by Tony Dunbar
“That’s great.” Reggie did his little finger-flutter, taken from the “itsy-bitsy spider,” meaning here comes more manna from the sky.
“These pennies ain’t from heaven,” Tubby said.
Reggie laughed and was still chuckling merrily when he went off down the hall toward his office. Defending Darryl did not bother Tubby. He had always liked the kid, too.
Darryl came by after lunchtime, which for Tubby had been fried oysters on French with melted butter and lemon juice. Cherrylynn had bought it at The Pearl down the street. Tubby ate the sandwich, all fourteen inches of it, at his desk, brushing the crumbs off a Memorandum in Support of Exception of Vagueness he was reading. He wondered how Californians got by on raspberry yogurt or Whoppers or whatever it was they ate for lunch.
Darryl came in carrying a blue gym bag, the kind a lot of people now showed off to suggest that they had spent their lunch hour working out at an executive spa. Despite his wavy black hair and the two gold chains around his neck, Darryl did not look so hot. A little frayed, maybe. But he flashed his big smile when he asked, “How’s it going today, Tubby?”
“I’m staying busy. Have a seat.” Darryl was pretty fidgety. Maybe facing prison time did that to you. Tubby told him about his talk with the U.S. Attorney.
“You think they’ve got a case?” Darryl asked.
“I don’t see how a first-year law student could miss landing you, Darryl. All they’ve got to do is show the videotape of you waving at the camera with your hand on a ton of marijuana while a shrimp boat disappears into the Gulf. I’m just giving you the straight poop. They misspelled a few words in the indictment, but I don’t think that’s going to save you. They read you your rights four times. If you don’t want to take the hit, you’re going to have to tell them what you haven’t told me. Who were you selling it to? Or, who were you working for?”
Darryl sighed. “If I told you that, I’d have a lot more problems than I have now. So what are we talking about if I get convicted?”
“The penalty for possession of that much pot with intention to sell is a minimum of twenty-five years, up to life. Except for your little cocaine bust in 1985, this is your only offense. Because I’m such a good lawyer, I think you’ll get the twenty-five years and serve about eight.”
Darryl sighed again. “Monique would shit over that.”
“Who is Monique?” Tubby asked.
“Aw, she’s my girlfriend. We’re probably getting married. She’s my night manager at Champs. I told her I might have to do six months. I think she might get another job if I got eight years.”
“Give me something to tell the U.S. Attorney and let’s make a deal. Then everybody’s happy.”
“Not as happy as you might think,” Darryl muttered. “I’ll see if maybe the Governor will commute my sentence. I contributed enough.”
“Not even the Governor can commute a federal sentence. He just can’t reach over to Pensacola and say, ‘You’ve got one of my very best friends locked up in your very comfy prison. Please cut him loose and send him home to the ‘Gret Stet’ of Louisiana.’”
“No? Okay, I guess not. What happens next?”
“I’m going to file discovery motions and see what the rest of their evidence is—other than catching you with several bales of grass in your truck. They’ll set it for trial in September, October maybe. There’s not much for you to do now but look after your business. And maybe you should take a little time off and spend it with Monique.”
“I’ve been thinking about doing that, too. Maybe run over to Gulf Shores or, who knows, fly up to Canada.”
“Whereabouts in Canada?”
“Heck if I know. Monique says she wants to go to the Yukon and see the Mounties.” Darryl shook his head. “Listen, Tubby, could I leave this with you?” He plunked the gym bag down on Tubby’s desk. The way he lifted it made it look heavy. “It’s important that it be in a safe place.”
“What is it?” Tubby didn’t want to touch it.
“It’s a lot of my business records. And some personal stuff to do with Monique. I’ve been getting things organized for going away, and this is stuff I don’t want to leave lying around. I was thinking you probably got some room in your safe. I wouldn’t want to leave it here more than a week. After that, I’ve made other arrangements.”
“Let me see what’s in it.”
“I don’t want to open it, Tubby, and I don’t think you want to see this stuff. I swear it’s just papers. Nothing illegal at all.”
