Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 02 - City of Beads

by Tony Dunbar

  “I’m trying to find out about a man named Charlie Van Dyne.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He worked for you.”

  “So what. And he’s dead, too. You got some perverse interest in people who get killed?”

  “Well, I heard he was into selling drugs.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “It’s just something I heard. A friend of mine is also involved somehow, and is getting death threats herself. I’m trying to find out what the truth is about Van Dyne and who he worked with to see if there’s anything I can do to remove my friend from danger.”

  “You come in here saying one of my people was into selling drugs, which would make me look bad.” The sheriff’s voice rose. “You act like I know something about it, which is like accusing me of something. Just who the fuck do you think you are? You hit me with a habeas corpus petition on some twerp named Jerome Cook. Just what’s the matter here? Now you’re asking insulting questions about my employees. You trying to start something with me?” Mulé slammed his hand down on the desktop.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Sheriff,” Tubby said, taken aback. “I’m just looking for some information, and maybe some help.”

  “You ain’t getting any help from me with something stupid like that. That ain’t the way to get things done around here.” The sheriff’s dark face was red, and he looked like he was breaking a sweat.

  “Look, this is a courtesy call. I’m trying to be cooperative with you.”

  “You won’t get my cooperation like this,” the sheriff fired back.

  “I guess I’ll be going then,” Tubby said. The sheriff did not try to stop him so Tubby got up and walked out the door. The Valkyrie receptionist smiled sympathetically when he went past her to the elevator.

  “The sheriff must have forgotten to take his pill this morning,” Tubby told her, and punched the elevator button.

  Inside his office, Sheriff Mulé picked up his telephone and made a call.

  CHAPTER 30

  Cruising down Carondelet Street, Tubby suddenly heard the sound New Orleans motorists fear the most – the approaching trumpets and drums of the St. Augustine Marching One Hundred. Oh no! Here came the yellow barricades, pulled across the street by the city’s finest. Just two cars blocked the way between him and the corner of Canal, but it was the difference between an efficient afternoon of work and being caught in a parade.

  Desperately, Tubby looked behind him, but cars were stretched down the block. No hope of backing up. Long experience had taught him that there was nothing to do in this situation but to lock the car and watch the parade. Since the top was down on his Corvair convertible, and it was a real pain to put it up, he couldn’t stray too far.

  As he looked up Canal Street, he was relieved to see that it was a short parade, as if for a convention. The approaching vanguard consisted of two very tall black men wearing dark suits and purple fezzes, holding between them a blue silk banner as wide as the avenue, which proclaimed that the International Society of Morticians and Embalmers was in town. They were followed closely by a disorganized but happy throng of well-dressed folk sporting buttons the size of paper plates, which read 103RD ANNUAL ENTOMBMENT, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. These were the dignitaries, no doubt. They were followed smartly by a really jazzy halftime show of high-stepping girls from P.G.T. Beauregard Middle School, their red-and-silver leotards sparkling, their boots flashing. They were full of spirit because right behind them were the blaring horns and booming drums of the fabled St. Augustine High School Marching Band.

  This was a deluxe show for the middle of the afternoon, but Canal Street shoppers, jaded by a lifetime of carnival, passed obliviously along the sidewalk, only occasionally giving in to the temptation to hop up and yell, “Throw me something, Mister.” Quite a few friends and family members of the morticians and embalmers, however, stood on the curbs cheering while the routine life of the city went on around them. A meter maid snuck around giving out parking tickets. A couple of white-haired businessmen wearing seersucker suits with cuffed pants haggled a point outside the Boston Club, raising their voices to be heard over the din.

  Ten minutes and he would be out of here, Tubby predicted. His feet tapped to the extra-loud version of “Big Chief.”

  The first float loomed behind the band, and Tubby couldn’t believe his luck. It was Monster Mudbug, or Adrian, who with Tubby’s help had defeated many a traffic ticket for driving his huge float on the public streets.

