5 Crime Czar

by Tony Dunbar

  “Bad kharma,” she said and stood up.

  “You’re not going to shoot me are you?” Flowers asked.

  “I ought to,” she said and marched up to face him. She was wearing a black sweater, black jeans, and a purple scarf over her hair.

  “LaRue’s not here,” Flowers whispered.

  “I figured that out, asshole.” Daisy pushed past him.

  Flowers grabbed her arm. She tried to jerk it back, but he held tight.

  “We’re trying to keep an eye on him, lady. You sneaking around, you’re liable to get hurt or, even worse, scare him away.”

  “You mind your own business. And let go of my arm!” This time she got it loose.

  “Fuck off,” she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

  Flowers watched Daisy go down the street and wondered where she had parked her car, or if she even had a car. He thought about following her but decided against it. In any case, this particular stake-out was shot.

  Driving away, he turned on a Latin station he favored and tried to figure out how he would spend the remaining hours until dawn.

  * * *

  Tubby had been trying to maintain his sobriety, but that’s hard to do sitting in a bar drinking with a friend. Especially when you owned the bar, and when the friend had a dissolute personality.

  “It’s a corrupt town, that’s all there is to it,” Tubby griped.

  Raisin shrugged. Suddenly he pointed to the television set hanging above the bar in the corner. “Hey, look at that!”

  On the screen a train was derailing, its passengers hurled about the cars and flying out of the windows. Many lay writhing in agony on stony ground. As emergency rescue crews fought to get to the scene, a helicopter appeared overhead and a man dangling from it by a rope— a man in a three-piece suit who looked just like Benny Bloom— screamed “Let me sign you up!”

  “Benny Bloom signed up seven-hundred and eighty-three plaintiffs at the Pearl River train derailment,” the announcer said solemnly.

  Then an oil refinery blew up. The same lawyer crawled over the bodies of fallen workers, stepping on hard hats, begging, “Let me sign you up!”

  “Benny Bloom signed up one-hundred and forty-six so-called plaintiffs at the Ratco fire,” the announcer said.

  An ambulance raced down a busy highway, lights flashing. Benny Bloom ran behind it waving his briefcase and crying, “Let me sign you up!”

  “Do you want an ambulance chaser for judge?” the sober voice asked.

  “That’s pretty good,” Tubby said, watching the face of Al Hughes smile down from the bench.

  Raisin laughed soundlessly.

  “Just shows you, this is a corrupt town,” Tubby repeated, returning to his theme. “Here we got a sheriff who runs a major crime syndicate, who whacks people out with impunity, and who eats at Shoney’s, for God’s sake.”

  Raisin signaled the bartender and tapped his glass for more.

  “And nobody wants to do anything about it. Not even people he’s screwed in the past…”

  Larry, the barkeep, drifted over to place fresh glasses, already full of whiskey, in front of them both.

  “Not even the police, such as my so-called friend Detective Fox Lane. Not even that crazy Vietnamese. Not even my own goddam judge.” Tubby slapped the bar and grabbed his glass. He tossed it back. “What do you think about that?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Not a damn thing,” Raisin muttered.

  “Well that’s not very helpful, is it?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, good buddy,” Raisin said. “I think everybody’s getting a little bit sick and tired of hearing about your crime czar.” He sipped from his own cup and checked his appearance in the speckled, cloudy mirror behind the bar.

  Tubby for once was speechless.

  Raisin searched around for his pack of cigarettes.

  “Tired of hearing about it?” Tubby finally managed.

  “Crime boss, crime boss. Tubby, who really gives a wad of spit?”

  Tubby was having trouble processing this betrayal by his best fiend. The room, it seemed, was rotating. Had everyone deserted him? He failed to hear the knock on the tavern’s front door, and he did not notice Larry pressing the buzzer that would admit a new patron.

  “I really don’t know what to say,” he finally mumbled.

  “How about ‘hello’?” the lady behind him suggested.

  “Marguerite!” Tubby exclaimed. He turned to find his most recent old flame, all five-foot-six of her, beaming her blue eyes at him.

