by Tony Dunbar
“How does he make his living?”
“I think he owns real estate.”
“So, nothing shady in his background?”
“Nothing has ever been proven though years ago there were lots of myths and rumors about him— about our entire refugee community in fact.”
“What sort of rumors?” Cherrylynn loved rumors.
“They’ve all been debunked, but do you know who Lee Harvey Oswald was?”
“Of course. The man who assassinated President Kennedy.”
“Exactly. Did you know he lived in New Orleans?”
“I may have heard that, but I don’t really remember. I wasn’t born then.”
“Naturally not. I wasn’t either, but it is an important part of American history.”
Chagrined, Cherrylynn lowered her eyes.
“While he was here in New Orleans,” Prima continued, “he was active in what was called ‘The Fair Play for Cuba Committee.’ Some people speculated that, if indeed Oswald killed the president, his motive may have been his outrage over the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Kennedy launched the CIA-sponsored invasion force, which angered the pro-Castro people. Then Kennedy failed to support the attack, which lost us the best chance to overthrow Castro. Of course, Oswald may have had other motives. He spent two years in the Soviet Union and was married a Russian woman, so his true thinking is quite murky.”
“What does that have to do with Mister Pancera?”
“Probably nothing, except that if Oswald had any supporters or financial backers, one might speculate that those sponsors could possibly have been found in a community passionate about Cuba, including the anti-Castro community.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, but that theory, in fact all theories, were rejected by the Warren Commission.”
Cherrylynn did not know what the Warren Commission was, but that didn’t matter. “So, it’s not true?” she asked.
Mister Prima shrugged. “A lot of those Bay of Pigs fighters came from New Orleans, and a number of businessmen in this city paid good money to flight-train the Bay of Pigs pilots in Central America. They even provided an airfield in Nicaragua. I’m just saying there were a lot of serious hombres with military experience and violent attitudes in our fair city in those days. Their anger at being abandoned by the federal government got blended together with their hatred of the Civil Rights movement, which many of our local New Orleans community leaders believed to be Communist-led. There was fury and bloodlust aplenty in that period, and it wasn’t even below the surface. It was the philosophy of the people who counted.”
“I had no idea.” To Cherrylynn, New Orleans had always been totally about fun.
“Oh yes,” the professor continued. “I’ve written a paper about it.”
“And Carlos Pancera was involved in all of that?”
“He was young then, but he came from a big family. He did write some incendiary articles for the Latin newspapers. Yet I’d say he has never been much of a public figure. He asserted his influence mostly behind the scenes.”
“Why did he get an honorary degree?”
“Pancera has been a great friend to our institution, and what I have just told you is all ancient history.”
“Did these radical groups have names?”
“Yes, there was the Free Cuba Committee, as I said. There was also the Junior Anti-Communist League, though that sounds better in Spanish. There were the Defenders of Free Enterprise, and the Anti-Socialist Alliance. Quite a few groups actually, though I’d say their membership probably overlapped considerably.”
He was almost drowned out by sirens blaring outside on St. Charles Avenue. It took a minute before they wound down. Cherrylynn used the time to scribble down the names the professor had just given her.
“Have there been books written about any of them?” she asked.
“Not really. There is my paper, of course, but it hasn’t been published. You’d have to do original research. I had sort of a head start. My late father was actually in such a group. He told me a little bit about it. I’ve sometimes even imagined that I was under surveillance due to my interest in this subject.”
His phone rang.
“Excuse me one second, Cherrylynn.”
The teacher held his phone to his ear. His brow furrowed. He nodded without saying anything, then pocketed the phone and stood up.
“I’m very sorry, Miss Resilio, but I have another appointment now and we’ll have to break this off.”
“Sure,” Cherrylynn said, backing out the door. “Can we talk again another day?”
“I’ve covered most of it,” he said. “See you in class.”
