by Tony Dunbar
Tubby turned around and saw Nicole Normande, wearing a red dress tied at the waist that made his eyes pop out.
“Hello, fishing buddy,” she said. “What brings you out to the French Quarter?” She looked bright and sunny.
“I was just thinking about lunch. And you?”
“Running an errand for Jake. Meeting with a nonprofit group that asked us for a contribution. And thinking about lunch.”
“Well, why don’t you join me?”
“I’d love to.” She smiled.
“How about Mr. B’s?”
“That sounds just perfect.”
“Then here we go.” Tubby offered an arm and she took it firmly. Together they strolled among the frolickers of Bourbon Street, chatting like old chums.
“I’m rarely disappointed here,” Tubby remarked contentedly, watching the waiter place a china plate of shrimp stuffed with crabmeat in front of him and a cool fried-chicken salad in front of Nicole. He spread the last of his baked Brie on a bit of French bread and popped it into his mouth. He motioned for the waiter to take the empty plate away.
“I think it’s so cute the way they make carrots curl up,” she said, pointing with her fork.
He was distracted by the cherry tomato she slid past her perfect lips.
“Do you come here often?”
“As often as I can,” Tubby recovered. “Thank you,” he said to the waiter, who poured the water and sank the slice of lemon in his glass.
“Mine is delicious. Would you like a taste?”
“Sure.”
She filled her fork carefully and then extended her arm quickly across the table and fed him.
It was a most pleasant experience, the personal delivery more than the tasty food.
“Very good,” he sighed.
“Have some more.”
“No.” He couldn’t.
“It’s almost a shame to use up your appetite,” he said. “They serve great desserts.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said.
And she was true to her word. When the tiny remains of his fish had been cleared away, she happily ordered a white chocolate brownie covered with fudge and ice cream, and Tubby, challenged, called for bananas Foster shortcake. She ate hers all up and sat back, coffee cup in hand, looking like she could do it again. Tubby was blissed out on sweetness.
“Now what?” he asked.
“I suppose I should show my face at the casino,” she said. “Would you like to keep me company?”
“I really ought to go home and mow the grass, or something. There are things I need to do.” But he couldn’t actually think of any.
“Oh, come on. Think of it as work if you want to. Legal research. You need to get to know your client better.”
He smiled at her, thinking it over.
“You can even bill your time. This should be a money-making relationship for you.”
That did it. “I’d be delighted.” He beamed.
Tubby paid the check, and they went out the revolving doors onto Royal Street, where patrons of costly antique shops dressed in tweeds with elbow patches mixed with teenagers wearing ripped blue jeans and silver rings in their noses.
It was just a few blocks walk to the casino. There were some fears, before the first one opened, that round-the-clock gambling would absorb all the tourist dollars that were the life’s blood of the Vieux Carré, and still the reviews were mixed. Some of the club owners complained. Others were happy. The French Quarter had survived war, epidemic, and fire. It had hidden queer joints, quadroon balls, and whorehouses aplenty. It ought to be able to handle a few li’l ol’ casinos.
They enjoyed the walk, and Tubby was even telling jokes by the time they entered the lavish halls of Casino Mall Grande. The white-suited attendants, the plainclothesmen, even the waitresses acknowledged Nicole when she came in—the pretty boss in the red dress.
“Where should I begin my research?” he asked.
“I’ll show you,” she said, and led him through a maze of tables to one on a platform where they were playing blackjack. There was an empty seat, in contrast to most of the tables, where people watched and waited for a chance to sit down and wager. “Here’s where you start,” she said.
Tubby sat. He noticed the gold sign by the dealer that said the minimum bet was $100 and the limit was $5,000. This could be why there was an available chair.
“Uh, Nicole,” he began.
“Hush,” she said, rubbing him on the shoulder. She reached over him and placed a stack of black chips by his fingertips.
“Now let’s see what a lucky man you are,” she whispered in his ear.
She stood behind him, occasionally pressed against his back, and even through the fabric of his suit he got a sensation that was extremely exciting.
Tubby blackjacked on his first hand.
“Oh, goody,” he said.
“You’re starting out hot,” Nicole laughed.
He doubled up on the next hand and won again. A waitress placed a cocktail by his elbow and miraculously he discovered that he was thirsty for it.
He doubled up and won. His adrenaline rushed. Nicole was giggling and squeezing his shoulder. The other players were nodding in appreciation and envy.
Time flashed by and his stack grew into a pile. He didn’t win every hand, but he was marvelously lucky. When he passed $30,000 he started betting the limit on each hand and doubling up at every opportunity. Nicole stayed at his back and got him whatever he wanted from the bar. He tipped the waitress with $20 chips and she stayed very close by. He was afraid to pause, or even go to the bathroom, for fear of ending the streak.
Tubby counted $88,000 and sat back.
“That was my grandfather’s age when he died. I’ve got to stretch my legs.” He was both exhausted and exhilarated. “Get me out of here,” he begged.
