he didn’t have a half a million dollars.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The first person Tubby told was Judge Hughes.

  “Thing is, Al, I don’t believe you want to get too close to Sheriff Mulé right now. I’m going to try to take him down, and I think he’s going to fall hard.”

  They were having eggplant parmigiana and amberjack at Katie’s.

  The judge patted his lips with his napkin and studied his iced tea.

  “That’s an incredible story,” he said finally. “Tubby, I share your strong feelings about what must be done with the sheriff, of course. It would seem to me, however, that the exposé, as it were, would better wait until after the election.”

  “But, Judge…”

  “Hear me out. This is a very powerful man you’re talking about. If you bring all this up now, it will just seem like a political smear. And it might smear me, too, because the same people who have endorsed the sheriff have endorsed me, and especially because of your involvement in my campaign. I just don’t think this is the time.”

  “Well, I can’t make any promises, Al. And I’m warning you to be careful around him so you don’t get dragged under when he goes.”

  “If what you’re saying is true, Tubby…” He held up his hand to stop the protest. “If what you say is true, it is you that should be careful. You’re the one who could get dragged down. Thank you, doll,” he smiled at the waitress serving more bread. “Could we have some more butter as well?”

  “Some of the sheriff’s cronies don’t back you, Al, so that shouldn’t be a major factor,” Tubby argued. “I mean the mayor has endorsed Carlo Trapani for criminal court judge, and he’s making ads for Benny Bloom.”

  The judge’s face clouded. “That crook, Trapani, isn’t fit to wear a robe…”

  “He’s a crook?” Tubby asked.

  “For enough money he’d let any child molester or mobster you can name out of jail.” Hughes caught himself. “Now listen to me, repeating rumors. You got me sidetracked. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for the cochairman of my campaign to start slinging dirt at Sheriff Mulé the week before the election.”

  Tubby didn’t answer. He was still thinking about what Judge Trapani could do for a minor mobster like Cesar Pitillero in exchange for the right campaign contribution. If it was put to him, just right.

  * * *

  Tubby also held nothing back in his attempt to persuade detective Fox Lane, N.O.P.D. Homicide, to mount an effort to bust Sheriff Mulé. He made reservations for two at Straya on St. Charles. He knew Fox loved a fancy spread. He even offered to pick her up, but she declined.

  “I’m not sure where I’ll be,” she said. “Most likely outside of some bar taking pictures of a corpse.”

  That did not appear, however, to have been the case. She arrived, outfitted in a sleeveless black top embroidered in gold and dangling gold tassels over black leggings. Tubby had been shown to a booth facing the front and could see the eyes of other patrons following the six-foot-tall detective when she made her entrance. Tubby stood up to greet his guest. The waiter tagging behind her nodded his head with pleasure.

  “You look great,” the lawyer said admiringly. Fox was coffee-colored and from an old family, what New Orleans called Creole. Compliments had never bothered her.

  “Hello, Counselor,” she said with a smile that showed off a lot of white teeth. “You look pretty good yourself.”

  Indeed, Tubby had primped for the occasion. He was wearing a new summer seersucker he had just picked up at Perlis and had gotten his hair cut that very afternoon by the barber in the Whitney Bank. He gallantly swept his arm across the table and invited her to join him.
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  The waiter asked what they might like to drink and pulled some menus from behind his back.

  Fox ordered a glass of Merlot, Tubby an Old Fashioned.

  “Ever been here before?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve wanted to.” She looked around at the palm trees and stars cut from brightly colored aluminum. “Reminds me of the World’s Fair.”

  “Yeah, loud.”

  “Garish.”

  “Right, tacky.”

  “I like it.”

  “The menu has quite a few interesting things.” He studied the list of salads with shrimp and crisp-fried crawfish, Crescent City wraps, and Baja stir-fried vegetables. If this didn’t hook Fox, nothing would.

  “Here’s a dinner for two,” he pointed out. “Barbecued shrimp and fettuccine with Creole seasonings and lemon-butter garlic, and an oyster Rockefeller pizza. Why don’t we just get that?”

  “That’s a definite diet buster. What is it you want me to do, Tubby? Give up my job and run away to Nassau with you?”

  “Would you?”

  She smiled and accepted a glass of wine from the waiter. Tubby placed their order.

  “You’ve gotta admire a place like this that is not afraid of doing something new, that has an aggressive spirit,” Tubby began.

  “Yeah, there are a bunch of new cops like that in my district. Real virile, who do push-ups for fun.”

  “I thought that described you.”

  “Not any more.” She swallowed some wine. “Nowadays I just try to get through, not break through. You were about to tell me what the occasion is for the dinner I’m about to enjoy.”

  “Let’s just relax for a minute.”

  “Let me guess. This is to pay me back for all the times I’ve helped you out. And especially for saving you from the bank robbers in the French Quarter last Mardi Gras.”

  “You were great.”

  “So I’m right.”

  “Sure, I got a lot to thank you for, Fox, and there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

  Fox nodded. “Get it off your chest, big boy,” she said.

  “You know how, on that bank job, I kept saying there was someone else behind it, a bigger boss hiding in the woodwork— a crime czar.”