Calhoun Street, where she was parked, was blocked by fire trucks. Their rotating lights gave the neighborhood a carnival atmosphere. She tried to walk past them on the oak-lined sidewalk, but was stopped by a helmeted fireman.
“You can’t get through this way, ma’am,” he said. He had a big red mustache. “Go over and use the campus.” He pointed off to his right.
“But my car is parked here.”
“Yeah, what kind is it?”
“It’s a blue Civic.”
“Could be your car was just fire-bombed. Wait here a sec while I get a cop.”
Her mouth fell open. Then she dug her phone out of her purse and tried to reach her boss. But Tubby was still out of range, driving in the country with his date for a nice dinner in Covington.
* * *
On that same Saturday evening, Raisin got to the Monkey Business Bar at about five o’clock after a strenuous day of playing tennis with his girlfriend, Sadie. She was tired and had no interest in going out for beer and music. She did ask if he wanted to join her at a party with people from her work at the oil company. They were all going to watch LSU battle Alabama on television. She promised there would be great food. Tickets on the fifty-yard line at Tiger Stadium might have gotten Raisin’s attention, but otherwise he was not an LSU fan. And for some reason he wasn’t that interested in eating any more.
But he did like to drink. So he did. By the time nine o’clock rolled around, after he had met everybody at the bar who was worth meeting, and just before the music was about to begin, he gave up his stool and took a fresh-air break outside.
The street was full of traffic, going places on a Saturday night. Raisin leaned against Janie’s cypress siding and lit a cigarette. Screw quitting! He could smoke on his night off if he wanted to.
He watched a squirrel, nope, a big rat, traverse the power line overhead on an errand of its own. Inside the next band was tuning up. The chalkboard by the front door said this would be a group called “Roll of the Dice.” A white Dodge Charger with a pretty female driver and a backseat full of girls stopped right in front of him. Because the driver and the passengers were all intent on their phones, he felt entitled to study them at length. But just when he was getting interested, they drove away.
“Wham!” the band started and the night came alive. Groups of people materialized from wherever they were huddled in their cars and crowded into the bar. By the time Raisin had stubbed out his first cigarette, a line was beginning to form outside. There was a twelve-dollar cover and maybe that would be an issue when he went back inside.
He stepped over the curb between two parked cars and pulled out the Samsung tester Jason Boaz had made. He fiddled around with it. He couldn’t quite see what he was doing. Truth to tell, he was a little bit lit. After a couple of tries he sufficiently mastered the tiny keys to turn on a running video of whatever he pointed the camera at. A little more manipulation, following the distraction of a pack of women arriving in tight skirts, and he had a decibel reading. Ninety-eight points. Was that too high or too low? He didn’t know, but he hit “Save.”
The band was getting noisier, but something even louder began to intrude upon St. Claude Avenue’s urban environment. Raisin looked down the street and beheld what looked to be a giant Mardi Gras float. Multi-colored lights flashed brightly and loud music blared from some
serious amplifiers. It was shades of Monster Mudbug, the tow truck driver who wowed the city in crustacean costume and was Tubby’s frequent client. Raisin could see, as the float came closer, a ring of women and men dancing ecstatically around it, waving feather boas and swirling hula hoops. But it wasn’t Monster Mudbug. Not a crawfish in sight. The dancers all appeared to be naked, though the women were decorated with sparkle and sequins. Up top was a regal figure, playing the role of the King, though essentially a naked king. His throne was constructed from a maze of galvanized pipe. His Highness’s scepter resembled an inverted Texas oil well. Behind him was a flashing LED screen that interspersed the name “Dinky Bacon” with black-and-white photographs from New Orleans’ musical and architectural past. There was a confetti machine blasting bits of green paper, like shredded money, behind him. Pulling the spectacular contraption was a four-wheel-drive pick-up truck. A man crouched in the bed, filming the whole scene.
“Art is Free!” bellowed the speakers, drowning out the generator.
