Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8)

by Tony Dunbar

  “Something is going on. I need to have a heart-to-heart with my client, Officer Babineaux.”

  “Shall I keep digging?”

  “No. That’s enough for now. But I would like you to check out someone else.”

  Flowers took out his iPad.

  “He’s Carlos Pancera. Who is this guy?”

  Flowers stopped typing.

  “He’s not a secret, Tubby. That individual is a prominent citizen.”

  “You’re kidding me. Who the hell is he?”

  “He’s the leader of the free-Cuba people here. All the Latinos get his email blasts, unless they block him out. His Facebook following is huge. He’s been preaching about Castro since before I was born.”

  “Castro is still alive?”

  Flowers frowned at him.

  Tubby ignored him. “How come I don’t know these people?” he complained.

  “Maybe you are just not very involved in the Latino community, Tubby. But Pancera is an icon.”

  Chastening information. “I can’t be in touch with everything,” he said, recovering. “How old is he?”

  “Maybe sixty, still going strong.”

  “What do you think his politics were in the 1970’s?”

  “Probably the same as today. Free Cuba. Nuke the commies.”

  “What about opening the dialogue? Cultural exchanges? Economic opportunities?”

  Flowers laughed. “I don’t think you appreciate the depths of passion these folks have. Fortunately, New Orleans is just a sideshow. Their real influence is in Miami.”

  Maybe, or maybe not, Tubby thought. He asked Flowers to get some current information on Pancera.

  XVI

  When lunchtime rolled around, Tubby decided to take a stroll. The sky was clear and the weather was surprisingly pleasant, so he was willing to depart his Place Palais high-rise in the Central Business District and hike a few blocks just for the exercise. To the Contemporary Arts Center, in fact, where he hoped he might run into a certain volunteer. At the very least he might find an interesting exhibit that could serve, in a social situation, as a proper conversation starter.

  The three-story brick edifice on Camp Street had once been the headquarters of the Katz and Besthoff drugstore chain, and memories of K&B’s signature purple color, splashed on signs and logos and labels for treasured house brands such as Creole cream cheese ice cream at 89 cents a gallon and four-year-old bourbon for $4.25, still warmed the hearts of New Orleaneans over the age of 21.

  Happily, the arts gallery was open. Actually, there was no one inside the expansive room, and Tubby strolled about, admiring this and that and trying to understand an exhibit of found-art sculpture, mostly constructed of re-purposed galvanized pipes and plumbing fixtures. Hung from the pipes, or in frames welded onto the arrangements, were photographs of “old” New Orleans, Mardi Gras, ballrooms, fruit vendors. The artist was identified as Dinky Bacon, the exhibitionist whose fund-raiser the lawyer had attended. Bacon was described on a placard as living in Rudduck, Louisiana.

  As far as Tubby knew Rudduck was a boat-launch on the muddy banks of Lake Maurepas and anyone there would have to live in a shack accessible only by boating across narrow bayous overhung with Spanish moss and teeming with alligators and other reptiles. However did this artist get his works, some of which were quite bulky and cumbersome, in and out of a waterbound cabin in Rudduck? This question intrigued him more than the sculptures themselves.

  “Are you a member, sir?” An elfin silken-haired girl with tattooed legs appeared at his side.

  “No, not for years. Do I need to pay something?”

  “It’s actually ten dollars, but an annual membership costs only thirty-five and you get all sorts of special rates and invitations for the performing arts and our important events. We’re just about to start the fall season.”

  “I’ll be glad to pick up some information. Here’s a ten. I was wondering if a woman who volunteers here, Peggy O’Flarity, might be around today.”

  “Ms. O’Flarity? Yes, I believe she’s at the board meeting upstairs. They should be breaking up soon. Then they all have lunch.”

  “Ah. Would it be possible to give her a note?”

  Apparently he looked respectable enough. “I could try,” she said.

  Hurriedly Tubby scribbled on the back of a business card. “Would you possibly like to have lunch with me? I’m downstairs now.”

  The girl looked at the note while pretending not to, and told him to stay put.

  Tubby did. The gallery had floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street, and with that urban scenery as a background, the plumbing art, together with the antique photographs positioned at odd joints, gained a context. The lawyer went groping for insightful things to say to demonstrate his intellectual side.

  Hearing the click of heels above, he looked up.

  He was transfixed by a pair of legs in black shoes coming down the circular stairs.

  “Mister Dubonnet. Is that right?” she asked when she had completed the spiral. She had a wide smile and twinkling blue eyes.

  He found his voice and rose to the occasion. “You’re saying it exactly right, but please call me Tubby. I was just in the neighborhood.”

  She took his hand and gave him a smile. “And I was just finishing a meeting. What do you think of our exhibit?”

  “I think, as seen with the street as a backdrop, these works fit into our urban context.”

  Peggy O’Flarity had to suppress a laugh. “Well put,” she said. “I can’t wait to tell the artist. His show, however, is entitled ‘Country Living.’ ”

  “What does he know?”

  “Quite right,” Peggy agreed. “Did you invite me to lunch?”

  “I certainly did. I’m afraid I don’t have reservations. But we’re close to Tivoli & Lee. I’ve never been there. Want to try it?”

