by Tony Dunbar
She told him what she had learned at the library, showed him the picture she had taken of the brief death announcement in the Times-Picayune, and produced the file that Officer Sandoval had given her.
“He expects it back,” she said, laying out the pages on the desk for him to read.
She showed him the faint scratches on the file folder and wrote out her interpretation for him.
“This is really great work,” he told her. Tubby felt odd, seeing the police report and Kronke’s name. It was if the past was rising back up with disturbing power, made more eerie by Jason Boaz’s strange reaction at lunch. Kronke and he had crossed paths before.
“We tend to minimize the passion and danger and violence of our youth, as we get older, as we get good at adult games,” he said to Cherrylynn.
They stared at each other. Neither was sure what he was talking about.
“I’m getting out of here,” he said. “And I’ll take this with me.”
XIV
Raisin Partlow had tried to live an uncomplicated life. He had gone back to school after the war and collected his degrees, but he had never done a thing with them. His major achievements were in the realms of tennis and boating, two careers where you could wear shorts, and over the years he had formed attachments with a number of accomplished women. He was usually serious enough about a girlfriend to move in with her, which saved him a lot of overhead.
The war now came back only as fitful dreams for Raisin. It didn’t actually seem true-to-life anymore, but was as if it had happened to someone else who might have died years ago. It did, however, always feature helicopters. Sometimes he was in the middle of the drama, giving the high sign on a cloudy day to a young pilot carrying a fresh rifle squad into battle. Sometimes he saw himself running out onto the tarmac when a bird flapped home carrying its cargo of bloody warriors. Sometimes a careless soldier dropped a match, and flames raced faster than they could run, and they were blown away by exploding aircraft. Those were his standard three dreams. Sometimes, he could mentally skip to the end and wake himself up.
Or, if it was bad, he yelled, or struggled, and Sadie shook him till he sat up awake.
“What was that?” she would ask him, frightened.
It didn’t happen every night. Not nearly every night. Raisin totally rejected the role of victim. He had a superior life and an enviable backhand on the tennis courts. He thought about Marlboros, which he was trying to beat for the twentieth time, a lot more than he thought about Vietnam. America had had a lot of wars since then. It made him feel old to think about his own, so he made an effort not to.
He buried his face in Sadie’s breasts while he caught his breath. This was just an afternoon’s nap that had gotten out of control, but now he was in the embrace of a beautiful scented woman, and in the present moment he could thrive.
An hour later, when they began to think about their evening plans, Raisin remembered that he had promised Janie he would go, again, to the Monkey Business for some event that very night. But lying in the bed with Sadie, he didn’t feel up to it.
Pulling a white towel around himself, he found his phone and called Tubby.
“I made a promise I can’t keep,” he said, and told Tubby about the benefit. It was an early show. A bunch of “fabulous musicians” were playing for free to raise money for some artist who was in jail for public indecency. Whatever that was. Something about street art. The event would show off the bar at its best. Could Tubby possibly attend? There might even be newspaper and blogger attention that would help his tavern-owning client in the important realm of community affection. Raisin was a good salesman, and Tubby said he would be sure to drop in for a few minutes.
* * *
Tubby arrived while Andy J. Forest was playing harmonica, backed up by a bass guitar and a drummer. This was good, reliable, high-class New Orleans music, and he relaxed immediately about the whole noise-level thing. He needed a few soothing moments after his disturbing lunch with Jason Boaz. Bad enough to spoil a stuffed quail. Bad, too, to think that Jason was linked to an old atrocity. But what stung most was being shut out by a client whom he had long thought of as a friend. This bugged him greatly. He was quick to search out a drink.
There was a big crowd in the bar. Evidently whoever was in jail had some supporters. There were actually banker types wearing suits and ties in here. Make that bowties. The artist must have tapped into a well-to-do following. The cover at the door was twenty dollars.