Raisin dug this action and flipped out his sound meter. He pointed it at the float, which was lighting up the sky for a block in all directions. The decibel level went steadily up and up, but Raisin’s attention was grabbed by the hula-dancing girls. He jumped into the street to join them, but there were crowd-control chaperones alongside the float who objected.
“No photos! No video, old man!” A twenty-something biker-type wearing a leather vest slapped at Raisin’s camera and sent the decibel-reader flying into the empty lot beside Ashton Monk’s shotgun.
“Hey, dickhead!” Raisin who was incensed, grabbed for his assailant’s leather collar and got his beard instead.
The disagreement was quickly forgotten when a deafening explosion shook the street and rocked the walls of the bar. Raisin instinctively dived to the asphalt.
Porch lights came on up and down the block.
Raisin snuck a glance under his elbow to see the bearded giant crouching beside him, looking fearfully toward the heavens.
Raisin socked the guy where it hurt and made a run for his Miata. He locked himself inside, as the people emptied from the bar, running in all directions.
When the dust finally settled, it turned out that nobody who counted was hurt. Dinky Bacon’s video went viral.
Raisin tried to reach Tubby to file a complaint, but his friend was cloistered inside a house in Folsom. Tubby had turned off his cell phone for fear that it might be used to track him by the night prowlers who had just tried to kill him.
XXIV
On Sunday morning, Tubby woke up in bed with a woman in a cotton nightgown, her back turned toward him. It took a moment to collect his thoughts. There had been an attempt on his life. He was sure about that. He had taken flight to this refuge. Warm arms had welcomed him.
His sleeping companion stirred. Tubby yawned and wished never to leave this room or this bed.
In time he and his hostess both did. They sat at the kitchen table drinking orange juice. He rehashed for her the story of the night before.
“I don’t want to involve you,” he assured her.
“That’s good,” Peggy said. “I do like living.”
But, of course, he had involved her.
They discussed his options, but there was no way Tubby was going to spend the rest of his life hiding out here in the Florida Parishes. It was time to get on the road back home. The trouble would follow him there.
“At least you might consider taking another route back to the city,” she suggested.
“If they want to try again in daylight they already know where you live and where I am. No, I’ll just drive straight on in. I’m more worried about you.”
“I have a groomsman to protect me and a carload of children coming over in an hour to ride horses. I’ll take my chances.”
Tubby pulled her close to him and kissed her. She pushed him away and patted his chest.
“That was nice,” she said.
“This is probably a bad time for us to get serious about each other,” he said.
“Like I said, I’ll take my chances.” She leaned into him, and he found his hand inside her nightgown cupping her breast.
His other hand slowly lifted the back of the gown and lightly caressed her bottom. She kissed him back and he was pressed against the kitchen counter. Tubby had planned to get on the road, but other needs were more immediate. He twirled them around. Now it was she who was against the counter, leaning backwards, and his hands couldn’t stop.
* * *
Tubby pulled onto the blacktop, which was empty of traffic, and turned his Camaro south.
When he was almost to the Causeway, he violated a small law and turned on his cell phone. That was when he learned that he had missed quite a number of messages. Since he was maneuvering through Sunday morning church traffic, he didn’t bother listening to them all, but he did press in a call to Cherrylynn.
“Boss, I’ve been trying to reach you!” she shouted.
“It’s Sunday. What for?”
“I tried to call you yesterday! Somebody blew up my car! It’s just, like, gone!”
“Oh, no! What happened?”
She told him in detail, which took long enough that he was through the toll plaza and onto the bridge before she got to the end.
“And wait till you hear what happened to Mister Raisin!” And she was off again.
He didn’t bother her with his own near-miss. At about Mile Marker 15, where he could see sailboats drifting afar and could imagine sunbathers arrayed on colorful towels on deck, he broke in and gave instructions.
He wanted to see her, Flowers, and Raisin if possible at his house at two o’clock sharp.