  “In the Hotel Modern, or Moderne, however you say it?”

  “Yeah, it’s just a couple of blocks.”

  “That would suit me, though I’m missing out on pizza and pasta salad with the rest of the board.”

  Tubby ushered her to the door. “You didn’t tell me you were a board member.” He took her elbow at the steps.

  “Yes, and I have been for a couple of years. It’s really a very important group.”

  Tubby was something of a stranger to non-profit boards. He had always shied away from activities with no potential economic benefits other than fishing and hunting ducks.

  “I’d like to hear more about your impressive group,” he lied. “How does membership here compare to, say, being on the board of the New Orleans Art Museum, or the Ogden, or the Confederate Art Museum?”

  She launched into a long and informed answer to that question.

  He enjoyed the sound of her voice. He would have called it languid and sexy. She was learned. She dressed a lot smarter than he did. A white blouse, unbuttoned to a daring point, a bold, beaded necklace he thought could be lapis, a wide red belt, a sharp black skirt, and those heels.

  He realized she had said something that he was supposed to respond to, but they had arrived at the restaurant. “Here we are,” he said with relief.

  “Oh, how nice and cool in here,” she said. The first thing that met the eye was the bar, with colorful stools against one wall, and the second thing was the cheerful hostess who said that a table for two for lunch would be no problem.

  She pointed at a little shiny table with stainless-steel chairs, but Tubby pointed to a booth upholstered in burgundy leather and said that’s where they chose to be seated. They were given black napkins and spring water, and made quick work of ordering.

  Peggy said she was sticking to her diet, and had a luncheon salad made of arugula and apples.

  Tubby couldn’t go quite that far, even for good health, so he ordered the Tivoli Burger, made from pedigreed beef topped with roasted garlic cream cheese, pepper jelly, pickled onions, and bacon. And, just to see how it would come out, an order of deviled eggs on th
e side.

  “How about a glass of wine?” he suggested.

  “Why not?” she said agreeably, and they each ordered a glass of Foxglove Chardonnay, maybe not fancy, but the best they had.

  The establishment also offered a seventy-five-cent martini, but Tubby dismissed that as gauche under first-date circumstances.

  “Was finding you today at the CAC my lucky break?” he asked. “Or do you come into the city often?”

  As she began to speak, the most amazing thing happened. Her subject evolved into New Orleans, what she loved about it, what she hated about it, and he found himself totally engaged in her comments. She would make an observation about the architecture and the oak trees, and he would immediately have an impression of his own to share. The Lake, the history of the French Quarter, all the good things that had happened since Katrina. He was there. It had been a long time, about five years in fact, since he had had an actual conversation with an interesting and accomplished person who liked him. Talking to Raisin didn’t count.

  The food came. Tubby’s burger in its warm bun was suitably immense. The deviled eggs, served on a square pearly dish, were each topped with a scoop of smoked gulf fish in a mousse and with a spoonful of big crispy capers. They each reached for one.

  But the food was almost an afterthought. A good meal, they both said so, but they kept on talking. It had possibly been a long time for her, too.

  Dessert menus arrived, and they both said no. But they ordered cappuccino while she described the Northshore— a land to which Tubby had seldom traveled. It had always represented, to him, a suburban wasteland occupied by narrow-minded, unfortunate people who had to commute hours each day, but she made it sound interesting. What with the beautiful farms, the trails, the rivers, the bicycling, and the cultural events in Covington.

  “I’d sure like to explore it someday,” he said, totally in her spell.

  “You could if you like. Come on over and see my place. You can ride a horse.”

  They made a date for Saturday afternoon. She lived off Route 40, near Folsom.

  * * *

  After lunch they walked back to her parking spot near the Contemporary Arts Center, where they said goodbye. Strolling alone down Camp Street, Tubby was mentally flying, and he imagined how nice it would be to spend the rest of the afternoon out on the lake on his boat. That was way too complicated to make happen, however, since the boat, Lost Lady II, was on a trailer in his driveway and probably out of gas. He considered dropping over to his old bar, Mike’s, on Annunciation Street in the Irish Channel. His Camaro, however, was parked at his office building, so that’s where he ended up.

  Once there, his mind inevitably shifted back to work. Cherrylynn gave him some messages, but nothing was as vexing as his lack of understanding of his police officer client, Ireanous Babineaux, and his apparent involvement with not just the union boss he had slugged but also with the mobster scion, Trey Caponata.

  * * *

  It took two or three tries, and in the intervals Tubby read a motion to dismiss his federal case— a motion he considered repetitive and frivolous— but finally Babineaux called back.

  “Have you heard anything further about Archie Alonzo, the guy you hit, bringing up any charges?” the lawyer asked.

  “The word is out he’s going to charge me,” Babineaux said, “but I haven’t seen anything so far.”

  “You told me he provoked you. Were there any witnesses to that?”

  “Yeah, Rick Sandoval. He’ll say I was provoked.”

  “By touching your chest with his finger?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did anyone else see this? I mean, Sandoval and you worked together and might be seen as friends. Were there angry words? Did anyone else hear them?”