Tubby threaded his way to the bar and wedged himself between a tall boy with the beard of a goat-farming Mennonite and a blond woman in a tight white dress with some sparkle to it, cut above the knees, whose back was to him.
“Old Fashioned!” he yelled at Jack, who gave him a slight nod.
The Regal Beer sign flashed on and off. Andy Forest was into “God Will Understand.” Tubby turned his attention to the blond woman, whose rear end was bumping against his right thigh.
She was engaged in conversation with another lady, brown-haired with a brown business suit, who looked as though she might have spent her day firing people. Her eyes happened to pass his. “Hi, ladies,” he said.
The woman in the suit smiled at him. The blond looked over her shoulder and turned partway around. She was a very appealing, very attractive woman about his own age with unusually clear skin, blue eyes, and bright red lipstick.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Tubby.” He sucked in his gut and grabbed the glass that had miraculously appeared. “I’m a lawyer. You?”
“Peggy. Peggy O’Flarity.” She touched her hair. “And this is Caroline.”
Tubby reached over and shook Caroline’s hand. Then he offered his to Peggy. “What brings you here?” he asked.
Her fingers were long and cool. He was sorry to let them go.
“I volunteer at the Contemporary Arts Center,” she said a little loudly because the band was heating up. “We are one of the sponsors of this event.”
“Great. I’ve gotta admit I’m not familiar with… the artist that this is for. What’s his name?”
“Dinky Bacon. He does studio art, but he’s also a street performer.”
“What did he do to get into trouble?”
“He’s been incorporating male burlesque into his music and sometimes in his gallery exhibitions. Basically he just got a little too naked in Jackson Square.”
That was funny, and Tubby laughed. He clinked glasses with Peggy, who was drinking a beer.
“It’s a great city,” he said. “You come here much?”
“First time.” Her mate, Caroline, had rotated to pay attention to a nearby woman with spiked purple hair and an aqua tutu. “Seems like a nice enough place,” Peggy observed. “It somehow feels familiar to me.”
“I think it’s a great establishment,” Tubby said. “I represent the owner.”
“That’s right, you said you were a lawyer. I don’t like lawyers.”
“Neither do I. Why don’t you?”
“My ex, I guess.” She smiled again and finished her beer.
“Let me buy a round,” Tubby suggested. “I’d like to know more about our honoree and why the arts center thinks he is worth supporting.”
“He’s actually internationally famous,” she said. “But admittedly, that’s mostly through the Internet since until recently he didn’t believe in displaying his pieces for sale.”
“Will he be here tonight?”
“Not unless he gets out of jail. The point of this whole thing is bail money.”
“I suppose he has a lawyer.” A frolicking drunk smashed into them and apologized. Tubby mopped Old Fashioned off his shirt.
Peggy used her napkin to help him a little. “I suppose he must,” she mused.
Tubby let the subject drop. He had enough hopeless causes. Still, it looked like a lot of twenty-dollar bills had walked through the door.
He was able to get a few more details about the lady. Peggy lived far, far away on the North
shore. Actually, she owned horses.
“I know all about horses,” he boasted. He was thinking about horse races, of course. But when he was ten he had had a pony.
Her kids were scattered, one in Nashville, and one in D.C.
Her ex still lived in New Orleans in their old house. She got the horse farm. And the horses.
And Tubby got her phone number, written on the back of a CAC flyer promoting “Bourbon and Burlesque.”
Peggy O’Flarity had to leave early because of her long drive home. He walked her to her car, a BMW.
Back in the bar he knew only Caroline, who was at this point fully occupied by colorful people whom Tubby didn’t find to be his type. Janie never made an appearance. Tubby drifted outside to compose himself in the dark. Only a few low-decibel sounds escaped from the bar, and he could hear train cars clanking in the distance. He decided that this would be a good time to drive home, after pausing for a few slow and deep inhales of rich Mississippi River air.
