Flag Boy (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 10)

by Tony Dunbar

  Paraclete had a natural affinity for all things financial and had even been admitted to a Middle Eastern offshoot of the Wharton Business School. He was aware, from conversations he had overheard between his father and other uncles back home, that some questions had been raised about Kabatsin’s accounting for this family treasure. Paraclete took a keen interest in the discussion since, as the eldest, he stood eventually to inherit the oversight of these assets, and because he personally believed that Uncle Kabatsin was lavishly wasting the money on his child, Carter, and on his wife, who had expensively left the doctor’s home.

  Carter was known to present issues. He was said to have felt neglected by his American mother and to have become a malevolent youth bound for a bad end. Paraclete was expected, by his side of the family, to dominate the competition with his younger cousin.

  Paraclete’s own father, however, was also part of the problem. He kept marrying, and his multiple wives kept bringing new brothers and sisters into the family, all of whom required outlays of lots of cash. Paraclete assumed that his Uncle Kabatsin, for his part, might be quite displeased with these endless dalliances. As Paraclete saw it, the sooner he got control of these moving parts, the better for him and his clan.

  The ostensible reason for the Bazaar family trip to America was to investigate the possibility, with Dr. Kabatsin’s assistance, of naturalizing all of the Bazaar males as American citizens, so that they could eventually be educated in the United States and pursue huge fortunes of their own. Getting such an education would, of course, be a substantial expense, and it could be expected to involve a tremendous investment of family wealth.

  Yet another cause for young Paraclete’s concern was that his Uncle Kabatsin might expect to inherit from his murdered brother’s estate. And Paraclete, since he had survived the mass murder, would be the only man standing between his uncle and that inheritance.

  On the second day, peering through the glass, Paraclete caught a glimpse of a young woman, hair like a fountain of gold rings, slipping down the driveway and disappearing around the back of the house. She was carrying something in an apron or pack around her waist. He didn’t see her go inside, and he didn’t see her come out. He could not guess who she was or where she had gone.

  On the third day, with not much to show for his vigil, Paraclete decided it was time to reveal himself. The plain fact was that he was tired of eating the stale nuts and crackers he had scrounged from the mini-bar in his uncle’s man cave. The boy washed his hands and face as best he could at the mini-bar and popped open the door to the courtyard. Here he found his cousin Carter, a youth of his own age, apparently strangling the orange cat. Carter quickly converted his throat hold on the pet into a cuddle, but the cat sprang from his arms.

  “Paraclete?” Carter asked.

  “Yep, it’s me.”

  “Didn’t you die?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Cousin Paraclete marched to the back door of the house and made his entrance. The doctor was putting breakfast dishes into the sink. He had a cereal bowl in his hand.

  “Hi, Uncle ‘K,’” he said. “It is me. For a visit.”

  The doctor’s bowl clattered into the sink.

  CHAPTER 25

  Willie Hines’s next stop was the good Doctor Kabatsin’s house. He rapped on the door. A teenage boy answered.

  “You must be Carter,” Hines said extending his hand. “I met you at Miss Sylvester’s funeral.”

  Carter stared at the visitor suspiciously and didn’t take the hand.

  “I’d like to see your father,” Hines told him, still smiling. There was another youth there as well. It was Paraclete, and he quickly disappeared from the hall.

  “I’ll find out if my father is home,” the boy said. He pushed the door, but Hines held it open a crack. When the boy left, he stepped inside. Colorful artwork, from South America, he judged, hung in the hallway.

  In a minute, Kabatsin appeared. Hines introduced himself again, and said that he was a friend of Marina, Faye’s sister. The doctor, though rattled not just by Paraclete’s sudden arrival but also by some threatening graffiti he had just found on the walls of his study and the mysterious appearance in his desk of some of his late brother’s belongings, including his brother’s prized turban and highly valued heirloom emerald, invited his guest into the living room. He even offered water. Hines declined, but approached the wall. “Is that a Toulouse-Lautrec?” he asked admiringly.

  “Yes it is. It’s a copy, I’m afraid. The original is in storage.”

  “Of course,” Hines said. “Very wise, from an insurance perspective. You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. What can I do for you, Mr. Hines?”

  “I am interested in your brother’s death.”

  “My brother?”

  “Yes, Sultan Bazaar. And his unfortunate family, of course. Quite a tragedy.”

  “Yes, it certainly was.” Kabatsin’s face froze. “How does that interest you?”

  “Absolutely. A great tragedy. I am truly sorry to hear about their demise. But there may be insurance issues here as well. I know your brother was quite wealthy.”

  “Who are you?”

  “But his estate seems to be depleted. The most likely explanation is that his wealth transferred to you. How, I’m not sure.”

  Kabatsin jumped to his feet. “This is outrageous! Get out of my house!”

  Hines kept his seat. “I hope you will talk with me, on a straightforward and honest basis. You see, I’ve been told by some of your patients that you may have taken liberties with them.”

  Kabatsin advanced upon Hines and grabbed the front of his shirt. He lifted the plump man out of his chair and propelled him towards the door.

  “Understandable that you might be upset, doctor,” Hines managed to say. “But you should talk to me. We don’t want these complaints to become public, do we? I’m only interested in money.”

