by Tony Dunbar
The head disappeared again, then returned.
“They say for you to write a letter.”
“We just want to meet the people. It won’t take a minute.”
“They say for you to go away,” the guard reported a little more forcefully. “This is private property,” he said, making it official.
“Let’s go, Twink,” Raisin said.
Twink was ready to argue with the guard some more, but Debbie poked him in the ribs with her finger, and he got the message.
He turned the Blazer around in the driveway, grumbling.
“Why don’t we go down the road a little further,” Debbie said. “Maybe there are some neighbors or something we can ask about what goes on at this place.”
“Okay,” he muttered discontentedly. “Makes you think they’re hiding something, doesn’t it?” In the backseat, Raisin was beginning to pay attention.
Farther along the back road they encountered more crawfish ponds, serene in the afternoon sunlight. Looking closely, they could see tiny orange flags sticking out of the water in straight rows. In one of the ponds some people were lazily paddling a pirogue, checking things in the water.
“I think those are the markers for the traps,” Debbie said.
“I thought crawfish grew wild in the swamps,” Twink griped. “This looks more like agribusiness.”
As they got closer they could see that the people in the boat were taking nets out of the water, emptying them, and tossing them back in. The people were wearing pointed hats, and the immediate image was of a rice paddy in Cambodia.
“It’s like another world,” Twink said.
Later, when Raisin reported to Tubby, he described it this way:
“We drive up to this metal packing shed. Some men are hanging out in the shade, but they all fade. A big, fat, muscular guy comes out of the shed to meet us. He’s Vietnamese or something. He doesn’t look that friendly to me, but your man Twink jumps out and says hi. The man grins and pulls out his cigarettes, so I know he’s not going to start shooting.
“Twink goes, ‘We’re from New Orleans, and we’re doing some research about water pollution. We’re here to save you. Tell us everything you know about Bayou Disposal.’”
“He said that?” Tubby interrupted.
“No, just words to that effect.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, so the guy lets out a loud noise that sounds like ‘Vark,’ and that’s when I got the idea he doesn’t speak English. Then this second guy comes out of the shed, and he asks can he help us. Twink gives his speech again.
“‘You with the government?’ the man asks. A very good question—shows he’s alert.
“‘No,’ Twink says. ‘We’re students at Tulane University. We’re investigating complaints about the possible illegal dumping of chemicals into the water.’ I don’t say anything, even though I know this guy is thinking ol’ Raisin doesn’t look like any Tulane student.
“‘We don’ like Bayou Disposal,’ says this fella, let’s call him Vark.
“‘Ah,’ Twink said. ‘Can you tell us why?’
“Vark is willing to talk. He invites us in. So we go. It’s dark in there. They pack fish and it smells like it, but right then nothing much was going on. He sits us all down for a powwow on some wooden crates. He joins us and lights another cigarette. I hear little, uh, shuffling noises behind me, and what do I see when I look over my shoulder but that we are not alone. Like a dozen men have drifted out of the recesses of this place and are checking us out. They’re dressed for work, white rubber boots, dirty jeans, army jackets, baseball caps, shaggy hair. They all got short black mustaches. I begin to wonder if I am going to fail at my job of protecting young Miss Dubonnet. They’re not threatening, but they ain’t friendly either. They’re not showing much.
“‘So,’ Debbie begins, ‘have you had a problem with Bayou Disposal?’
“Vark says, ‘Maybe a month ago they come in here. Bring in lots of trucks. Since then, the crawfish no good.’
“‘What do you mean, no good?’ Twink asks.
“‘No good. Stay small, shells soft, shells white. All fishermen around here, same problem. Can’t sell. Man from Mulate’s, big restaurant, always buy my crawfish. He say too small now.’”
“You do a good dialect,” Tubby said.
“I’m just practicing,” Raisin said. “I haven’t quite got it yet. ‘You connect this to Bayou Disposal?’ Debbie asks.