When he reached his house, he found a message on his land line from Marguerite. All was still well in sunny Florida, but why hadn’t she heard from him? She couldn’t understand. Was he all right? She was just worried about him, that’s all.
He liked his Florida lady. That much was true. The chemistry was there, but ever since she had moved south from Chicago, she seemed to have developed a nesting instinct. Naples was her nest and Tubby wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be an egg.
That picture was wrong on several levels, including the one that was his life, here in New Orleans, close to his girls, his law practice, and etcetera. She was also a Yankee, but what did that matter?
Nevertheless, he didn’t call her back and went to bed.
It bothered him when he woke up before six, and it bothered him while he stoked up a pot of Community coffee. Eventually, after he had made some toast and eaten a Satsuma, he hit reply and let the phone ring. To his great relief, he got her voicemail.
But he didn’t leave a message.
He felt bad about that, too.
XV
The lawyer got to the office a little early, even before Cherrylynn. After leafing through The Advocate, where he learned that murders in New Orleans were on a pace to match 2004, a record year for homicides, and after checking his emails, he decided to follow up on the information Cherrylynn had given him.
Tubby knew the policeman, Kronke, who back in the distant past had done the so-called investigation into the death of John Doe. In recent years this same officer had interrogated Tubby when a client showed up dead in a Place Palais elevator minutes after visiting Tubby’s office on the 43rd floor. Later on still, Tubby had questioned the policeman, during the crazy period when he was on the trail of the Crime Czar. Tubby regretted that he had once told Kronke to screw himself. Maybe the policeman had forgotten that, but Tubby doubted it.
He pressed in the number that Cherrylynn had given him.
“Hello,” Kronke answered. He sounded grumpy, like he had just woken up.
“Hello, detective, this is Tubby Dubonnet…”
“The attorney,” Kronke said flatly.
“Hey, you remembered. It’s been quite some time.”
“I’m off the force, so why could you be calling me?”
“You quit?”
“I retired. I was out of there at sixty. All I do now is kill skeet and chase the ladies.”
“Good for you. Yeah, well, I’ve got a couple of years to go. You know, I’ve still got one kid in college. So I’m still practicing law.”
“Enough of this old time’s sake,” Kronke cut him off. “Why did you call?”
“I’ve gotten interested in a case, a very old one. Back in the early 1970’s. There was a shooting at a demonstration on Canal Street. A young kid was killed in a drive-by.”
“Really.”
“I know that’s a long time ago, but do you remember anything about it?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you were apparently the investigating officer.”
“Who says?”
“Well, your name was in the paper. And there’s a police report that says the deceased was a vagrant, maybe a dope dealer. He was pronounced dead at Charity.”
“Early seventies. Sorry. I wasn’t on the force until 1979. Must have been my old man.”
“P. Kronke?”
“Same name. He was Peter. I’m Paul.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that there’s no follow-up information in the record?”
“Maybe the record was lost. Or maybe that’s all there was. Back in the seventies, even after I became a cop, there was a homicide every day. Every Friday and Saturday night was like a shooting gallery on the carnival midway. Even Sundays, except when the Saints came on TV. One dead, two, three. They just kept coming in.”
“I remember. But there’s this piece of paper in the folder and it has a name, ‘Bert Haggarty’ and the word ‘Indiana’. Could you make a guess what that means?”
“No.”
“I thought maybe it was the boy’s name, or his family’s name.”
“I can’t help you.”
“That’s too bad. There’s another name here. It’s hard to make out. But it’s Carlos Pancera. Do you know who that is?”
The line went dead.
Tubby looked at his phone. “I must have struck a nerve,” he muttered. He called Jason Boaz, who also answered.
“Who is Carlos Pancera?” he asked.
“Tubby, leave this alone. You’ll get us all killed.”
“Well, who is he?”
“I want nothing more to do with you. I have spent my entire life getting away from these people. You are too valuable to throw yourself away on these sort of Don Quixote questions.”