He shook hands all around, tossed a little handful to the dealer, who announced, “Taking tip,” and let Nicole help him carry his basket of chips to the window to cash in. He took a thousand in bills and the rest in a check.
“Fresh air,” he demanded, draining the last of something alcoholic from the plastic glass he found in his fist.
He was in the backseat of a taxi, jabbering about what a rush it had been, rolling his head from side to side to let the night breeze blowing in through the cab window cool him down.
Then Nicole was paying the driver and showing him into the door of her quaint and expensive Creole cottage. While he sat on a stool she mixed them each a drink and turned on some music. He raved about her beautiful paintings and choice of cookbooks.
Then they were necking while dancing in the living room. His hands roamed over her shoulder blades while she played with his sandy blond hair.
CHAPTER 20
On Sunday morning, Tubby took a walk in Audubon Park by himself and tried to figure out what he felt about Nicole. He gave it up. On Sunday afternoon, he went to pick up Collette. At one time, he would have asked his daughter to meet him somewhere, the object being to avoid a run-in with the child’s dear mother. But for the time being, at least, things were all hunky-dory between Tubby and Mattie. He was current on his child support and had even come up with the bucks to send their middle child, Christine, on a three-week trek to Europe with her Newman class. Her tuition was up to date, as was Debbie’s tuition at Sophie Newcomb. This had never happened before, and might never again.
Anyhow, Mattie was sure to greet him at the door with a smile when he showed up today. He liked her much better this way. The old flame still flickered sometimes, whether he wanted it to or not, but it wore him out like nothing else to fight with her.
He rang the bell, always a strange experience at a house he had called home during the seventeen years of their marriage. It was still hard not to feel a little pang of guilt when he saw that the bushes needed a trim. All the shrubs missed his attention. Jesus, she was even letting the azaleas die.
“Hi, toots,” Mattie said from the doorway. “Checking
on the flowers?” She was casually dressed in shorts and a green blouse that set off her bright red hair, and she seemed to be slightly giddy with drink.
“Come on in,” she said. “Collette is on the phone.”
“Sure.” He crossed the threshold. “You’re looking nice.” She did—still the old curves that had first gotten his attention twenty years ago. Still the big smile.
“Thank you,” she said, beckoning hint farther into the house.
“Would you like me to fix you something while you wait?”
“Oh no. I’m sure she’ll be just a minute. Does she know I’m here?”
“Yeah, but come on back. If she sees you she’ll get off quicker.”
Tubby followed his ex-wife back to the kitchen, where the soul center of the house had always been.
Collette, cross-legged on a bar stool, mouthed hello to her father and waved at him without moving the phone from her ear or interrupting her inspection of her pink toenails.
Mattie gestured at an empty stool and sashayed to the other side of the counter in the direction of a large green bottle of wine.
“Sure you won’t have something?” she asked.
“I guess I’ll drink some bourbon, and a little water,” he replied. “Since Collette’s not ready yet,” he said loudly.
Collette smiled and waved at him again. “I have to go,” she said into the phone. “I don’t really think he is serious about me though. It’s just a chemical attraction.”
Tubby blanched. Collette, oblivious, plunged back into her conversation.
“Who’s she going out with these days?” he asked Mattie.
“Nathan is the latest heartthrob. He’s a soccer goalie.”
“Hmmph,” Tubby commented. “Where does he go to school?” He took a swallow of the drink Mattie placed in front of him. As always, she had made it too weak.
“McMain,” she replied. “His parents just moved to town.”
Collette was now more interested in their conversation than her own.
“I’ve really got to go. My dad’s here, and we’re going out to eat or something. Now promise me you’ll call me before you do anything rash. Okay? Okay. Bye-bye.”
“Hi, Daddy,” she said, and got up to give him a light kiss on the cheek. He gave her a squeeze.
“I’m almost ready. Just let me get my shoes.” She ran out of the room.
“She’s growing up fast,” he said.
“Fifteen going on twenty-one,” Mattie said, which was no comfort at all.
“Looks like you’re taking good care of her,” Tubby said, trying to remain upbeat.
“It’s a job,” she said, and drank her wine, “You must be doing okay for yourself these days.”
“I’m getting by,” he said, deftly turning aside what he thought was a probe into his finances.
“You had a nice trip to Florida, right?”
“Relaxing,” he said.
“Sorry about Potter.”
“It’s a real shame. They still don’t know what happened.”
“I dropped a gumbo off at Edith’s, but I really l haven’t talked to her.”
“I’m ready!” Collette announced from the hallway. She appeared in full makeup, big gold bangles in her ears, jeans, and leather sandals. Her hair was swept out to the sides in a perm. She was a miniature version of her mother. She hugged Mattie goodbye, and Tubby got the flash again about how much of his daughters’ lives he was missing and how much he missed them.
“Okay, let’s go.” He stood up. Mattie followed them to the front door.
“Have a good time,” she called, as Collette skipped and Tubby walked out to the car.