  Adrian’s presentation was a great, rolling, faux stainless-steel crawfish boiler, and he was a giant crawfish. Not some inartful foam creation, like a football team might have for a mascot, but a shiny, hard, red crustacean, making him look all glossy and wet, gyrating to the funky get-down music blaring from his major sound system. Four pretty girls, dressed in very little, but with a seaweed-waitress motif, clung precariously to different spots on the pot and pitched beads, and even boiled crawfish, into the air, to the delight of the fans. The Monster Mudbug float was a crowd pleaser, and it carried its own jumping mass of parade-fanciers alongside.

  Tubby was pushed back by the people. But Monster Mudbug spotted him out of his plastic thorax and gave Tubby the kind of respect so many craved.

  He pointed a big claw at Tubby and whacked one of the girls until she saw what he wanted. Then, while the float rolled relentlessly on, the Monster and his Helpers deluged Tubby with beads, trinkets, and cups. Crawfish, both plastic and sort-of-edible, showered him and all those in his vicinity.

  Tubby ducked his head while the people around him grabbed in the air. He made his move for the plastic cups bouncing along the sidewalk in between the jumping feet. They carried the Monster’s picture. He could use these at home.

  Prizes hidden under his coat, Tubby waved at the receding float, and Monster Mudbug beat his chest in farewell.

  Before long, the barricades were pulled aside and life returned to normal. Tubby stowed his cups under the seat, draped a few beads over the rearview mirror, and continued on his way.

  He got back to his office in time to get a call from his daughter Debbie. She was excited and very angry. She had walked over to her apartment after class and found that Twink’s Chevy Blazer had been completely busted up. Seems he had parked it in her driveway.

  Its windows were smashed. Its tires slashed. Spray paint on the upholstery. All the engine wires were cut. Her own trash can had been dumped in the front seat.

  How could that happen in broad daylight? This city was going crazy. The police hadn’t even come to look at it. Was there anything he could do? Did he think it had anything to do with Bayou Disposal? If so, how would anyone know that the Blazer was parked at her house? No one knew where she lived.

  “No, of course not,” he lied. Or maybe it wasn’t a lie. Maybe this was just random street crime.

  But just to be sure, why didn’t she go over and spend the night at her mother’s, or, better yet, with him?

  “What good would that do?” she demanded.

  “It would make me feel better,” he responded.

  She said she would think about it.

  “Damn it, Debbie. I want you to go someplace safe.”

  “I’m going to call Marcos and have him come over.”

  He sputtered into the phone, and the conversation ended inconclusively.

  He was looking out the window at the rush-hour traffic, backed up bumper to bumper on the high-rise bridge, when Leo Caspar called.

  “Whatcha messing with my friend Botaswati?” he began.

  “I didn’t know he was your friend,” Tubby said. “It has to do with a pro bono case I agreed to take for a student group at Tulane.”

  “What’s pro bono?”

  “It means I don’t get paid, like a charity.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t think you’re doing any good for society. He tells me some lawyer is annoying him, and I ask who it is. It’s a big surprise to find out it’s someone who works for me. Mr. Botaswati is
a very respectable businessman. He doesn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I don’t know if he does or not. I’ve been trying to get some simple information about a company called Bayou Disposal. I didn’t know you were involved with him at all.”

  “I’m not involved. And I don’t think you should be either.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “I’m not telling you anything. Just think about it.”

  “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  “Good,” Caspar said. He hung up.

  Tubby immediately rang Jake LaBreau at home. He told Jake about the call and asked what was going on.

  “Two weeks ago I had free time and no hassles,” he told Jake. “Now I got a friend who’s dead, another man gets murdered outside my office, and I’m getting threatening phone calls from some slick little greaser, pardon my French, who thinks he owns the city.”

  “Somebody got murdered outside your office?”

  Tubby told him about Broussard.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Jake said, “but you probably should tread lightly.”