  Awkwardly, they embraced.

  “I thought I would surprise you,” she said.

  “Man, you sure did. Raisin Partlow, this is my friend Marguerite Patino I told you about.”

  Raisin sized her up. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. Marguerite was easy to look at— nice plump shape, straw-colored hair, black eye lashes. Tubby moved aside to give her a stool between the two men at the bar.

  “Are you in town for a while?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I just, you know, wanted to see New Orleans again. I called you when I got here this afternoon, but, of course, you weren’t home. So I went out and had a bad dinner. Then I remembered you had told me about Mike’s Bar, and, well, I just took a chance. And here you are.”

  “Here I am,” Tubby admitted.

  “Just in time,” Raisin said happily.

  “I hope we’ll have a chance to have some fun,” she said hopefully.

  “You bet,” Tubby said. “There’s a lot going on with me right now, but we can make some time.”

  Marguerite did not seem to mind that Tubby was already a little cross-eyed. She fanned Raisin’s smoke out of her eyes and ordered a glass of wine.

  Larry displayed the wine menu at Mike’s— both the white and the red selections came with screw-off caps— and she decided on a light beer instead.

  She and Tubby talked and started nudging and patting each other. Raisin finally got bored.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “I guess I’ll head out.”

  “Hey, it’s early,” Tubby protested.

  “I don’t feel tired,” Marguerite said.

  Raisin could take a hint and split anyway.

  “You want to go hear some music?” Tubby suggested. He had only the faintest idea where to catch a band at that time of the night. It had been years since he had thought about looking for one.

  “I’d rather go someplace quiet and maybe have a cup of coffee and talk.”

  “Sounds good to me.” He was relieved.

  Larry condescended to give them a nod when they walked out the door.

  “He’s a funny guy,” Marguerite noted. “Does he ever talk?”

  “Every few years he’ll have something to say. If he likes you. Do you have a car?”

  No, she had arrived in a cab. So they piled into Tubby’s Chrysler. He thought she smelled really nice.

  “Let’s see,” he said, starting the engine. The clock on the dashboard said 1:14. “Coffee.”

  “I guess not many places are open.”

  “Maybe at your hotel. Where are you staying?”

  “A guesthouse on the streetcar line called the Parkview.”

  “Really, that’s close to my house. But I don’t think their kitchen will be open this late.”

  “Well, haven’t you got a coffee pot?”

  Sure he did, and so Tubby took her to his house.

  “Nice place,” she remarked when he let her in the front door.

  “Thanks,” he said. He was just glad none of his kids had picked this night to hang around.

  They sat in the kitchen and decided on a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle rather than a cup of coffee.

  Marguerite told him what she had been doing for the past few months, since her hurried departure from New Orleans with a sack of stolen jewelry.

  She had succeeded in converting much of her wealth into conventional assets, including a condominium overlooking Lake Michigan and subst
antial holdings in tax-free municipal bonds. She had quit her job as a flunky for a commodities trader and pursued some personal interests. She had, for example, learned to cook— Chicago style— and taken a couple of trips. She had gone to Vail, Colorado, to ski. Now she had come to New Orleans to see what the city looked like when it wasn’t raining. And to see Tubby, of course.

  Tubby brought her up to date on the happenings in his life, the birth of a grandson, Dan Haywood’s death, and his search for the crime czar. His eyes shown brightly when he talked about that.

  “I can see it means a lot to you,” she said.

  “I think it’s the most important thing for me to do,” he explained. “And I believe I’ve built a good trap for him.”

  “But you’re short on bait,” she pointed out.

  He nodded.

  “Then I’ll help,” Marguerite said. “I’m rich.”

  “You would do that?”

  “Sure. It’s an investment. I’ll get my money back, right?”

  “That’s the idea, but it’s obviously very risky.”

  “If I’m going to put my money in, I want to know everything that’s going on.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything I do.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Tubby. I want to be there when it happens.”

  “It’s way too dangerous. These people are killers.”

  “Take it or leave it. I’m the kind of woman who keeps a close watch on her dough.”