They were planning on a pizza and a movie she had picked out. It starred an adolescent actor with oiled muscles, a heroic soldier in a war fought over South American ruins, who learned to love and, yes, respect the gorgeous, nubile blonde who led him into battle.
On account of the company he was with, Tubby was going to enjoy it more than he would ever care to admit.
CHAPTER 21
On Monday morning, Tubby began dictating an affidavit of death, domicile, and heirship and a petition to probate the testament of Potter Segnac Aucoin. He knew the legal words by heart; they came automatically from the formulary implanted in his mind by years of practice. He just had to insert the names, and that was the tough part.
He sketched out a descriptive list of assets and liabilities, using the documents Edith had dropped off. The list was short and uncomplicated enough that the succession could probably be opened and closed, all debts paid and all property delivered to Edith in a matter of days. Very tidy, Potter’s life. He had made a lot of money as a free-wheeling businessman in the realm of international welfare, and his bank accounts were easily identified and well stuffed. Tubby could be handsomely paid just for getting it all in order—pulling down the final curtain on the life of the late Mr. Aucoin. There were just a few nagging problems.
He called police headquarters and asked for Detective Kronke. He was a little surprised when he got through to him.
“Good morning, Detective, this is Tubby Dubonnet.”
“How are you today, Mr. Dubonnet? What can I do for you?”
“I wondered if you were making any progress on the Aucoin murder case.”
“We’re still actively pursuing some things. Where are you?”
“Me? At the office.”
“I would like to talk to you. Would it be convenient for me to come over now?”
“This minute?”
“If it wouldn’t be inconvenient.”
“No, sure. Forty-third floor.”
“I know. We’ll be there shortly,”
Tubby hung up. It was definitely intimidating having a police detective anxious to talk to you, however polite he was. Tubby asked Cherrylynn to hide anything incriminating while he cleaned off his desktop and generally fidgeted until Kronke arrived.
Cherrylynn made the policeman comfortable in one of the client chairs facing Tubby. Fortunately there was no “we”; Kronke was alone. He was shorter and rounder than Tubby, but Kronke had some muscle mass packed inside his gray blazer. He was clean-shaven and bald and held a guileless, friendly expression on his smooth face.
“Quite a view you have, Mr. Dubonnet.”
“It’s pretty spectacular,” Tubby agreed.
“So, I’m looking at the French Quarter. And there are the projects. Boy, from up here they look just the same.”
The distant wail of a siren, blown up by the wind, reminded Kronke of his mission.
“You’re handling Aucoin’s estate, right?” he asked Tubby.
Tubby admitted he was.
“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? Any unexplained transactions?”
“No. It’s all quite ordinary.”
Tubby wasn’t about to tell him about Kathy Jeansonne’s call.
“Do you know much about Mr. Aucoin’s export business?” Kronke asked.
“Only what I can tell from the books. The CPA has looked at them, too. We see money going in, money coming out. Nothing irregular. But actually how the business worked? I have only the vaguest notion. There’s a filing cabinet full of invoices and correspondence at the shop. You’re welcome to look through it. Broussard, the foreman, might know something, but I doubt he knows a lot, other than the day-to-day mechanics of shipping.”
“Did Aucoin have any partners, any business associates?”
“None at all.”
“Oh, well,” Kronke sighed. He shrugged to say he’d tried.
“What are you looking for, Detective?”
“A place to start,” Kronke said. “We don’t really have a lead right now. The man had no enemies anyone knows about. He worked alone. I would call his death accidental—maybe a bad fall—except there were signs of a struggle in his shop, and, of course, somebody had to slide the hatch cover shut on the barge.”
“No prints on anything?”
“Footprints, drops of blo
od, some other interesting things, but on a wharf where men work all day… ?” He spread his hands to show what a problem it was.
“It’s a complete mystery to me, too,” Tubby said.
“Did you ever know Mr. Aucoin to take drugs?”
Ahh. Tubby had already thought about his answer to this question, and he had decided that what he knew about Potter’s secrets and personal failures was going to remain between Tubby and the dead.
“I never saw him take any, if that’s your question, but in his younger days he may well have.”
“Just casually, or on a regular basis?”
“I don’t know,” Tubby said. “I’m sure it was a long time ago, though.”
“So you wouldn’t think he bought or sold any kind of, uh, drugs or anything. He was, you know, in the export business.”
“I certainly would not think so. Why the questions?”
“I guess it won’t hurt to tell you. One of the things we found when we looked through his office, in that filing cabinet you were talking about, was a quantity of cocaine.”
“How much of a quantity?”
“About half a kilogram. That’s enough to last your social user a lifetime. What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. It doesn’t fit the picture I have of Potter.”
“Yeah, but there, it is.”
There it was. Detective Kronke poked and shoved it around for another ten minutes, but it didn’t go away.
“You used to be partnered up with Reggie Turntide, didn’t you?” he asked as he got up to leave.
“That’s right,” Tubby said warily.
“He disappeared, didn’t he? Did they ever find him?”
“No.”
