by Tony Dunbar
Flowers turned into the priest’s driveway, which served as the divider between their target and the neighbor’s house. Tubby fell in step. At the rear of the house narrow concrete steps led up to a back entrance sheltered under a dirty aluminum awning. Flowers ascended in one long stride and, so swiftly that Tubby didn’t even see it, he torqued open the back door and slipped inside. The lawyer hurried in after him.
They were in a small laundry room adjoining an old-fashioned kitchen, the kind common in New Orleans houses that haven’t been renovated since the fifties. It had wooden kitchen cabinets painted in lime sherbet, a black and white tiled linoleum floor, a small rickety yellow table with the morning breakfast dishes still on it, and a white enameled sink, its discolored chrome fixtures dotted with corrosion. The room was lit by a pair of fluorescent tubes on the ceiling that buzzed and blinked faintly when Flowers clicked on the switch.
“Not a rich man,” the detective whispered. He seemed relieved. If one dug deeply, which Tubby had, one would find that Flowers came from a culture that didn’t believe that priests, even the bad ones, should ever be rich.
The next dim room was being used as an office. Past it, through tall French doors, was the parlor and beyond that the front door to the street. The office had intriguing filing cabinets, a desk and a large bookcase stuffed with magazines, and a stairway, marked by carved newel posts, led upwards.
Flowers ascended it. Tubby paused to size up the office and think about the man who worked here. There were a number of Bibles. The blinds were pulled down to shut out the sun. A ceiling fixture of slender plastic wands tipped with yellow candle-flame-shaped bulbs provided less light than what little sneaked around the curtains. The man who worked here had no great interest in the world outside. Was he inflicting punishment on himself?
Tubby went looking for Flowers.
There was a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Its door hung open, revealing walls tiled in pink. A stained white curtain covered a little window. Tubby moved past that private spot and found Flowers poking around in the priest’s bedroom.
It, too, was simple enough. A single bed, properly made up, a tidy bedside table with a goose neck lamp, a towering dark mahogany dresser, and prints on the wall of religious figures, all men, some with halos. All were totally unknown to Tubby who, unlike Flowers, was a Protestant.
Even though the old fanatic had abandoned Tubby to be eliminated, the lawyer had the sense that there was something sacrilegious about invading the priest’s private space.
“Let’s get out of here, man,” he whispered to the detective, who was on his knees looking under the bed. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“Wait just a second,” Flowers said, his voice muffled under the mattress. “What have we here?”
He backed out, dragging with him a long plastic bin, the kind that might store extra blankets or winter sweaters. It rolled on little wheels.
“Looks like papers of some kind.” He pushed it in Tubby’s direction. “There’s another one under here.” The top half of the detective disappeared again.
Plastic clamps fastened each end of the bin, and Tubby wasted no time popping them open. Inside were dozens of neatly stacked file folders and ledger books, packed tightly next to each other. Tubby extracted the first one on top.
The folder was labeled, “March 1961.” Inside were carbon copies of “Minutes,” and on the first sheet he saw, after the date and a list of names who were “In Attendance,” a “Discussion of Castro Nationalizing Church Property.” He gave it a quick read, which revealed that the discussion detailed efforts to lobby Florida Senator Smathers and Louisiana Senator Long for military intervention in Cuba.
Flowers dragged out the other box. Tubby grabbed it and looked inside. On top was a folder labeled “March 25, 1963.” And the first item, also called “Minutes,” stated that, “The application of Lee H. Oswald is tabled. Donation of $200 from Judge Perez accepted. Bookkeeper will acknowledge.” Tubby replaced the cover on the bin.
“This could be very heavy stuff,” he said hoarsely.
“We can carry them.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Tubby said.
“Want to take them?” Flowers asked.
The lawyer pondered. The material wasn’t theirs, of course, but it had unmistakable historical significance. This priest and his friends had possibly killed a police officer to keep it hidden. And it was stuff that Tubby would really like to read.
He nodded, and the two men, each carrying one of the long bins, shuffled down the steps.
Flowers clicked off the lights as they went, and they exited from the back. Catching his breath, Tubby waited with the boxes in the driveway, looking as inconspicuous as a stranger can look standing beside a priest’s house in a residential neighborhood at two in the afternoon, while Flowers brought the Yukon around. They made quick work of storing the boxes in the back, and both men jumped inside. Flowers circled the block so that Tubby could hop into his own car, and they were out of there.
* * *
The two bins ended up at Tubby’s home, which the lawyer deemed the most secure location immediately available.
He searched in his mind for the name of any history scholar he might know, and came up empty. So he called the Dean of the Tulane Law School and asked him to whom he ought to speak about an important collection of Louisiana documents urgently needing preservation.
He got the name of a Dr. Sternwick, who was in charge of one of the university Library departments, and he called the man right away. Getting a voicemail, Tubby left his name and number, dropping the Dean’s name liberally.
Then he took a quick shower.
Peggy O’Flarity had said she might stop in for a glass of wine before driving back to the Northshore, and he had a lot to tell her.