  “Now, come on…”

  “No. You come on.”

  They went upstairs to the guest room bed.

  * * *

  They were just getting comfortable when the telephone rang. Thinking it might be one of his daughters calling so late at night, Tubby picked the receiver up.

  “I just want to know,” Daisy said, “did you nail the son of a bitch yet?” Her voice was loud. She was drunk.

  “Meaning who?”

  “The so-called sheriff.”

  “How do you know anything about Sheriff Mulé?”

  “I hear things in my line of work,” Daisy said. “It doesn’t take a genius.”

  One could take offense at that, Tubby thought. “Well, keep it quiet,” he begged her. “It looks like I’m getting close, Daisy. Very close.”

  “And when you get him, what happens to him?”

  “He loses a lot of money. That’s what really hurts a guy like him.”

  “Will it cost him his job?”

  “Maybe….”

  “Will it cost him his life?” Her voice was rising. She was getting hysterical.

  “I doubt that, but he might go to jail. If that happened he might very well be in danger.”

  “Maybe isn’t good enough.”

  “Well, I’m taking my best shot.”

  “All legal and nice, is that it?”

  “That’s right. You can’t take the law into your own hands. You’ve got to use the law, but use it for your own purposes, and…”

  She hung up.

  Tubby rolled over to look at Marguerite.

  “That’s what you think?” she asked. “You use the law for your own purposes?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, but I thought you were supposed to have higher standards.”

  “Do you? You flew out of New Orleans with a million dollars’ worth of other people’s jewelry.”

  “It was more than a million, and I never said I was perfect. I don’t have to justify myself. Do you?”

  Do I? Tubby wondered.

  She ran her hand down his stomach and he forgot the question.

  Daisy composed her face in the mirror and went back to the party in the hotel suite. The red, white, and blue banners hanging from the walls read “BLOOM FOR JUDGE. A MAN YOU CAN TRUST.”

  CHAPTER XXV

  The street in front of Swan’s Gym was deserted at night, except for a gray cat on the prowl for food. Overhead, the ramp to the Crescent City Connection droned with a steady stream of cars. It was bright up there, dark down here.

  A polished black Cadillac rolled slowly down Erato Street. It bumped gently over the curb and came to a stop on the sidewalk in front of the gymnasium. Sheriff Mulé’s henchmen got out as a group. A large man whose name was Courtney went swiftly to the dented steel door and pushed it open. A bolt of light escaped. Skinny Willard LaRue escorted the sheriff inside. The driver, Shakes, stayed with the car.

  Tubby was leaning against the ring, distractedly watching Denise DiMaggio, known as the “Bayou Babe,” spar lightly with “Black Velvet,” late of St. Gabrielle. He had been worried that Mulé might not show up. Marguerite sat on one of the cracked wooden theater seats, eyes fixed on the fighters. The lawyer turned when he heard the door open and hurried forward to greet the short sheriff and his entourage.

  “This is your million dollar operation?” Mulé asked, not pausing to shake hands.

  “Wait till you see the action,” Tubby promised. “Here, get yourself a drink.”

  He prodded the sheriff to a makeshift bar beside a red punching bag. Here, where the fighters’ 10-K and water bottles were usually stored, Tubby had arrayed a half dozen fifths of whiskey and a bucket of ice. The dashing dark-haired man tending bar was Flowers. LaRue recognized the detective and stopped short. Flowers grinned at him.

  “What will it be, gentlemen?” he asked.

  “Scotch and a splash,” Mulé grunted. “You guys get whatever you want,” he told Courtney and LaRue. He glared around the room. All of the lights were pointed into the ring where Denise, tight black shorts over a cobalt-blue body suit, was prancing around Velvet, who was outfitted in purple tights cut low at the top and high at the bottom.

  Mulé took his drink without turning his gaze from the boxers. Tubby grabbed a bourbon and told LaRue to help himself. He guided the sheriff over to the seats.

  “Relax, Sheriff. When we go big time you won’t be able to have a private exhibition like this. Unless you’re one of the owners, of course. Let me introduce you to my friend. Marguerite, this is our high sheriff, Frank Mulé.”