“Is there anything that might be thought of as evidence of a crime in that bag?” Tubby was wondering if this conversation might be being tape-recorded. He had recently sat through a few hours of a local judge’s bribery trial, based largely on taped telephone conversations, and now he was paranoid whenever a client made any unusual suggestions. It cramped his spontaneity, since his clients were coming up with wild ideas all the time, but you had to be careful.
Darryl looked indignant. “Heck no,” he protested. “You think I’m crazy? You’re a lawyer. I know you don’t want any bad stuff. And by the way, I brought you the rest of your retainer. I made out the check for fifteen thousand dollars. Is that okay?” He pulled an envelope from his blazer pocket and offered it to Tubby.
Tubby got a warm feeling from Darryl. “Yes, that’s fine.” What the hell, he thought. “Sure, you can leave the bag here. Try to get it out this week, though. I may need to fit something into my safe that’s actually related to my law practice, you understand.”
“Tubby, it’s not going to be a problem. I really appreciate it. Look, I got to run. Call me at the bar if you hear anything. And you know I always got a table reserved for you.”
“Sure, Darryl. And think about your situation a little bit. Call me if you have something I can deal with. Say hi to Monique.”
After Darryl left, Tubby picked up the bag and squeezed it with his fingers. He couldn’t tell much about what was inside, but he was pretty sure it was paper. He held it up to the light but nothing showed through the fabric. He smelled it. The zipper had a tiny lock on it. Easy enough to force. Tubby shook his head at his own foolishness in accepting responsibility for anything that belonged to Darryl, but he did try to accommodate his paying clients. He opened the safe built into the cupboard below the bookshelves and stowed the bag inside next to a stack of wills. He spent a moment watching an old man and a young girl play a graceful game of tennis on the hotel roof below, then forced himself to go back to reading his vagueness exception. So much of the law was really a drag, he thought. It took straightforward disagreements and drew them out so much that the litigants finally screamed for relief or surrender, whichever would make it all stop. As an alternative to gun battles in the street, it was pretty good, but hardly anybody ever felt like a winner and absolutely nobody appreciated the lawyers. It was easy to feel sorry for yourself in this game.
But then look at Darryl. Tubby’s father had told him, whenever he got down in the dumps, to think about people with real problems. He did, and it helped.
Sometimes, to pick up a few bucks, Casey tracked down people who skipped bail. If he could catch the guy at home, he had enough authority to make the arrest and bring him before the court downtown. He collected from the bondsman for his services.
A prisoner at the jail had given Casey a tip that a minor pimp called Phil the Phoneman was staying with his mother in Algiers, the part of New Orleans across the Mississippi River. Phil had failed to appear for his trial on a charge of promoting prostitution, causing his bondsman to risk forfeiting $5,000. So there was plenty of financial incentive to find him.
It was easy. Phil even answered the door, pretty as you please, and now he was sitting in the backseat of Casey’s car. Freddie was the passenger in front. To save paying the toll on the bridge, Casey decided to take the ferry back over the river. They had to wait a few minutes in a line of cars, while listening to their captive go on and on.
“This is bullshit. Oh, man,” he’d say.
“This is real bullshit. Oh, man,” he’d say again.
“I cannot believe this.” His hands were cuffed in front of him, not too securely, but symbolic of the fact that his day was totally shot.
They were waved onto the boat and snugged in with the other cars and trucks.
“I’m getting some air,” Casey said when they were parked. He opened his door, and Freddie did the same to join him.
“How about some music at least,” Phil whined.
“Shit, man, you think this is a cruise boat?” Freddie asked.
“Turn on the radio for him,” Casey ordered. “Who cares?”
Freddie switched on a country station and got out of the car. He caught up with Casey, who was at the rail, looking at the brown water churned up by the ferry’s powerful battle with the current. There was a tanker coming downriver fast, and the ferry paused to let it pass. Black chunks, like tree trunks or railroad ties, bobbed in the big ship’s wake and floated after it in pursuit. They could hear snatches of music from the tour boats loading up at Woldenberg Park in the French Quarter. Casey had a few peanuts in his pocket, and he cracked them open, tossing the shells toward the seagulls trailing the ferry. He didn’t offer any to Freddie.