  He was tossed out onto the steps. Kabatsin slammed the door and went down on one knee, nearly passing out as he sometimes did in moments of great stress. He recovered and stood up to see his son, Carter, watching him.

  * * *

  Right before he went to bed, Tubby got a call from a number he didn’t recognize. He answered anyway.

  “This is Dijon, Ednan’s stepfather.” The voice was right, but a little bit not right, as if Dijon were drunk or half-asleep.

  “Hi,” Tubby said. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

  “You should be glad, or not so glad. There are spirits who can speak to us. Did you know that?”

  “I’ve always thought so,” Tubby agreed.

  “Yeah, well I got ’em, and we talk whenever they want. And they say there are some conspiracies on you. So you better be careful.”

  “Conspiracies?”

  “That’s right. Conspiracies to do you in, or frame you for things you have not done. And you need to be aware of that.”

  “Thank you very much. Who is conspiring to do this?”

  “I don’t know that. Just you take care. I’ve got other business to attend to.” He hung up.

  Tubby stared at his phone and lay back against the pillow. What the hell was that? was all he could think. And he thought that for the next hour while he lay sleepless in bed.

  * * *

  The soccer game out at City Park ended about nine-thirty. Albert Louis and the five members of his pack were waiting impatiently in two pickup trucks in the gravel parking lot watching the game’s final moments. Albert Louis had already spotted Cisco, sitting across the field in the stands with his wife and the other fans who were watching their high-schoolers race up and down the field. Cisco didn’t seem to be enjoying the game so much. He kept looking anxiously across the grass at the trucks. There was a whistle from the referee and very quickly and quietly the families collected the young and their gear from the benches, packed them into SUVs, and headed home for the night.

  Albert Louis watched Cisco, his friends, and their wives all gather. There was
some dissension and heated discussion as the men tried to send the wives and kids away. It took several minutes. The upshot was that some of the dads departed down Marconi Drive and Cisco was left on the sidelines with just two of his crew in support. The car lights faded away, and the spots on the field were turned off. Albert Louis and his boys got out of their trucks.

  The two sides faced off with each other behind one of the goalie nets.

  “I want the money, the Rosary Box, and the keys to the guns, the Armory,” Albert Louis told Cisco. “I have the authority of Father Escobar and the Night Watchman.”

  “I talked to Father this morning,” Cisco asserted bravely. “Or tried to. He could barely wake up. But he professed his love for me, for God, and for the cause.”

  “He’s too old to run anything anymore. That’s why he selected Detective Mathewson to be the Night Watchman. And we are all working for him.”

  “I don’t know where any money is, or any guns either,” Cisco said.

  Albert Louis made a sign, and his friends tackled Cisco’s two compatriots, who were both in their thirties and somewhat pot-bellied. They began kicking them in their crotches and faces. The men screamed. “Give him what he wants! They’re killing us!”

  Cisco raised his hand to stop them. This was also the sign for his cousin, who was hiding back in the live oaks of the park, to come out waving his 9 millimeter, but the cousin was out cold, having been clocked hard with a baseball bat by one of Albert Louis’s skinhead brothers, who had also been concealed in the bushes.

  Albert Louis got in Cisco’s face. “Give it over, shithead, or you’re going to die out here on this field. I’ll send your wife flowers.”

  Cisco was a highly-pragmatic deal-maker. He sold cars for a living. While his fellow dad’s club members crawled off to nurse their bruises, he offered everything to Albert Louis, in exchange for $250,000 in cash – enough to pay off his house mortgage; and his pick of three of the antique guns, including the West German Heckler & Koch HK33 with the short recoil that he favored. There was a related grenade launcher that he wanted. On the rest, which could be worth millions, he would give up his claim.

  Albert Louis, quite astonished by the numbers he was hearing, quickly agreed to these terms.

  They both hoped to betray the other.

  “But, once we make the transfer,” Cisco said, “I’m out of this. You understand? I want to hear nothing more, ever, about the cause, the Cuban Revolution, the Kennedy assassination, whose money it is or was, where the weapons came from. Nothing, you understand?”

  Albert Louis nodded. He didn’t know anything about any of that crap.

  CHAPTER 26

  Tubby conceived a trap. He made a call to the Reverend Buddy Holly but had to leave a message with the school receptionist. He had barely settled back into his chair after getting a strong cup of Community coffee, the way he liked it, when his office phone lit up and Cherrylynn said Holly was on the line.

  “Hello, preacher, how’s the weather over there?”

  “Sunny and breezy, like most days. What’s up?” No small talk today.

  “I’ve got some ideas about Faye Sylvester’s death,” Tubby said, “and I’d like you to set up a small meeting of all involved.”

  “Involved? I didn’t know anybody was officially involved yet.”

  “I have my suspects, but I can assure you that you are not among them.” That wasn’t exactly true. “That and the fact that you are prominent in the community means to me that you would be the right person to bring the whole gang together.”

  “Okay,” Holly said, mollified. “But who, and where, and when?”

