Flag Boy (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 10)

by Tony Dunbar

Peggy explained all of this as she carried him in her car – because she had a party parking pass – down to Canal Street and across to the nighttime traffic jam of the Quarter. The same harried Lucky Dog vendor, pushing his long frankfurter-shaped cart, passed them three times as they went stop-and-go through two crowded blocks on Bourbon Street. Finally they broke free and soon were handing the keys over to the valet, who appeared at curbside to serve them in front of the three-story building. The galleries above were afire with lights and crowded with people laughing and calling out to friends and to tourists on the street below.

  The couple was admitted to the mansion by an androgynous person covered in silken robes of many colors who bowed with a simple “Ahlaan wa sahlaan. Welcome,” and pointed them inward where champagne was immediately offered.

  A few steps further along, a tall bearded man dressed impeccably in a blazer and gray slacks and wearing on his head a striking blue turban emblazoned with a large emerald, waited to greet them, saying, “I am so happy you could come to my home. I am Sharif Bazaar. And who are you, please?”

  Peggy introduced them. Bazaar leaned over and patted her hand. “So glad you could be here in my poor palace, Ms. Peggy and Mister Tubby, and I hope you will visit us often.” He also bowed slightly as he waved them along with a sparkling smile. “Have a good time,” he called. “I will try to remember your names.”

  “Such a nice man,” Peggy whispered as she marched Tubby straight ahead into a great room full of people and musicians, dancers, and waiters with trays of food and drink. To their right was another receiving line where the women of the house, and the younger people – their college-age children perhaps – greeted a queue of guests. To their left was the first of several bars.

  Tubby pulled one way, his date the other. They compromised by separating, Tubby with instructions to come back soon with “the best red they have.”

  That was no challenge. Tubby had never seen such obscure but expensive-looking wines at a fund-raising gala. Everything was from America, on purpose obviously. They carried private labels from the North Coast of California and the Willamette River Valley, none of which he had ever heard of. He accepted a lovely Scarecrow Cabernet in a long-stemmed glass for Peggy and a generous leaded tumbler of George T. Stagg Straight Bourbon for himself.

  That was before he noticed that an adjacent table was providing special party drinks. Investigation showed that these were pre-assembled Manhattans, presented in classic wide-rimmed crystal. And also an original “Saudi Sunrise,” which upon inquiry turned out to be a non-alcoholic fizzy drink based on crimson pomegranate juice. Tubby observed that mostly children were drinking this.

  The Sultan Prince Bazaar wandered into the room accompanied by a pair of young attendants who struck Tubby as what eunuchs might look like. They seemed to have secreted some concoction of their own in slender mugs. There were teenagers about, copping glasses of wine. Among these was young Carter Kabatsin, whom Tubby recognized from the funeral. Nothing new there. Tubby had done the same thing when he was that age, though his opportunities had been few and far between. Also, there was a round figure whom Tubby recognized from the funeral, Marina Sylvester’s companion Willie Hines. He was about to approach this gentleman to ask how he happened to be at the party, but Mr. Hines quickly disappeared in the crowd.

  He reconnected with his date, and together they located the silent auction tables illuminated by stained glass windows on which soft lights from the outside courtyard were playing. Unusual items were displayed. Among these was a card offering a trip for two to Dubai aboard Etihad Airways with private living room accommodations. On the plane. Then there were four tickets to next year’s World Cup. And a solid gold tea set with an inscription to 19th century British royalty. And a pair of nudes cast in bronze with the etched signature of Rodin. Here was a pair of cufflinks and a picture of Winston Churchill wearing them, and a walking cane within which was concealed a small-caliber pistol. And here…

  “Can we afford to bid on any this?” Tubby asked.

  “Well, I don’t see a minimum price on anything,” Peggy replied. She started jotting down $100 on quite a few bid slips. Tubby got into the spirit. A pair of 1810 dueling pistols? $100, he wrote.

