Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8)

by Tony Dunbar

  “A macho guy. A crime fighter.”

  “Have they caught the shooter?”

  “No. I want to meet with you in person.”

  “Sure. Absolutely. When?”

  “Right now would be good.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Le Bon Temps Roulé uptown. Know where that is?

  “Sure. Are you allowed?”

  “Today’s my day off. I’m not in uniform.”

  “I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m already here.”

  * * *

  Le Bon Temps Roulé was a venerable neighborhood dive on Magazine Street with a pool table and a piano. It was open all the time, though early morning customers had to lift their shoes to let Jessie Beach do his daily mopping. The bar’s jukebox never stopped, so at a table by the window Tubby’s and Sandoval’s conversation was hidden by “Help Me, Rhonda,” followed by the Ventures, which someone who had already caught a cab had selected. The volume wasn’t at maximum, since it was late morning. The barmaid left them alone.

  “Quite a while since I’ve been here,” Tubby mused. He was searching for the Moss Man photo that used to hang over the portal to the back bar. “Are we drinking?” he asked.

  “I don’t drink,” Sandoval said. He looked like he’d been working out for a couple of hours. His white T-shirt stretched to cover his major biceps. He had on navy-blue sweat pants below.

  “It’s a little early for me, too,” Tubby said regretfully. They were now the only patrons in the place.

  “Sorry about your partner,” Tubby said again.

  “My partner?”

  “Babineaux. He said you ran the off-duty officer thing together.”

  “He always talked too much.”

  Tubby shrugged.

  Sandoval said, “He told me he hired you to be his lawyer.”

  “That’s true, but his check hasn’t cleared.”

  “It will. Babineaux was usually straight with the money.” Sandoval lowered his big head for a moment, as if in silent prayer. His eyes might have been moist. “Bad stomach,” he said, recovering.

  “Did he leave a family?” Tubby asked.

  “He’s got a kid up north who will probably get his benefits, little as he deserves them, and a girlfriend on Transcontinental who could use the money. We’ll probably pass the hat to help her out.”

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  “What did he hire you to do?”

  “That’s a professional, what do you say, confidence, but it basically deals with the dustup with your union president, Archie Alonzo.”

  “Was that all he wanted to talk about?”

  “I can’t tell you more than I just said.”

  “Well, what do you know about Alonzo?”

  “Only what Ireanous told me, and I can’t share that with you.”

  “Then if you won’t talk, you can’t help me,” Sandoval said, with an unpleasant snort. “And sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong didn’t help Babineaux.”

  “Who says I was sticking my nose anywhere?”

  “I do. Archie Alonzo does.”

  “Did Alonzo set Babineaux up?”

  “Not in person.” Sandoval seemed disappointed. “Alonzo was at some meeting with the mayor. I think some hood off the street blew Babineaux away. But by Alonzo just sending a crime-buster like Ireanous into a crime-ridden neighborhood— it was like sending him to the executioner. Everybody knew that. It was to be expected.”

  “I heard he was shot at close range with his safety still on.” Tubby had gotten that from Flowers, who had gotten it from a detective Argueta.

  “Really?” Sandoval said. “Then it must have happened fast.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s that,” Sandoval said. “You’re not telling me anything new about my old partner, and I’m out of here.”

  “Wait!” Tubby got a grip on the cop’s forearm. “Weren’t you and Ireanous close?”

  “In what way?” the cop asked. “We weren’t married.”

  “You were friends in school.”

  “We beat the shit out of each other in high school.”

  “Was Trey Caponata part of your business deal?”

  “Caponata tries to be a part of everybody’s deal. He comes up with a lot of jobs for our off-duty cops, like Italian weddings and graduations. But he’s the kind of a guy who always needs a little slice for himself.” The policeman pulled away from Tubby’s grip.

  “Where does this leave you?” Tubby asked. “Are you going to keep working in Police Records?”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Dubonnet. I’ll take care of myself. And it seems to me that you don’t have any more business in police affairs.”

  “You can call me if you need any legal advice,” Tubby told him.

  “I’ll take care of myself,” Sandoval said again. He pushed himself out of the booth and walked out of the bar.

  Tubby watched him get into his police car and scratch off from the curb. The street was empty except for the vapors rising from the outdoor smoker of a barbeque joint across the street. A passing city bus blew them away. Tubby leaned back and closed his eyes to think.

  He wondered absently how Sandoval knew that the police union boss Alonzo had been at a meeting with the mayor when Babineaux was shot. He wondered what Sandoval had hoped to learn from him in the first place.

  The cop’s departure brought the bartender back to life.

  “Want anything, sweetie?” she called from the bar.

  Tubby shook his head.

  He felt that he needed to go home and take a shower.

  XX

  “Ms. Peggy O’Flarity gave me your name,” the voice on the phone began. That was an introduction that worked.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I go by the name of Dinky Bacon, Mr. Dubonnet, and I am a visceral artist.”

  “Ah, are you the gentleman who was arrested for being naked in Jackson Square?” Tubby had known this call was inevitable from his first encounter with Peggy, bless her heart.