“‘Yes,’ Vark says. ‘They put something in the ground. It gets in the water.’
“‘Have you told anybody about this?’ Debbie asks.
“‘No,’ Vark says. ‘Why? They got big men with guns,’ he says.
“‘Let us help you catch them,’ Debbie says.
“Then they all started talking to each other in their language. I get none of this, but it gets loud. Then”—Raisin snapped his fingers—“they turn it off and start nodding like it’s all settled.
“‘What can you do for us?’ Vark asks.
“‘We can report this to the government,’ your daughter says. ‘We are going to bring a lawsuit against Bayou Disposal to make them pay for what they are doing. We will take statements from you. We can tell your story to the newspapers.’
“‘How long all this take?’ Vark wants to know.
“‘That’s hard to say,’ Twink tells them. The government is big and slow, but he has a secret weapon—a great lawyer named Tubby Dubonnet has volunteered to help them. He’s going to take everybody to court.”
“Jesus,” Tubby moaned.
“They didn’t seem immediately impressed with your name. I do not think they could quite pronounce it. More discussion ensues. It gets noisy. One guy with real big callused hands, flat like a plank, makes a speech. Vark interprets. ‘He say courts take a very long time. Big politicians decide what the courts say. These people want to know how long it will take.’
“Twink says he doesn’t know. ‘If we catch them in the act, maybe we can get an injunction. Maybe as soon as a month, or… maybe longer.’
“They look doubtful. More discussion. More speeches. Sounds like a whole violin section out of tune. And then here comes something that sounds familiar. Somebody says, ‘Bin Minny.’ And then, after that, nobody said anything for a full minute. Vark is so deep in thought he lets his cigarette burn down to his fingers and has to throw it down and stomp on it. He says, ‘They want to take care of it without you. You no worry about it.’
“Twink was unhappy. ‘How can we not worry about it? They’re breaking the law’ but Vark is not impressed. ‘Men all want to be in business again soon,’ he says. End of conference.
“Very politely, they show us the way out. By which I mean they all followed us outside and made sure we got in the Blazer. They were passing around a pack of Marlboros and having a huddle with each other when we drove away.”
“What do you make of that?” Tubby asked.
“That they’re planning to take care of the problem in their own way.”
“What was Debbie’s reaction?”
“She said it was sad they were so suspicious of us. It was sad that these people are newcomers to our country, and they don’t know how to go about getting things done.”
“But they may know how,” Tubby said.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Raisin said.
CHAPTER 29
Tubby was waiting outside Dixon Hall when Debbie came out of Biology 201. She was juggling a sizable pile of books and laughing with friends when she spied him, and she immediately broke loose and pushed through the swarm of students.
“Hi, Daddy.” She was worried.
“Hi, baby,” he said. “Got a minute we can talk?”
“Sure. Is anything wrong?”
“No, no. Nobody is hurt or anything like that. I want to hear from you what went on when you drove out to the parish.”
“Okay. You want to go sit outside?”
They found an empty bench beside the grassy quadr
angle, shaded by a magnolia tree.
He asked her to start at the beginning, so she did. When she told about being turned away by the guard at the Bayou Disposal plant, he interrupted to ask if she had given her name. She said she hadn’t, to Tubby’s relief. She gave a blow-by-blow account of her meeting with the crawfishermen.
“What did the man say?” Tubby asked.
“It sounded like ‘Bin Minny’ to me, Daddy. Do you know what that means?”
“I think so,” Tubby said. “He’s a powerful man among those people. He was a colonel or something in the South Vietnamese army. He didn’t come out with the first wave, but got caught and reeducated in some camp. It must not have taken hold because he jumped on a boat and somehow got to New Orleans. He’s got a restaurant, and he’s got a reputation, like some kind of Vietnamese mafioso. I don’t know how much of it’s true. I’ve never met him.”
“Why would they mention him?” Debbie asked.