  “Faye’s cabin, where she was murdered, is where. When? The sooner the better. Let’s try for Friday morning. The ‘who’ is a pretty long list, but I’ve just got three names for you. Marina Sylvester, Sheriff Stockstill, and, in case there’s a medical emergency, that doctor, Kabatsin.”

  * * *

  After Holly hung up, Tubby called Flowers.

  “I want to get them all talked into coming over to the Mississippi cabin Friday. I assume you can be there?”

  “I can make the time. But here’s some news for you. I’ve found Marcus Dementhe.”

  “Where is the son of a bitch?”

  “He’s sitting pretty in a condo on Government Street in Mobile, Alabama.”

  “Nobody knew he was there? He never got indicted or charged with anything?”

  “The murder of that girl ten years ago? No, he was never charged with that. What was her name? Sultana Patel? Nope, he just disappeared after Katrina and didn’t run for re-election. Maybe someone cut him a deal. I don’t know if anyone realized he was stateside, but he’s in plain sight. The condo is in his name and he paid good money for it three years ago. Now he’s a prominent citizen and being mentioned as a candidate for public office.”

  “That’s shocking! What does he do with himself?”

  “He practices law big time. But not here. The Louisiana bar page just says ‘inactive’.”

  “How far would you say his condo is from Faye’s cabin? About an hour and twenty?”

  “Possibly. Or a fast hour.”

  “Okay, we’ll invite him to the meeting, too.”

  “You’ll do that?” Flowers asked.

  “No, why don’t you? With him, the indirect and mysterious approach works better.”

  Tubby made the invitation himself to Johnny Vodka. He pitched it like this:

  “Officer Vodka, I’m investigating those murders in Mississippi, and they are tied into your case, the ‘French Quarter Sultan Massacre.’ You want to know who did it? If so, you’ve got to leave the jurisdiction and drive over to the vicinity of Kiln, Mississippi. That’s the deal.”

  “What’s a kiln?”

  “A town.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Everything you need to know.”

  “Yeah? I’m thinking you’re a suspect yourself.”

  “That’s pretty rude. Here I am inviting you to a true detective event and you put me down.”

  “Do you still say you have information about that police killing, the one where Mathewson was a witness?”

  “I’ve gotten past that, detective, but why don’t you invite Mister Mathewson to join our party?” That was a long shot.

  “He and I don’t talk every day.”

  “That’s too bad, because he’s organizing a bunch of skinheads to raise hell in New Orleans. You might want to keep an eye on him.”

  “That doesn’t sound like one of the many assignments I have in this department.”

  “Not until he kills somebody.”

  It took a few more minutes on the phone, and Tubby got no commitment, but he concluded that Vodka was in. Then he made some other calls.

  CHAPTER 27

  Friday dawned overcast and chilly, the air like a cold blanket over the woods. It was the kind of day where throats get scratchy by reflex and you dream of the islands while pulling your collar tight to keep the wind from blowing down your neck.

  Like estranged relatives coming to the reading of a will, the parties arrived in their own separate cars, parked in spots that seemed to be selected to allow for a speedy escape, and eyed each other warily as they crossed the yard and approached the late Faye Sylvester’s cabin.

  There were two Pearl River County Sheriff Department cars, one for Stockstill and the other for his deputy. Representing the New Orleans Police Department, Johnny Vodka and Frank Daneel showed up together in a city-owned Ford, unmarked except for the blue light stuck to the dashboard with a suction cup.

  Tubby was surprised to see the retired detective Adam Mathewson get out of his car. Officer Vodka must have gotten through, but Tubby could only guess why Mathewson was willing to come.

  Then there were the civilians. Marina Sylvester was there, escorted by that oddball Willie Hines. She seemed as happy as Tubby was to see the elderly and dapper Marcus Dementhe come up the steps. He looked like he was ready to pro
test something, but his face softened for Marina and he gave her a little hug.

  Doctor Kabatsin parked his Ferrari near the mouth of the driveway so that he wouldn’t have to risk riding over any bumpy gravel. He hiked to the house, accompanied by his son Carter. There was also another teenager with them, a boy with dark curly hair whom Tubby didn’t know. The boy calmly looked Tubby in the eye when he mounted the steps and said, “Paraclete.”

  To keep it homey, Tubby had also asked Peggy O’Flarity to come along. That suited her, since she seemed to be curious about this cabin and what it might reflect about Tubby’s taste in women. She may also have wanted to keep an eye on her boyfriend.

  The Reverend Holly was the official greeter at the front door. Flowers was inside to show people the meeting arrangements. Tubby was claiming an armchair by the door to the kitchen. The ladies had first dibs on the small sofa against the wall to his left. Three chairs had been brought in from the kitchen and placed facing the moderator in his armchair. Kabatsin took one and Willie Hines the other. Flowers took the third, which had been positioned where he could protect Tubby’s flank. The cops, the kids, Mathewson, and Dementhe got standing room only at the rear, by the front door. Flowers wanted the cops there in case they had to prevent any early departures.

  There was considerable shifting around, some good-natured and some grumbling, as they all got arranged in the room. Holly pranced around nervously. The place was fairly packed.

  “One, two…” Tubby went around counting heads. “Fourteen. Well, that should be just about everyone.