  “No joke,” Tubby yelled. “And why is your boss, Leo Caspar, so concerned about a company called Bayou Disposal? Why is he telling me to quit asking questions about it?”

  Jake didn’t reply for a moment. Then he said, “There are some wheels turning here that I don’t understand yet. I’m looking into things right now.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Jake? Speak English!”

  “I can’t tell you any details yet, Tubby. Leo is, uh, a potentially dangerous guy. I’m just starting to realize how dangerous. I’d be careful, if I were you.”

  “Jake, this is nuts. Tell me something.”

  “I gotta go, Tubby. I don’t have answers yet. Really,” he added.

  “Jake…” Tubby implored, exasperation mounting, but he was talking to a dead line.

  He went back out to the street, needing to walk and think about things. There was a connection between Bayou Disposal and the trashing of Twink’s car, he was certain. The spreading violence, Aucoin’s death and now Broussard’s, must be related, too, but he couldn’t get a handle on what tied it all together. Now he was so worried about Debbie’s safety that he couldn’t concentrate.

  On Canal Street there were still fragments of necklaces and a few doubloons left over from the parade. He stepped into a McDonald’s, something he almost never did, but there was little chance he would be bothered by anyone he knew. He got a cup of coffee and sat down. There was a young couple behind him who looked harmless enough, but as if on cue the well-groomed male began delivering a loud monologue to his date.

  “This guy’s tied up to the chair. And they start playing… what’s that song? An Eagles song, or maybe a Steve Miller song. The point is this guy stands around with a switchblade knife and begins cutting on another guy, cutting off his ear, cutting his face, fucking with him. And it’s a very powerful scene, because of the popular music. It’s in that genre—weird violence. It was very disturbing. You’d love it.”

  Tubby threw away his coffee and left. He let his feet carry him along. Why would Leo Caspar take an interest in a Pakistani T-shirt vendor or a waste disposal company? He was approaching the Casino Mall Grande, sidestepping the line of limousines and hotel courtesy vans that were picking up and dropping off gamblers at the colossal front entrance, when he, saw Leo himself come down the steps and open the back door of a long white Cadillac. Mindful of Jake’s words of caution, Tubby was considering whether to intercept or to avoid the man when he saw Nicole run down the steps after him. Leo held the car door while she slipped in, then he got in and slammed it shut. The Cadillac pulled away and eased into the flow of Canal Street. Maybe there was nothing unusual about a boss and his assistant riding around in a limousine together, but it got him thinking.

  He did not have the reasons for it, but he was convinced that Leo Caspar was behind Potter Aucoin’s death. Some way or another, Caspar was responsible. More to the point, Caspar, or Botaswati, or someone in their ring, had threatened his daughter. He had always tried to keep the seamy side of his law practice away from his family, but now he was flunking the test and he didn’t know why. He was spooked and could not suppress the illogical fear that this might be a punishment for his own misdeeds along the way. Distraught, and seeing conspiracies all around him, Tubby decided it was time to take matters into his own hands.

  He called Kathy Jeansonne at the Times-Picayune.

  “Are you still interested in the Potter Aucoin case?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “It’s one of many in my unsolved murders file, but I haven’t forgotten about it yet.”

  “Well, I’ve got a tip for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “There’s a link between his death and a company called Bayou Disposal. It’s run by some questionable characters.” He told her a little bit about what the company was doing down in the marsh, and what the fishermen were saying.

  “Can you document the connection?”

  “No, but even if there’s not one, just breaking the story about the dumping would be big news.”

  “Maybe. Who are the bad people running Bayou Disposal?”

  “One just might be Leo Caspar, who manages the Casino Mall Grande.” This was, of course, pure conjecture.

  “Really,” she exclaimed. “Can you prove that?”

  “No, but you might be able to. Why don’t you ask the Vietnamese fishermen if they know Caspar. They may do some of your research for you.”