“It could be they think he can solve their problem better and faster than you and me.”
“What can he do?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then shouldn’t we see what we can do to stop Bayou Disposal ourselves, right away?”
A delicate moment. Lawyering talent was called for.
“I’ve told Twink to write me a report about what happened, and I think you should, too. Your group knows better than I do how to get the attention of the EPA, and I’ll be glad to call or write anybody you tell me to. If we can get any hard evidence, like even a signed statement, from one of the fishermen, we can try to get a restraining order against the company. I know you’re a grown woman now, but this is developing into a very dangerous situation. There’s some involvement here with Potter Aucoin, and he’s dead. His man Broussard is dead. I’m going to have a particularly hard time concentrating on the legal aspects of this case if I’m worrying about you traipsing down to Plaquemines Parish interviewing people.”
“You’re asking me to quit now?”
He was screwing it up, but it wasn’t over yet.
“No. Of course not. I need someone dedicated like you to help with all the legal research. But let someone else go out looking for affidavits.”
Debbie looked at him searchingly for a minute, then she broke out laughing.
“Daddy, you’re trying to protect me.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it.
“You’re damned right,” he said.
“I think I’m too old for that,” she said, “But I promise you I’ll be careful. I’ll talk over with the group who should do what. I won’t go looking for trouble, that’s all I can say.” She patted his hand like he was a doddering old fool in a nursing home.
“Just look out for yourself,” Tubby said, gracious in defeat. They hugged when they parted.
Resolving and closing the Bayou Disposal file was now the paramount concern in Tubby’s life.
Nick the Newsman left a message that Tubby should drop by.
“Watch the office for a while, will you please, Cherrylynn? I’ll bring you back some lunch.”
“I brought my Weight Watchers for the microwave, boss.”
“Oh, well, I’ll bring you back some dessert.”
“Great,” she laughed.
Nick was a little man. He sat on a high stool behind a counter in his newsstand. He carried papers and magazines from everywhere, and they overflowed racks on the walls, the floor, and all around him. He was hard to see when you walked in; his head looked just like another magazine cover stuck to the wall. Maybe a wrestling magazine.
There were a couple of men browsing the racing news when Tubby walked in, and a young woman with spiked orange hair studying something called Sappho Sisterhood. Tubby brushed past her and went to the counter.
Nick raised his eyebrows in welcome and scratched his chin whiskers.
“Here comes trouble,” he said.
“Hiya, Nick. I got a message you called.”
“Yeah.” Nick beckoned him to come closer. Tubby bent over, and Nick put an arm around his shoulder. “You asked me who Charlie Van Dyne worked for,” Nick whispered hoarsely, letting Tubby get the full flavor of the onion rings Nick had stuck in the drawer of his cash register along with the remainder of his lunch.
“Right,” Tubby said, gasping for air.
“Well, think about this. He had a legitimate job.”
“So tell me while I can still breathe.”
Nick grinned and tightened his hug. “He was a so-called rehabilitation counselor. He worked for Sheriff Mulé.”
“No way.”
“That’s it. Check the record.”
“I thought the sheriff was an honest dude.”
“You ain’t that big a fool,” Nick exclaimed, dismayed.
“I guess it is suspicious when civil servants can afford to drive a Cadillac and live in a big house on Persephonie Street, isn’t it?”
“Hey, go figure,” Nick said. “It’s the same thing with all dem democrats, am I right?” He bared all of his cigar-stained teeth for Tubby’s pleasure.
“Uh, Nick…” Tubby began.
“You mind if I buy a newspaper?” a young woman trying to get in front of the register demanded.
“Let me tend to my customers, Tubby.”
“Okay, Nick, see you.” On the way out the door he asked himself what he was about to say to Nick, and what good it would have done.