  “That is hardly the extent of my artistic presentation, but nudity in front of the cliché of Saint Louis Cathedral, where every crying child in America has been photographed by its mother, and the grit of street people who surround that religious edifice, goes to the substance of my art, which in my estimation…”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Tubby interrupted. “I’ve also seen some of your plumbing sculpture at the Contemporary Arts Center. But, Mister Bacon, where are you calling from?”

  “I’m in the parish jail.”

  “I thought they raised your bail money last week at the benefit concert.”

  “They did, but would you believe there was a detainer out for me for failing to appear in court last November?”

  “What was that charge all about?”

  “Art and nudity at the Voodoo Fest. I duct-taped myself to one of Drake’s speakers. All they gave me that time was a ticket.”

  “Yet you didn’t appear?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Is your time on this phone limited?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. There is a line of criminals waiting for me to get off.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “I thought I did. He was a volunteer, and a very nice young man, I thought, but after they said I couldn’t go home, he left, and I haven’t seen him again.”

  “Do you want a lawyer?”

  “Yes, I think I need one, and Ms. O’Flarity said you were the very best.”

  It was hard not to cry.

  “Got it. Do they have you booked under the name of Dinky Bacon?”

  “No, my real name is on my wristband.”

  The lawyer sighed, and waited. Nothing more was forthcoming.

  “What is the name on your wristband?” he finally asked.

  “Tobias Magnum,” the client said reluctantly.

  “Well, too bad, Tobias. This is Friday
. There are basically no judges around until Monday. Even if I found a judge and she was willing to release you on your own recognizance, there is no one at the jail with the authority to cut you loose this afternoon. In any case, I am going to be gone for the next couple of days, so whatever I might do will not happen over the weekend.”

  “I’m going to miss my sister’s birthday.”

  “I’m just telling you my situation.”

  “I don’t know anybody else to call.”

  “Neither do I. Public Defender?”

  “They say next week.”

  “There you have it.”

  “But there will be a producer from the Arts Channel at my sister’s birthday bash. He’s coming to film me. It’s my big break!” Bacon was distraught.

  “Tell you what,” Tubby said. “Give me the producer’s name and number and I’ll call him. I will tell him your plight, and maybe he’ll see a story in it and come over to the jail with a film crew. Wouldn’t that be the lead-up to a great documentary?”

  “Man, it sure would. Wait. I’ve got his number memorized.”

  He rattled it off, and Tubby read it back to confirm. What sounded like a fight was breaking out around the jail pay phone, and the call ended.

  Despite the gloomy picture he had painted for Dinky Bacon, the attorney decided to take a shot and called the Honorable Alvin Hughes, the one judge he knew who might be willing to do something on his holiday.

  XXI

  Saturday morning came up typical New Orleans beautiful, and Tubby was very grateful that he had been invited to take a trip to the country. He had promised to be at Peggy’s on the Northshore at about 11:30. They would enjoy the air, take a tour, eat some lunch and, if he liked, go riding. He bounded out of bed at his normal 6:30 and donned a pair of new blue jeans and an expensive checkered skirt from the Orvis store in the Warehouse District.

  His phone buzzed, and it was Raisin.

  “I was out in Janie’s neighborhood last night,” he said.

  “Can you tell me about it later?” Tubby asked. “I’ve got some important matters involving a lady I need to attend to.”

  “Okay. Did you get that sound meter from your bud?”

  “Sure, I did.” Tubby didn’t go over the point where Boaz had threatened him with a gun.

  “I’d like to fool around with it if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. It’s simple to operate. You just turn it on and point. Cherrylynn knows where it is, and she can figure out how to get it to you.”

  He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to drive the fifty miles into the totally unfamiliar country of the far north. Like a lot of city dwellers, the lawyer simply never had any need to go across the lake. But he was psyched for this trip and he hit the road right after downing a single cup of coffee. First, a stop to fill up the gas tank at the Shell station by the river and check his tires and oil. Can’t be too careful when you’re on a long expedition across a vast body of water. Second, he pulled into Dot’s Diner on Jefferson Highway, a favorite breakfast joint that he rarely visited because it was off his beat.

  The special thing was, they were friendly. They also had several different morning papers lying around, and kept your coffee cup full. And they made their own biscuits. He took his time ordering and eating. The diner didn’t sell booze, but there was a bar next door that advertised good Bloody Marys at an attractive price. He was immensely full of high-calorie food, however, so he abstained and rolled onto the highway.

  The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway calls itself the longest bridge in the world, at 24 miles, though other bridge builders— in China and Turkey for instance— have challenged the claim. It is, however you measure it, inarguably long, and it crosses the wide, brackish inland sea that makes New Orleans almost an island. It provides an option for urban sprawlers who, if they don’t mind the distance, can spread out into the rolling piney woods of St. Tammany Parish to create gated communities, Christian schools, and golf courses wherever they like. The drive to get to and from the Northshore gives thousands of daily commuters the opportunity to meditate, to explore books-on-tape, or to read all of their text messages while gazing over the long miles of blue crab trap floats running beside the bridge. They could stare at the distant white sailboats, cruising in the sun’s glare and captained by people far more fortunate than the working stiffs behind the wheel.