“You make it all seem quite dramatic.”
“This is not some crime novel you are writing. This is not historical research. This is real. Think about your family.”
That caught Tubby in the gut.
“I have been working on the decibel app,” Boaz shifted gears, “and maybe one day I will again seek your legal advice. If you are alive to give it. In the meantime, go to Radio Shack.”
Flowers phoned in. He wanted to make his report in person, and Tubby invited him to come on downtown.
While he was on the phone Cherrylynn made a pot of coffee. He filled her in on his conversation with Kronke.
“And by the way, when Flowers gets here please show him right in.”
Her hands flew to her hair. He enjoyed watching her blush. For some reason, the detective’s visits always energized his secretary.
“Oh, before I forget,” she said as she was closing his door. “Your friend Marguerite called and left a message.”
“What was it?”
“She says she’s taking a cruise to Cancun and not to be concerned about her. She said she’d let you know when she returns.”
The door closed. All of a sudden Tubby was full of concerns and regrets. How could he lose Marguerite? She was such a rare and rich individual.
His remorse was short-lived. There were other important things to think about, right? Who the hell was Carlos Pancera?
And his computer told him that pleadings had been filed in Jahnke v. Grimaldi, his oilfield accident case that had been squatting in Eastern District for a couple of years because one judge had recused himself, and it took an eternity for the new “Her Honor” to be appointed to the job. The pleading was a Rule 56 motion to dismiss Tubby’s client’s case on summary judgment. He didn’t want to read it. Mercifully, Flowers showed up.
Cherrylynn ushered him in like he was royalty.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he told her. “How are you, Tubby?” The detective appeared bright and eager, as always.
“Breaking up with my Florida girlfriend, I think. How are you?”
Tubby’s loss didn’t faze Flowers. “Hard at work. Do you want to hear about Caponata or the police union boss first?”
“You choose.”
“They are related. Your police association president is Archie Alonzo, an important citizen, as you would expect. He rides in Bacchus. His wife filed for divorce on the basis that he chained her up on her birthday, which he characterized as ‘rough love.’ Apparently, she came around to his way of thinking. She dismissed the suit, and they seem to have reconciled. He was on the last mayor’s transition team. The interesting thing is that he lives way beyond his means. His salary is about a hundred and fifty, but he’s been going to Vail and to Grand Targhee Resort in the Tetons. He drives a Lexus LS, which costs close to $75,000. And he had a big ol’ house in Tall Timbers. Estimated on Zillow to be worth more than a million. So he’s got to be on the take somehow.”
“All very interesting, but it doesn’t get me closer to a defense for my errant police officer, Ireanous Babineaux.”
“Right, well, this might possibly help. One of Alonzo’s close friends is Trey Caponata. They’ve appeared together in the Times-Picayune society page. Both support the Kenner Rotary’s efforts to curb cancer. And Caponata submitted an affidavit for Mister Alonzo, the union boss, in his divorce proceeding, before Alonzo’s wife withdrew her petition. In the affidavit, Caponata, the mobster said that the union dude was a faithful member of the Saint Bonnabel School’s dad’s club, that he was known for his fried turkeys at Thanksgiving, that his wife was an exaggerator, even in high school, and that he had never seen any hint of marital discord between the two.”
Tubby leaned forward with a grin on his face.
“This is pretty good stuff, detective. You mean to tell me that this wise guy Caponata, whose bodyguard is my client Ireanous Babineaux, is a bosom friend of Archie Alonzo, the man my client punched out?”
“Seems to be the case.”
“Well, embrasse moi tchew, they’re all in something together.”
“No doubt about it.”
“So, what do you think Caponata is into?”
“He’s remarkably clean,” the detective reported. “He supports the governor with money, but modestly, like five hundred here and there. Caponata has a girlfriend in Houston, but he keeps it quiet and has been married to the same woman for twenty years. No recent criminal record.”