  Moving on, there was a buffet of food, and lots of it. A quick walk-past revealed oysters en brochette, crawfish etouffé bites on tiny round toast, a huge tuna served sashimi-style, a great brown jambalaya chock full of morsels of chicken and pork, a great roast of beef, little lamb chops each with a clever silver clasp by which to hold them, chocolates, puff pastries filled with coconut custard, and more.

  “The party of the century?” Peggy asked.

  “Of any century,” he said.

  Nayo Jones, a steamy blues singer with a big voice, was swinging on a little stage, crooning out “St. James Infirmary.”

  Peggy went off to check on her auction bids. Tubby angled away to one of the bars to sample a Manhattan.

  Drinks again in hand, he sought her in the crowd. And there she was, talking with Dr. Kabatsin, young Carter’s dad.

  “How do you do?” Tubby said, handing Peggy her goblet. “We met at Faye Sylvester’s funeral.”

  Kabatsin nodded. “Yes, I do remember.” Once again, his eyes looked at Tubby’s like a man with a present to give.

  “Dr. Kabatsin is the Prince’s brother,” Peggy interjected. “In fact, he is the reason that the Prince came to New Orleans.”

  “No, not the only reason,” Kabatsin said, laughing. “And he is not yet quite a full Prince or really a Sultan.”

  “No?” Tubby inquired.

  “No, but he is rich enough to be a Prince. He’s not the first in line, however. He has to wait a while.” Kabatsin gave his friendly laugh again. “Now please excuse me, I need to see what has become of my son, with all of these girls around and all of these other temptations.”

  He departed, squeezing through. “What a charmer,” Peggy said, her eyes sparkling.

  “Quite a guy,” Tubby acknowledged. “What kind of doctor is he? He seemed to want to cure me.”

  “Not quite, hon. He may have wanted to relieve you of your bank account. He does restorative surgery for women. And he has quite a following.”

  “Restorative?”

  “Faces, darling. Faces and breasts.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The party was still in full swing when they left about midnight.

  “How about a cup of coffee before we get the car?” Peggy asked.

  “Yeah, sure. I don’t know what’s open. Maybe Envie, that espresso bar on Decatur. It’s a couple of blocks, but…”

  “That’s okay with me. I’d like to walk.” They nodded politely to a small yellow-haired woman who seemed to have staked out a spot beside the front gate. She ignored them, being too intent on scoping out the place and keeping a watchful eye out for one of the guests inside – Dr. Kabatsin.

  Even at the late hour, there were many people strolling purposefully along the sidewalks, circumventing the sleepy waiters who were grabbing smokes outside the back-doors of restaurant kitchens, but the night was vastly more quiet than the soiree they were leaving.

  Neither of them tried to talk. Tubby touched her elbow as they crossed streets and stepped over the legs of abandoned souls splayed out in doorways. There was a crescent moon, sliding in and out of clouds and hiding behind the roofs of the faded stuccoed Spanish townhouses. From the open upstairs windows, curtains blew out over the balconies and flapped like sails in the wind. As always, there was the haunting moan of ships’ horns, the smells of the river, of coffee and of pot, and snatches of song from the bands playing on busier blocks nearby.

  “Nice night,” Tubby remarked.

  “I guess,” he thought he heard her say. She was strangely distant.

  They came out on a crowded corner, where cars were crammed up, trying to get around a taxi. The doors of their coffee shop stood open. It was, in fact, blindingly bright inside.

  Peggy found a quiet table by
an open bay window, and Tubby went to the old wooden counter, covered in teas, cups, and advertisements for yoga lessons, to place their orders. Latte with soy for her and a coffee, black, for him.

  Delivering these back to their little perch, he took his seat. Peggy was staring outside at the sidewalk, called by some the banquette. Young people wearing knit caps and yarn backpacks, one with “Columbia, SA” stitched on it, walked by laughing.

  “Great party,” he said, to start the conversation.

  Peggy only nodded, mesmerized by whatever she was staring at beyond the portal. “So many colors,” she said at last. Tubby was relieved to hear her speak.

  She turned to face him. Her eyes narrowed. “So, where were you exactly?” she asked.