  “Pleased to meetcha,” Mulé said, sitting down heavily next to her. He quickly returned his attention to the ring.

  “Same here,” Marguerite said, a little annoyed.

  LaRue crossed the room and took a seat behind them. Courtney, one hand wrapped in a bandage, stayed at the bar, passing wisecracks with Flowers.

  LaRue leaned over and whispered in his boss’s ear, “I know the broad beside you.”

  Mulé shrugged.

  “Let’s see some action,” Tubby suggested loudly.

  Flowers jerked a chain and rang the bell.

  Denise and Black Velvet came out of their corners and, without much preamble, started slugging each other.

  “Ugh!” Denise grunted when a padded scarlet fist caught her in the stomach.

  “Oh!” Velvet cried when a quick uppercut found her left eye.

  Tubby had to count the holes in the ceiling tiles, as he often did when attending such sporting events. Mulé, on the other hand, watched intently, a crooked grin on his face, grinding one large fist into the palm of his other hand.

  “Quite a show,” Marguerite said.

  “You betcha!” Mulé replied.

  Velvet went down on her knees in the third round and couldn’t get up. Denise jumped around her energetically, burning off adrenaline. Flowers bounded into the ring and called the fight.

  “The winner by a knockout is the knockout, Bayou Babe!” he proclaimed, holding her gloved hand in the air.

  The victor made a few turns around the ring to vent her attitude and then helped her partner get back on her feet. Flowers parted the ropes so that the boxers could climb out. Velvet headed for the showers, but Denise slipped over to give Tubby a sweaty hug.

  “I sure recognize you, Sheriff,” she said throatily, and gave him a hug, too. “We’re so glad you could watch our show.”

  “Sweetheart, it was great.” Mulé couldn�
�t take his eyes off her cleavage.

  “You can come anytime,” she said. Denise gave him a cute wave, while Tubby cringed, and ran back to the locker room.

  “Put this in a quality facility and you’ll sell out every night,” Tubby said enthusiastically. “You won’t be able to keep network television away.”

  “Maybe,” Mulé said, eyes glistening. Tubby knew he was sold.

  “Tell me again how much investment we’re talking here,” Mulé said.

  “I put up five hundred thousand, you put up five hundred thousand,” Tubby said.

  “Where would a two-bit lawyer like you get cash like that?” Mulé was glaring again.

  Tubby pointed to Marguerite.

  From underneath her seat she pulled a large black leather handbag. She put it in her lap, smiled, and unsnapped the clasp. Her hand went inside and came out with a fistful of diamond bracelets and gold chains.

  “Holy shit!” the sheriff exclaimed.

  “That stuff’s mine. It’s from the First Alluvial Bank job,” LaRue cried. He made a grab for her hand but was restrained by an arm around his neck that belonged to Flowers. LaRue was slammed back into his chair. Across the room, Courtney was arm wrestling with Denise.

  The sheriff never took his eyes away from the sparkling jewels.

  “Nice bracelet,” he said, pointing to a heavy gold chain with man-sized links.

  “That’s our investment,” Tubby said.

  “It’s hot,” the sheriff pointed out.

  “That’s a small problem,” Tubby agreed. “That’s why I brought this deal to you. Isn’t this something you could handle?”

  “I suppose,” Mulé said thoughtfully. “There’s a big discount on this kind of investment, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tubby said. “Here’s an inventory of what we’re putting up. It’s all listed out— by carats. Very neat.” He dropped the paper into the sheriff’s hand. “Retail market value is about three million,” he added.

  Mulé stood up. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” He waved at Denise. “My compliments to the ladies. Come on boys, let’s go.”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Clifford Banks was a Garden District lawyer. His specialties were mortgage authority bonds and mixed doubles at the New Orleans Tennis Club. His straight and narrow course rarely crossed Tubby’s errant path. It was surprising, therefore, when Cherrylynn buzzed the lawyer’s inner office and announced that Clifford Banks was on the phone.