“You can take a cab,” he told her. “I’ll cover it.”
* * *
In his living room an hour later, with the Saints versus the Seahawks game muted on the television, Tubby’s team assembled. One by one they recounted their stories.
Cherrylynn’s was the most interesting. They all were captivated by her description of the meeting with Professor Prima and her call to Officer Sandoval. Her car was totaled, and the police said it had to be arson. She had not been able to provide them with any possible explanation.
There had been a brief clip of the burned wreckage on Channel 4, but no suspects were named.
Flowers added that Trey Caponata had spent Saturday at the LSU football game and had tailgated with the Baton Rouge district attorney until almost midnight. The detective had also done some further digging on Carlos Pancera, though he acknowledged that Cherrylynn might have made more progress than he had. Tubby nodded, and she blushed at the compliment.
Flowers’ tail on Pancera had revealed that the suspect had left his Broadmoor home at nine o’clock in the morning, had gone to mass at St. Agapius, and had not emerged until after one. Apparently he had an office somewhere in the church because his name was on a directory in the stair hall, but there was no room number. Upon leaving the church he went home, where he was at this moment. Also, he was a member of Kiwanis and was not registered to vote. Also, he had contributed between $500 and $1,500 to virtually every politician in the state.
“And we’re talking St. Evangeline Parish Justice of the Peace,” Flowers said by way of illustration.
Raisin’s story was graphic and short. This was it:
“Boom! Your man’s telephone was a bomb. It should have wasted me, but I am blessed.”
Tubby told them what had happened to him. All in all, a sobering meeting.
“Here’s what I want,” he told the crew. “All of this has got to be related to me sticking my nose into that shooting back in the 1970’s. Flowers, I want you to get inside that church, and Pancera’s home if you can, and see if you can find any incriminating papers, pictures, anything.
“You figure Pancera is behind this?”
“I don’t know. He’s connected to men with violent histories. And the Babineaux shooting, too, and that detective, what’s his name?”
; “Victor Argueta.”
“Yeah, him. And Archie Alonzo, the prima donna who sent our guy into harm’s way, does he have any violent history? I wish we could get into the books of their police detail company.”
Flowers was busily typing away on his iPad.
“Trey Caponata, the mafia wannabe…” Tubby continued, “what about him?”
“Do you see any angle?” Flowers asked.
“Probably not, but does he know anybody who can make a bomb?”
“Other than Jason Boaz?” Raisin threw in.
“Right. Somebody who can make a car bomb.”
“Boaz has the skill,” Flowers said.
“I guess,” Tubby conceded, “but doesn’t it sound like something a Mafioso would do?”
“Why would Caponata want to intimidate Cherrylynn and you?” Flowers asked.
“I don’t know.” Tubby was exasperated. “Someone has come close to killing my oldest friend Raisin.” Raisin stood and took a bow. “And the very best secretary I have ever had. And me! All in one weekend. We have to find out who and why.”
“I’ll need to put a couple more people on this,” Flowers said.
“Of course.” The lawyer frowned. “Now, Cherrylynn, go rent a car and use my credit card. Follow up with all of that wonderful research and see if you can get us any more names of people who were involved in any of these Cuba groups. God knows why they would care about a dozen peaceniks demonstrating on Canal Street, but maybe. Keep on pumping Sandoval even if he’s not likely to have anything new for us.”
“What about me?” Raisin asked.
“Just take a break,” Tubby told him. “And I’m going to have a talk with my old friend Jason Boaz.”
“I’d like to spend some time with him myself,” Raisin said.
“Me first.” Tubby got up and the meeting was adjourned.
* * *
After everybody left, the first thing the lawyer did was walk around and, even though it was still daylight, turn on every light in the house. Then he went upstairs to locate and load his old Colt .45. After that he drove to Jason Boaz’s condo out by the lake. Because he lived in a big building and parked in its garage, you couldn’t tell if Boaz was home until you knocked on the door.