  Jeansonne was interested. She said that she might take a photographer down to Plaquemines Parish that very afternoon. Tubby told her where to go.

  When she hung up he reflected on the possible consequences of his call. He told himself there was nothing unethical about using the press to advance a cause. Good and reputable lawyers did it all the time. Not everyone would agree, however, that this cause was noble.

  Tubby didn’t exactly think it was either. He wouldn’t want to explain it in a court of law. Call it an eye for an eye, or call it protecting the home, take your choice. Someone had smashed up his daughter’s friend’s car in broad daylight. Who that message was intended for, Tubby wasn’t absolutely positive, but now he was sending out a message of his own. How was this any different from what Tania had done? he asked himself. Not much, was the answer.

  “Tough luck, dude,” he said aloud to the empty room, sounding harder than he felt. He had a need to drink.

  CHAPTER 31

  Red peppers hung in strings from the ceiling and onions and green cabbages were heaped in white hampers against the wall. Three serene-faced young men steadily created colorful piles of chopped vegetables on a stainless-steel counter, while behind them the chef chattered excitedly to his assistants who were madly tending vast sizzling frying pans and steamy pots of noodles.

  All stole a quick glance at the photographer and the red-haired lady who came into the kitchen with their boss, but they didn’t break their pace. If anything, they sped up to look their best.

  “This is where the magic happens,” Bin Minny said proudly to Kathy Jeansonne, white teeth smiling under a mascara-line mustache. He spread out his small hands to take in the busy room.

  “Shoot pictures if you like,” he told the cameraman. “We’re very proud of this kitchen, the cleanliness, the chef, the ingredients we use. We have taken the finest restaurant in Saigon and moved it here to New Orleans. Our fish is the best. Caught every day.”

  His oval eyes were too large for his head, Jeansonne thought. His trim body was too slight to account for the great deference shown him by everyone in the restaurant, employees and diners alike.

  “Mr. Minh,” she began, for she had learned that was his correct name, “do you have other businesses besides the Empress of Saigon?”

  “None that so interest me,” he said. “Would you like to taste one of the dishes?”

  “Not right now.” Jeansonne couldn’t help but
return Minh’s persistent smile. “I have a deadline, and I really must ask you something.”

  “Certainly, ask whatever you like.”

  “I’ve talked to some Vietnamese fishermen down in Plaquemines Parish. They seem to respect you very much.”

  “Yes? That is good.”

  “Yes. They’re having trouble with a company polluting their water supply. A company called Bayou Disposal.”

  Bin Minny stared at her blankly.

  “They seem to believe that you are going to do something to help them.”

  “Perhaps they exaggerate my powers.”

  “Well, why would they think this? How would you help them?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “Do you know anything about Bayou Disposal? Do you know anything about a man named Leo Caspar?”

  “No, who is he?”

  “Mr. Caspar is the manager of Casino Mall Grande. I have heard that he also runs Bayou Disposal.”

  Jeansonne, watching Bin Minny, had the strangest sensation that his eyes closed, but she was staring into them and they were quite open. His smile did not waver.

  “I cannot satisfy your curiosity on this point,” he said. “If you want to write about my restaurant, I would be honored, but the rest of this is just so many dreams and nightmares.”

  “Do you know Mr. Caspar?”

  “The tour is over,” Bin Minny said.

  He signaled to the men slicing vegetables, who instantly stopped their frantic activity and stepped into the aisle to face the reporter and her photographer.

  Without another word, Bin Minny passed through them and exited the kitchen at the rear.

  “I don’t want to order anything,” the photographer said, looking around at the figures in the suddenly quiet kitchen.

  The news team backed out the swinging doors and retreated from the scene.

  CHAPTER 32

  Tubby tried to reach Leo Caspar in the morning. He had thought about it and decided that Caspar knew the way through the maze, and he was seized with a compulsion to tie the man down and interrogate him. Or, more in line with his personal nature, to negotiate with him.