“This has been a very unprofitable week,” he said, almost to himself. “It is hard to believe Alvarez didn’t have any money with him. I thought for sure we’d find it in his truck.”
“They tore that apart,” Freddie said.
“Very frustrating,” Casey said.
He ate another peanut.
“I guess we’ll never know unless we ask Darryl,” he said, and spit out a piece of shell.
Above them the captain blew the horn, signaling their approach to the dock. The pilings groaned as the boat crunched against the pier, and the two men watched the civil servants throw heavy ropes ashore to secure the vessel. They got back in the car. Phil the Phoneman was still shaking his head, but he seemed to have calmed down some.
“This some terrible music, man,” he said. “Can’t you find no rhythm and blues, or something with a beat?”
Casey shut off the radio and started the car.
When he had them off the ferry he parked by a fire hydrant and told Freddie to watch the prisoner.
“I need to make a phone call,” he said.
There were pay phones in the ferry terminal, and the third one Casey tried had a dial tone.
“This is Casey,” he said when he made the connection.
He got an earful of complaints.
“Well, he didn’t have the money on him so either he was planning a rip-off or else he’d made arrangements to buy now, pay later,” Casey said.
He listened some more.
“Sure I understand it’s important. I’m gonna do what I can do. I’m gonna talk to the man personally. I’m optimistic he’ll cooperate with me. Darryl ain’t one to put up much of a fight.”
After another minute Casey hung up. He was pissed.
When he got back in the car both Phil and Freddie were popping their fingers to some Motown on the radio.
“You’re a real freak, Freddie,” he said sourly, and Freddie straightened up.
To the prisoner he said, “Where you’re going they play the music loud all night to drown out what they’re doing to each other. But you already know that, don’t you, Phil?”
Phil dropped his hands and sat back in the seat.
“Oooh, cold,” he said.
NINE
There’s an off-track betting parlor on Bourbon Street near Canal. From the sidewalk you can’t see what’s inside because the windows are tinted dark like the sunglasses a lifeguard wears, but there’s a neon sign outside to let you know the place is alive. Inside it is cool, clean, and green. There are little tables and chairs, a big television screen, and race results playing electronically on a board, like stock prices at a New York broker’s office. There is a well-stocked bar, and waitresses come to the tables. Outside the sun burned down, but inside Tubby was sharing a cocktail with Jason Boaz, the inventor. Both were watching the television screen on the wall, looking at the horses lining up at the gate. Tubby had ten dollars down on Peach Smoothie to place and another ten dollars on Trolley Car to win. The real live action was only a couple of miles away at the Fairgrounds.
People described Jason as lanky. He had a long, rugged face with a neat black beard. He wore heavy black plastic glasses that had never been in style. Today he had on a white shirt, a string tie, and baggy blue slacks, like a chemistry professor at some Midwestern college where they admire sloppiness. He was chain-smoking stiletto menthol cigarettes and partaking of Long Island Teas, a staggering combination of four white whiskeys and Coke.
The race started, and though neither man said anything they both leaned forward a bit because they had money on it. Jason had a bet on Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em. At the end, Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em took it. Peach Smoothie came in fourth, and Trolley Car retired limping. There were claps and moans, laughter and a half-hearted Bronx cheer from the other gentlemen and ladies spending money in the place.
“Attaboy,” Jason yelled when his horse came in first.
“What did you have on him?” Tubby asked.
“Fifty bucks. I had a hunch and should have bet more. I could kick myself.”
“Life is rough,” Tubby said and crumpled his worthless tickets into the ashtray.
“See the jockey? That’s Nicky Piglia’s son.” Tubby looked blank. “You know, Nicky Piglia. Has a po’boy shop, whatchacallit, yeah, ‘Nicky’s.’ Out in Marrero. He serves a half and half that’s, like, mammoth.”
“Any relation to Roy Piglia, who got killed when Pan Am 282 crashed out in Kenner?” asked Tubby, remembering what was far and away his most lucrative case, the one that had made it possible for him to open his downtown office, start his practice with Reggie, and buy a new car. It was a bright-yellow BMW, and he gave it to his then-wife Mattie. She sold it after they got separated, and what did she do with the money?