  “I was just over in Mississippi,” he replied, sipping his coffee.

  “That’s what you said.” She lifted her cup and blew over it.

  “I had some business over there.”

  “Really?” She arched her eyebrows.

  “Yeah. The truth is, I needed to see a lady.” To himself he thought, I don’t need to tell her this. That lady is dead. But the urge to be honest won out. “She was a woman I used to be serious about,” Tubby continued. He took a swallow of coffee and choked.

  “Take it easy,” she advised.

  “Right,” he said, recovering. “Anyhow, Peggy, the thing is, what you and I have is becoming, uh, very important to me, and to be fair to us both I felt like I needed to clear away some old baggage.”

  “So that’s what you did for two weeks?” Her latte was probably getting cold.

  “No, for most of that time I was just camping out and lying in a tube on a creek looking up at the sky, because I was trying to figure out about all that stuff. And some other things.”

  “Other things?”

  “Well, some things about me, but we don’t need to go into that right now. The important part is I decided to go see this person.”

  “So, you saw her? And did those old embers get fanned?” Peggy had a very pretty face, in Tubby’s opinion. High cheek bones, a healthy complexion, full lips and green-blue eyes framed in nearly-red blond hair that she had pulled back. But at the moment, she was showing more than a little strain.

  “No, of course not. Actually she had a boyfriend with her when I dropped by her house, so not a lot got said. But plainly it was all over.”

  “All over for you? You said you had some unfinished business. I figured it was with a woman.”

  “Okay, yes, in a way it was about a woman. Her name was Faye, and I felt that I should tell her about you and, just, get that part of things over with.”

  “How did it go?” Peggy sat back and drank from her cup of foamy brew without looking at him.

  “Well. She understood. Of course, I left right away. But then I went back the next day, and I discovered her body. Dead,” he added.

  Peggy set her cup down. “My, that’s convenient, I mean, shocking.” She touched her lips with her napkin. “Who did it?”

  “Yes, it was quite shocking. And I am very saddened by it. But the murderer who sliced her up is not known yet. It’s under investigation.”

  While Tubby revisited the scene in the cabin and his revulsion, Peggy averted her eyes and seemed to be studying some space immediately above his forehead.

  Clearly this was more than a shocker, and Peggy had to regroup before demanding any further explanation. Tubby supplied it nevertheless. He went through the events he knew about, his camping trip, his interrogation by the sheriff, the funeral he had just been to.

  After he was done, there was a long silence.

  “You didn’t tell me any of this while it was happening.” She was stating the plain truth.

  “No. I thought I should get through it by myself.”

  “By yourself,” she repeated. Peggy took a swallow of her concoction and quickly laid it down. “I think I need a real drink,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t mind one myself,” Tubby agreed.

  “So, do you feel like you ended it? Were you sure that it should be ended?”

  “Absolutely,” Tubby said with conviction.

  Peggy looked at him skeptically. “I’m very sorry she’s dead. But you never told me about her.”

  “That’s true, but neither one of us has talked a lot about our former lovers and affairs.”

  “I don’t have very many to talk about.”

  Tubby shrugged.

  “Okay, that’s that,” Peggy said with finality. “I’m ready to go.”

  “Sure.” Tubby offered to help her up, which she didn’t want, and they made a quiet exit.

  “Would you like to come over to my place for that drink?” he asked as they walked.

  “Hmmm,” she muttered, pausing to take a deep breath of the aromas of the street, sugar mixed with coffee. “No. I think I’d rather stay tonight at my apartment. I can drop you off at your house if you like.”

  They continued on to the Sultan’s mansion, where Tubby summoned her car. Loud music, maybe Kermit Ruffins, escaped through the walls.

  “Hop in,” she said, when he tipped the man and opened her door.

  “No, thanks, Peggy. I’ll take a cab.”

  She nodded and raised the window.

  “Tough luck,” the valet told him.

  Tubby gave him a grin, the kind that scares people off, and walked down the street. There were at least seventeen bars between this corner and a cab stand.