Tubby’s mind was in a whirl as he walked back toward Canal Street. He even passed the pie man sitting on the steps in front of the Wildlife and Fisheries Building, which is what people called the state Supreme Court, before he remembered Cherrylynn’s dessert. Recovering, he walked back and got her a pecan pie, then thought maybe she would like a coconut better so he got her one of those, too. Intrigue always made him hungry, so he picked up a couple of sweet potatoes for himself for later. The old man put all four in a plastic bag, which Tubby placed carefully into his brief case. Always a good idea to lay in provisions, he thought. It can be a long road between pie men.
Back in his office, Tubby wanted to talk to Tania to let her know about the connection with Sheriff Mulé, but more than anything else he just wanted to hear her voice. He thought she might not want him to call her at work, but he did it anyway.
A woman answered, “First Alluvial Bank,” and put him through to Miss Thompson.
“Hi, it’s me,” he said.
“Oh, hello, Tubby. Is anything the matter?”
“No, I guess not. I just wanted to see if you had had any more trouble.”
“Everything is fine,” she said, picking her words carefully because she was on the job.
“No threats? No one following you?”
“Nothing obvious. Sometimes I think I see things.”
“Do you see anything that looks like a police investigation?”
“No. My brother Thomas is getting out of the hospital tomorrow.”
“How’s his knee?”
“They say he’ll walk as good as new, but it’s up to him if he ever plays sports again. It will just take lots of work, but he’s determined to do it.”
“If he wants to badly enough, I’m sure he will. Uh, I wanted you to know that Charlie Van Dyne had a job with the Sheriff’s Department. He worked under Sheriff Mulé.”
She was silent.
“I’m going to try to talk to the sheriff and get a read on the situation.”
She still didn’t say anything.
“I’m not going to tell him your name. I’ll just be looking for information.”
“Okay.”
“Well, take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“Call me if anything, you know, happens,” he said.
She promised she would.
Sheriff Frank Mulé agreed to see Tubby and told him to come down to the jail—a small word for a big place. Actually, the sheriff had about five blocks of buildings under his control. The old-fashioned, barbed-wire-encased Parish Prison took up
one block, as did Central Lockup, where everyone from vagrants to body slashers got processed. Then there was the diagnostic center, the windowless Community Correctional Center, some tent camps, and a variety of satellite institutions and former motels where extra prisoners were stashed. Most days Sheriff Mulé had more miserable outcasts and outlaws packed into his frightening cellblocks than the warden of the state prison farm at Angola had in his. Mulé kept them in line, too. The sheriff had a lot of people working for him who knew how to handle complaints.
Tubby only wanted to know about one of them, Charlie Van Dyne.
He took the elevator to Mulé’s office and told the blonde secretary who he was.
“You’ve been here before,” she commented. She looked sharp, in a storm trooper kind of way.
“Yes.” He smiled.
After a few minutes Mulé said he could come in.
The sheriff, all 120 pounds of him, sat behind a desk as big as a craps table. He was drawing a picture with crayons.
“What do you think?” he asked, holding it up for Tubby to see. It looked like a Tyrannosaurus rex tearing apart a big yellow cat.
“Powerful,” Tubby said.
“I got a new program in mind,” Mulé said. “Sit down, why don’t you, counselor?” Tubby sat. “Instead of all that historical military stuff the last sheriff had the men painting, I’ve thought about having them draw animal life, like dinosaurs and elephants in the jungle.”
“You mean like for murals on the side of buildings?” Tubby asked.
“Exactly. Keep the men busy, encourage the talents they have, but let them paint something they can relate to—the struggle for survival. The law of the jungle.”
“You don’t think maybe that’s too bloody to put out where people on the streets can see it?”
“Sure, and war’s not violent?” the sheriff asked sarcastically. “I’m thinking painting scenes from nature might put the men’s minds onto life’s important lessons.”
“You could be right.”
“Just a thought, I guess.” The sheriff tossed the drawing onto the rug behind his desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Dubonnet? Last time you were here was about that drug pusher, Darryl what’s-his-name. Then he got killed. Now what you want?”