“I don’t know, maybe they’re cousins. There’s got to be about a million Piglias.”
Another race was starting, and Tubby had a horse in this one, too. He was betting Shake and Bake to win, but the horse was stuck in Gate 4, not such a hot spot to be in.
“So Tubby, while I got your meter off, so to speak, you think it’s worth me protecting my Porta-Soak and Mow?”
Tubby couldn’t remember hearing about that one. “Tell me about it,” he said.
“It’s a neat idea. I thought we’d talked. There’s a plastic water tank, like for one of those Super Soaker water guns, just bigger. And you pump that up. You strap the tank to your back. There’s a tube comes out of the top with a spray nozzle, and while you mow your grass, or do anything that gets you really hot, you can give yourself a little shower or a light mist. It’s adjustable.”
Tubby lost his concentration on the race, which was just now beginning, and stared at Jason to see if he was serious. Jason wasn’t giving anything away. He probably was. Jason’s last idea had been for a shoe that circulated cold water around your feet. Ha. Ha. He had built a prototype and showed it around. He ended up assigning his patent to a Korean manufacturer for $418,000. Tubby had done the paperwork.
“Well, Jason, it sounds kind of clumsy. Why don’t people just go inside and take a shower, or jump through a sprinkler? Anyway, who mows yards anymore?”
“Kids mow yards, and kids will like this. And college kids at the beach, they will like this. We make the tanks in orange, ‘Day-Glo’ green, crazy colors, you know, acrylics. They’ll spray each other. They’ll fill it with beer.”
Tubby thought he could visualize that beach party. “Hell, of course you should patent it,” he said.
“That’s what I think.”
“Get your drawings together, come by the office, and let’s talk.”
“Okay, why not. It might be a big payoff item.”
“You got much left from the Cool Shoe?”
“Wel
l, it’s about a hundred dollars less for every hour I sit in here.”
The horses came around the stretch. Shake and Bake first, then second, then third across the finish line.
“Like I said.” Jason dropped his ticket into an empty coffee cup.
“Gotta run,” said Tubby. “I got a lunch at Galatoire’s.”
“Hope you’re not treating.”
“No, this is a payback. Call me at work.”
Tubby walked the two blocks to the restaurant. It was almost two o’clock, which was good timing for Galatoire’s. There was no line.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dubonnet,” the head waiter said softly. “We will have a table in just a moment. Are you alone?”
“Mr. Chaisson is joining me,” Tubby said. The dining room was narrow, and all of the tables were full. Old waiters, most of them familiar to Tubby, carried silver platters around, trailing fragrances of fish and garlic. No women servers distracted the diners.
Tubby was shown to a table against the wall beneath an ornate mirror. He ordered a gin on the rocks. His mind drifted over the things he was supposed to do that day. Then it settled for a moment on Jynx Margolis. Was there some chemistry there? It had been so long since he had dated anybody that he had forgotten how to read the signs. She was certainly appealing, in a good, clean, middle-aged fun kind of way, a nicely tanned and very fragrant kind of way. Problems did not weigh heavily on Jynx’s shoulders. Marriage to her would be difficult, he imagined. She was irrepressibly self-indulgent and sort of an airhead sometimes. But who was talking marriage? Could she really find him attractive? Hard to tell with Jynx what was actually a magnetic field and what was simply her flirtatious nature. Maybe with her it didn’t matter. She was a mystery to Tubby, a bit exotic. It was flattering having an exotic try to flirt with you.
Tubby was lost in thought when E. J. Chaisson came through the door. He was slight and dapper, combing his thin blond hair straight back to accentuate his large eyes and smooth, angular face, like a hungry street kid who had picked up good manners. He wore Italian suits from Rubenstein Brothers on Canal Street and always carried a cane or umbrella. Today it was a thin brown stick with an ivory handle that Tubby saw was a carved alligator, its tail curving around and gripping the wood. E.J. hung it with a flourish on the back of the empty chair between them.