  CHAPTER 15

  Marcus Dementhe, the former Orleans Parish District Attorney, had long felt the burn of his own internal corruption and had spent a lifetime trying to appease the flames by accusing others of being more corrupt than he was. As a politician, he had successfully campaigned against public greed and graft, pointing the finger at his predecessor, who was actually a trusty Boy Scout; at his political opponents; and at other lawyers and judges, often with no more factual basis than his own hungry suspicions. He was popular with voters, emotional stability never having been a requirement for electing New Orleans DAs.

  But even with the immense power of prosecution in his hands, Dementhe could not resist the compulsion to overwhelm innocent women with a violence he could not control.

  When he was politely examined by a policeman, one Johnny Vodka, about how his fingerprints came to be found at a rape scene, the prey-seeking public servant knew he had an entanglement from which he might not escape. Since he was nearing the end of his term, he feigned a heart condition and took a medical leave. In the confusion following Katrina, he announced that he would not be running for re-election and slipped away quietly to St. Lucia, a lovely French island in the Lesser Antilles.

  So many records were lost, so many unsettled matters were forgotten in the storm’s aftermath. And in time Dementhe realized that no one was looking for him. His state disability check was forwarded regularly to the island every month. Unfortunately, it didn’t go as far as he would like. After a few years, while he was scheming to stage a slip and fall at one of the beachside resorts, he got into a small scrape involving the nubile daughter of a tourist.

  Dementhe decided he might do better back in the States. He still had his Louisiana bar license and another for Alabama, having been raised in Anniston, and the timely death of his mother, bless her heart, had left him with some capital. So he bought an extremely nice condo in Orchard Beach, and back to the USA he went.

  He hung out a shingle on his condo door, in a quiet and understated way, and presented himself to the local bar as a mild-mannered, handsome, avuncular fellow, semi-retired but wise, with the excellent experience of being the former chief prosecutor in Orleans Parish, Louisiana. That was impressive, and soon he began receiving appointments from the bench to represent indigent litigants. He accepted these commitments graciously, almost as a favor to the bar, and generally obliged everyone (except his clients) by pleading the defendants guilty.

  As temporary vacancies arose in a court due to a judge’s illness or some conflict of interest
, Dementhe began accepting friendly assignments to sit in on an interim basis. First the city court of Gulf Shores, handling rent disputes, apartment break-ins, and drunk college students, and then the county court of Harrison County, where he got to see real problems. He favored those involving adolescent sex slaves and their pimps, of which there were a surprising number there on the Gulf Coast. Many of the abusers and their abused seemed to come from Atlanta. Had they not been detained in Alabama, their next stop would likely have been in New Orleans.

  Dementhe began to volunteer with the Sheriff’s Department as a mentor to troubled youth. Ironically, and as luck would have it, some of these came from a program run by the Rev. Buddy Holly at the Nazarene Diggers School in Mississippi.

  In a very short time “Judge” Dementhe was invited to help plan a Mobile Mardi Gras Ball, and that was really what it took to be an insider again. To build on his success, he moved to town. At night he dreamed of running for state Attorney General or even Governor. He would need a wife for that. Hopefully, nobody would spend much time talking to his old one. A potential new prospect was her sister, Marina Sylvester.

  His dreams were not only about the grand future he might have. There was also a memory that too often surfaced at night. A woman cutting her own throat and hugging onto him while her blood gushed madly out of her expiring earthly form, leaving it to him to dispose of her deflating body. That image was true, he believed, though there were other frightening dreams also involving slender female forms about which he was less sure.

  * * *

  “It’s a hell of a thing,” Raisin told Tubby, “that you should be suspected of a murder.”

  Tubby shuddered. “What murder?”

  “That woman up in Mississippi, my friend. What else are we talking about? It was probably some hunter.”

  Raisin Partlow was indeed an old friend, all the way back to college days. He had a good heart, and nothing really troubled it for long. He had a grizzled handsome face, curly black hair, and he looked perfectly fine on a tennis court.

  “I don’t guess I’m too much of a suspect. They let me go.”