* * *
The morning paper brought the news that Carlos Pancera had died from what appeared to be a self–inflicted gunshot. He was described as “a prominent Latin American civic leader.”
Had the disappearance of his files pushed Pancera over the edge? Tubby wondered about that, and also whether someone might have found it expedient to eliminate him. Pancera was survived by a big family.
During the day, Tubby had been leafing through the bins, and Peggy, who had changed her plans and stayed with him, brought coffee. She entertained herself tending to Tubby’s bruises, answering emails, and reading the news on her laptop.
“Look at this,” she interrupted early in the afternoon, plunking her screen in front of Tubby.
An obituary was posted in the online version of the paper. The reference to “self-inflicted wound” had been deleted entirely. The service was going to be held next Sunday at the St. Agapius Church. It would be performed by ‘Father Escobar (ret)’.
“This priest,” Tubby said. “I see him talked about in the minutes. Let me read you something.” He located one folder from the pile. “October 15, 1963,” he read. “It says: ‘The Special Mission to Texas is underway.’ Could they be talking about killing the President? And at the end it says: ‘Our work was blessed by the Night Watchman.’ ”
“And you think… what?” she asked.
“It’s plain,” Tubby said. “Who else would give the benediction but a priest? I think I’ve found the ‘Night Watchman!’ ”
XXIX
Peggy left later that afternoon. She had children coming in the morning to ride the horses and she had to get ready for them. Tubby regretted her departure. He had enjoyed their unexpected night together, in his house, and appreciated her concern for his injuries. Now the place felt empty. He looked around the kitchen and found that the refrigerator was also empty. Making a quick mental list of things he needed to pick at Langensteins, he grabbed his keys.
While locking the front door, he noticed a silver Chevy Impala parked under the live oak tree shading the curb. His own car was in the driveway, but as he walked toward it, the driver’s door of the Impala opened and out stepped Detective, or retired det
ective, Kronke.
Tubby turned to face him and dropped his ring of keys into his pocket to free up his hands. Kronke, ever the cop, marched in like he owned the place and planted himself less than a foot away from the homeowner’s shoe tips. Kronke was shorter and rounder than Tubby, but he had a lot of muscle mass packed under his blazer. He was bald and red-faced. He had the remains of a fat cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth.
“You got a lot of nerve,” he said to Tubby, punching out the words.
“What the heck are you talking about?” the lawyer asked, his butt braced against the door of his Camaro.
“Walking around like you ain’t got a care in the world. You ain’t forgot where you was two nights ago have you?”
Tubby wasn’t sure what Kronke knew or didn’t know, so he just said, “What’s it to you?”
“I’m asking the questions.” Kronke pointed a finger as if to prod the lawyer in the stomach but stopped, maybe sensing Tubby balling up his fists. “Tell me how you killed Rick Sandoval.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How’d you pull that off?”
“I want you to get the hell off my property.”
“Listen to me, you dumb shit. Your days are numbered and that number is going to get a lot smaller if you cause any more trouble for the Pancera family.”
“What’s it to you? I thought it was your father who investigated the Parker kid’s murder.”
“You happen to be messing with my friends.”
“So you were in the group, too? What did they call you? The ‘Cop’s Kid’?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“How about Sandoval? You called him ‘Security,’ right?”
“He’s never been anything but an FBI snitch,” Kronke grunted.
That shut Tubby up.
“You got it?” Kronke mocked him. “You killed a government man.”
“Did I save you the trouble?” Tubby whispered.
Kronke’s grin was mean. “That’s something you can worry about at night, Dubonnet. In the meantime, leave my friends alone.”
“You mean friends like their priest, Escobar?”
“Him, especially,” Kronke growled, edging forward until their chests almost touched.
“What was his job in the group? Father Confessor?”
“You’re a shithead.” His breath was in Tubby’s face.
“Did they call him the ‘Night Watchman’?”
“Now you’re going too far.” Kronke reached into his jacket as if going for a shoulder pistol, but Tubby’s fist caught him in the jaw.
Kronke stumbled back and came up with a gun, but not before Tubby drew down on him with his own .45.
Panting deeply, the lawyer still managed to get out, “I’m entitled to shoot to kill anyone who threatens me on my property. You know that, old man?”
Kronke straightened up and carefully re-holstered his pistol. He felt his jaw, then spat onto the driveway near Tubby’s shoe. He grinned, wiped his lips slowly, turned around, and walked away. His car screeched off down the quiet street.
One of Tubby’s neighbors came out on her front porch to see who was causing trouble, and Tubby promptly hid his weapon. He got behind the wheel, still shaking.
Once he remembered what he was doing, he drove off to the grocery store.
* * *
The next morning, while Tubby’s new girlfriend was giving horse rides to happy children in some better place, Tubby was pulled away from his second cup of coffee by the ringing house phone.
He didn’t recognize the voice that asked for Mr. Dubonnet, but the caller explained.
“My name is Victor Argueta. I’m a policeman. I’ve been investigating the shooting of an officer named Ireanous Babineaux.”
“I thought that was being handled by Internal Affairs. Is that you?”
“So you knew Babineaux?”