  The morning drive northward was opposite to the commuters’ direction and therefore quite peaceful. There was a light chop in the lake. Its sparkling waters stretched to every horizon. The morning sun was off to the right, not blinding, but golden. White birds searched for trout, and Tubby cranked up Chuck Berry singing “Johnny B. Goode” on WWOZ.

  To get to Folsom, once off the bridge, you had to pass first through miles of strip malls and traffic lights, which gave drivers time to ponder questions like who might St. Tammany have been, until at last the Walmarts and subdivisions gave way to “Acreage For Sale” signs. Tubby realized that he was still running a bit early, so he poked along, even stopping at a fruit stand to encourage local food by buying some fresh honey. It would end up in his pantry back home with all the rest of his unopened jars of country honey, craft-fair chow-chow and mysterious jalapeno salsas.

  He followed his MapQuest directions to a narrow blacktop road that wound around rolling pasturelands and past the occasional polo club. Tubby had never watched a polo match, but he knew it to be a pastime for the wealthy. Peggy O’Flarity’s driveway was gravel, and he slowed to spare the paint job on his restored Camaro. A large split-level brick home surrounded by hedges and trees with bright flowers appeared, and his hostess was in a porch swing waiting. He suppressed the temptation to fishtail as he came around her circular drive.

  “Here you are,” she said happily, rising to greet him as he climbed out of his car.

  He gave her the proper kiss on the cheek.

  She offered Sangria from a pitcher afloat with orange slices, which he naturally accepted, though it wasn’t his drink. He sat down on the porch rail facing her in the swing— all very much as he imagined a proper country squire would do. The sun was on his back. It lit up her face and brightened her white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Are you hungry or would you like to see my place first?” she asked.

  “I’d like to see your place. It’s very nice to be out of the city.”

  “Isn’t it? Coming here is just so invigorating. Do you smell the hay?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it.”

  “They just cut it yesterday,” she said proudly.

  “How many horses do you have?”

  “Only six. And one is too old to ride.” He thought six was quite a large number.

  “What do they all do?” he asked.

  She smiled at the question. “Oh, I ride them. I also have friends who join me for what we call ‘expeditions.’ I have a groom who takes care of the stables and all that.”

  “Do you have a cook and a butler, too?”

  “No,” she laughed. “My horses are cared for far better than I am. I actually have to cook and dress myself.” She was wearing jeans, with the white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a substantial gold necklace with a green stone that fell about where the top button of her shirt would have been.

  After they finished their beverages, she took him walking around the estate. They visited a hay barn, the stables, the head of a trail she said stretched for miles over the farms of the other landed gentry, and a spot she liked where you could look over a pond at a long green horizon of trees. She said it was a special place for sunsets. Then they went back to the house for lunch, Tubby nodding while she chatted away like a tour guide.

  Lunch would be nothing fancy, she said. Just a lump crab salad with an aioli dressing made of garlic, olive oil, lemon juice and egg yolks, served on crispy tortillas, which she admitted she had made. He was quite bowled over, and he also appreciated her simply and tastefully furnished house. The furniture was contemporary
. There was incredible art on the walls, oils, watercolors, photographs, and glass art pieces. They sat in the kitchen, and she served them more wine.

  “What do you really do for a living?” she asked at one point.

  “Mostly I represent people whom I find interesting and try to get the best possible results for them. I’m a problem solver.”

  “Are you an ethical lawyer?” she asked, coyly flashing her eyes at him.

  “I never lie to the judge,” Tubby said. “And I never screw a client. But I do try to get paid.”

  “That all sounds very sensible.”

  She cleared the plates into the sink, and he helped. They talked again on the porch, and he learned that she had gone to school at the University of Arkansas, where one of her daughters was now enrolled. Another daughter was about to get married in Nashville. The ex-husband, the attorney in New Orleans, was bending over backwards to pay for the wedding in ways too splendid to comprehend. Tubby was amazed that he didn’t recognize the guy’s name, but the fact was he didn’t travel in the same circles as most of the big-firm guys.

  “So would you like to go riding?” she asked.

  Rashly, Tubby said yes. It will all come back to me, he thought. Apparently his willingness to have an adventure had been anticipated, because two of the horses were already saddled and waiting outside the barn.

  “You won’t want to push Ramses very hard,” Peggy said. “He’s getting so old and lazy.”

  “All the better.” Tubby managed to mount without assistance. Peggy did so far more gracefully and she knew comforting words to whisper in her nag’s ear.

  They took off on a leisurely trot across a wide field, and Tubby found that a measure of his teenage horsemanship did come back. They followed a farm lane over the hills that had views of far-away mansions and miles of green pine trees. More than two hours passed this way, and the sun began to set. Tubby regretted that the day was ending and told her so. She had obviously enjoyed herself, too, so he took a chance.

  “Can I take you out to dinner?” he asked.

  “Tonight? You don’t have to do that.”

  “But I want to if there’s somewhere you like. Where do people eat around here?”