  “The only other person in the room was Alonzo’s suck-up vice president, and he’ll say whatever his boss tells him to say.”

  “Got it. What was the argument about?”

  “I told you. Alonzo didn’t like me operating the off-duty officer job referral service. He wanted it all for himself, so to speak.”

  “You told me that your so-called service was being replaced by an official central dispatch for the whole department.”

  “Yeah, but under the union contract, that dispatch is operated by the police benevolent association, which is run by Alonzo. It takes a percentage, and that ends up in Alonzo’s pocket.”

  “That makes things a lot more clear. I didn’t understand that Alonzo had a personal interest in cancelling out your deal. But tell me, how did Sandoval happen to be there when the argument broke out?”

  “Rick was my partner in the business. You need a black guy and a white guy for everything in New Orleans. I’m the black guy. He’s my white guy. That’s the way it is.”

  “That’s the way it is?”

  “That’s the way it is.”

  “How did you get to know Sandoval?”

  “We actually injured each other in high school. I was playing for St. Augustine and he was playing for Jesuit. He tackled me and broke my collarbone. I rolled over on him and broke his ankle. We were both in casts for the rest of the season, making faces at each other from the sidelines.”

  “How did Trey Caponata become a part of your arrangement, or was he a part?”

  After a pause, Babineaux asked, “What makes you want to know that?”

  “It’s an odd coincidence that you worked for Caponata, and that Caponata is a good friend of Alonzo. You didn’t tell me that Caponata and your victim were such good friends.”

  “Once upon a time we was all good friends.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “Trey is siding with me for right now. He and I go way back together, too. I’ve saved him from getting into a lot of shit he couldn’t handle.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I see you may have been covering up for a criminal.”

  “Trey is legit.”

  “Then he’s the first Caponata that is.”

  Babineaux didn’t respond. He wasn’t giving anything up.

  “I’m just wondering,” Tubby said, leaning back from his desk as if the client were actually in the room, “might there not be a business solution to this whole thing?”

  “What’s that mean, ‘business solution’?”

  “Maybe I don’t have a full enough appreciation of what your business was, or is, but in general terms it sounds like you and President Alonzo are fighting over a particular pot of money, and Caponata, whatever his relationship to this business might be, has ties to you both. Like I say, in big-picture terms, I’m wondering if there might not be a dollars-and-cents solution that could be worked out among all concerned.”

  “Not while that prick Alonzo has me working over in the Fifth District. I think he wants to get me shot.”

  “Tempers are high,” Tubby said. “But maybe it’s a good time to offer a compromise. After all, you got in a pretty good punch.”

  “He has pins in his jaw,” Ireanous said with satisfaction.

  “Give it some thought,” Tubby counseled. “Time heals all wounds. You say you haven’t received a hearing date for your grievance?”

  “No. Not a peep.”

  “I could call someone and see what’s happening.”

  “No. I’m not sure what having an attorney butt in right now would get me. They might want to shuffle this whole thing under the rug.”

  “That’s what you hope?”

  “I guess I do. I need to get Internal Affairs out of this so that I can make my own arrangements. But I do want to have you in the wings for when I need you.”

  “Think about what I said. Maybe there’s a business solution.”

  “I will. Listen, if I get out of this shit hole transfer, maybe I can get your quality of life officer Jane Smith sent somewhere far away, too.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to impact her career negatively.”

  “What career?” Babineaux spat out. “T
he Fifth District is a dumping ground. Officer Smith is only here because she got in trouble for dating our chief’s daughter.”

  “No! She’s gay?”

  “Call it what you want. But from what I heard, Smith wouldn’t put a ring on it, so she fell out of favor.”

  “Your police department sounds like some old-world duchy or Russian oligarchy…”

  “You lost me. I gotta go.”

  Tubby could hear the policeman’s radio squawking in the background.

  The connection broke.

  XVII

  “What’s some lawyer named Tubby Dubonnet doing screwing around in my business?” Carlos Pancera demanded.

  He had Jason Boaz pinned down in a small office in the basement of a church.

  “What? Who?” Jason fumbled for an answer. Carlos and his moral rectitude had always intimidated him.

  “He’s your lawyer, isn’t he?” Pancera yelled. “I’ve heard about that for years. You want some coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Jason said.

  Carlos rang a bell and a pretty brown-skinned girl, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, entered from behind a curtain.

  “Bring us each a coffee,” Pancera told her and she disappeared.

  “I got a call from a policeman I know,” Pancera resumed. “Your lawyer is inquiring about me in connection with a shooting that happened to some nameless hippie decades ago. Decades ago! What’s all that about?”

  “Carlos, you may remember…”

  “I remember nothing. What do you remember?”

  “Nothing,” Jason said helplessly. “I wasn’t there.”

  “You were one of us then. You came from a good family. What happened to you?”

  “I make substantial contributions every year. Leave me alone.” Boaz was defending himself.

  Pancera held up both palms to stop such nonsense. “You’ve drifted away from us.”

  “I don’t remember Cuba,” Jason whined. “I have never met a Communist. I have other concerns that are far more important to me.”

  “Like what? Global warming?”