“Yes. He was my client.”
“That’s what I gathered.”
“Really? How?”
“From his text messages. I downloaded them off his phone.”
“Great initiative,” Tubby said.
“Not really. It’s not very hard.”
“It’s impressive that you thought to do it.”
“Not all cops are stupid, Mister Dubonnet. In fact, most of us aren’t.”
“Sorry. I’ve just had some bad experiences in the last few days with members of the force.”
“Understood. Did one of those happen to be Archie Alonzo?”
“The head of your union?”
“The head of the union, yeah.”
“No. I’ve never met him. Why do you ask?”
“There was a text from Alonzo that could be interpreted as a threat to Babineaux.”
“They weren’t on the best of terms. Alonzo claimed that my client broke his jaw.”
“That’s right. Your client did, in fact, break his jaw. That could be reason enough to kill a man, don’t you think?”
“Could be. Or to have him killed. Is that what happened?”
“I don’t know. How about Rick Sandoval?”
“The cop who got blown up? What about him?”
“Babineaux sent him a text, asking him to help you find some documents.”
“That’s right. Sandoval located an old police file for me, about a shooting that happened in the 1970s. He didn’t find much.”
“Closed file, huh? A lot of those are very skimpy. Officer Babineaux also texted Alonzo and told him to stay out of the business, by which I think he meant the off-duty patrolman referral service. It was a racket that Babineaux and Sandoval were running.”
“I didn’t know it was a ‘racket.’ ”
Officer Argueta chuckled into the phone. “It was a way to make lots of money off cops who need to make a little money. But I guess it was probably legit. Alonzo has it all to himself now.”
“What does that tell you?”
“I got two dead cops. Ireanous Babineaux and Rick Sandoval, both of them twenty-year veterans, like me. And one thing that links them together is Archie Alonzo.”
“That’s interesting.”
“I think so. But guess what? The other thing that links them together is you.”
Tubby couldn’t argue with that.
But he wasn’t ready to spill what he knew about the youth group, Pancera, and all those old records. Not to a stranger on the telephone, and not while those papers were still in his house.
He placed another call to the Tulane historian, but he got the same voice mail.
“These university guys work less than I do,” he muttered to himself.
He decided to devote a few more hours to going through those bins. His initial foray had taken him up to the fall of 1963.
He fixed another cup of coffee and opened the folder identified as “November 1963 to December 1963.” The first papers in it were minutes of a meeting on November 1, 1963. As usual, the meeting was called to order by “the Leader” and there was a quick report from “Security” to the effect that no new subversives had been identified in New Orleans, other than the usual outside agitators and the fact that a lawyer had arrived from New York City to staff the “Committee for Civil Rights” office on Magazine Street. She would be watched.
Then came a financial report from the Recorder. There had been new income of $35.25 as a result of “paper sales.” Then there was a note that “$100 delivered to J. Ruby for Dallas travel plans.” Tubby jumped up and began to pace the room. There was only one Ruby he could think of— the anonymous man who had shot to death the president’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in the basement of the Dallas police station, before Oswald could talk.
When he calmed down, Tubby read on.
* * *
“Should I pick you up?” The voice was Peggy’s, and it broke Tubby’s spell. He tried hard to remember what she was talking about.
“The wine and cheese?” she prompted. “The gallery opening? Dinky Bacon’s e
xhibit on Julia Street? Five o’clock?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I did sort of forget. I’ve got to grab a quick shower. How about I meet you there?”
“At five,” she repeated.
“Right. I’ll be there.”
* * *
He made it to “Gallery Row” just a few minutes late, wearing a blue linen jacket over a natty white shirt and khakis. After cruising two blocks in both directions he reluctantly accepted valet parking and handed over his keys to a teenager with styled yellow-blond hair. A number of the art galleries were apparently having functions at the same time because the sidewalk was packed with pedestrians, all dressed in good taste and all looking like they had some money to spend.
Through its expansive windows one could see that “The Gallery Z’Herbes” was popular tonight. Tubby adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, and plunged in.
More people than legally allowed were crowding the center of the narrow space, waving glasses of wine and laughing at each other’s wit while not paying a lot of attention to the art. Tubby, however, found it hard not to inspect the work, partly because it seemed so inartful. The pieces were smaller than those displayed at the Contemporary Arts Center, but they were of the same genus. The first to catch his attention was an irregular construction of white plastic water pipes from which was suspended a rusty wrench and three framed black-and-white photographs. They depicted what appeared to be old-time Bourbon Street burlesque shows.
Peggy found him studying one of these pictures— girls in a can-can line.
“My forgetful date appears,” she said and lightly kissed his cheek. “Our artist is in the back room. He asked if you were coming.”
They picked their way around two diminutive men with identical goatees and chartreuse turtlenecks to the next display. “Is his filmmaker with him?” Tubby asked.
“I didn’t see him,” Peggy said, which was a disappointment to Tubby. He leaned over to admire an ancient cast-iron water heater repurposed as art. A number of framed photographs had been fastened to it with solder. One picture in particular caught his eye.
“This is interesting,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Here, take a look.”
