Fat Man Blues: A Hard-Boiled and Humorous Mystery (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 9)

by Tony Dunbar

  Professor Prima went down quickly. His lights clicked off with the first kick to the head. His assailants kept up the pummeling long after the professor had stopped moving.

  They did not bother to take his watch or his wallet but trotted back across Broadway to their car and quickly drove away. They had intended to “degrade his capacity” to interfere and believed they had succeeded.

  * * *

  At Touro Infirmary’s Emergency they wouldn’t let Cherrylynn back to see Professor Prima until she lied and claimed to be his sister.

  He was unconscious, covered in bandages, and still under a starched white sheet. Separated from them by a curtain, a woman in the adjoining bed moaned over and over about her pain and someone named Gabriel. While the nurse turned her attention to the woman, Cherrylynn edged closer to Prima. She made sure he was breathing and whispered in his ear, “Hey, Ollie, baby. It’s me. Cherrylynn.”

  But he did not respond. There was no chair in the room so she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. She resolutely stayed there all morning until a doctor came and briskly took the patient’s vitals.

  “If he wakes up,” she told Cherrylynn, “he will probably recover in time.”

  At lunchtime his real sister showed up and broke out immediately into loud crying. Cherrylynn exchanged names with her and quietly slipped away. Prima hadn’t moved the whole time she was there.

  * * *

  Tubby was back from Peggy O’Flarity’s farm. She had declined to return with him to New Orleans, saying she needed a little time to recuperate in the fresh air from her near-death experience. He told Peggy that he suspected the crash was intentional.

  “Do you carry a gun?” she had asked Tubby. “Because I never have.”

  “I keep an old .45 in my nightstand, just in case I ever need to protect you. And a twelve-gauge in the closet, in case any deer invade the house, but they’re never with me when I need them.”

  “I don’t feel very safe,” she said. “I have a .22 pistol in the attic my father gave me for target practice.”

  “Would that have helped you stop that guy who tried to run you off the road?” Tubby immediately regretted asking that.

  Finally she said, “No, but what do you think I should do?”

  “Let me work on it,” Tubby said. “It’s about me, not you.”

  “I want to get back to my life.”

  “I know that.” He was tormented, trying to think of the right answer. “Just be as watchful as you can be.”

  * * *

  “You thought it was over with those Cubans, but it’s not!” Cherrylynn went on. “This is one hundred percent related to those old records.”

  Tubby was forced to agree. In fact, instead of being over, it might be just beginning.

  “Who are these guys?” he asked out loud. He studied the rain clouds out the window. A deluge was clobbering Algiers Point across the river. “I thought those dudes were all dead.”

  Cherrylynn started crying.

  “Hey, you’re supposed to be a tough cookie,” he reminded her. But she sobbed louder. He put an arm around her and she got his shoulder wet.

  He had never seen her break like this in all their years together. Now, he was getting seriously pissed. His secretary was absolutely indispensable. His girlfriend was becoming that way. He would have to put the pursuit of Angelo and his axe on the back burner and concentrate on these new threats.

  He sent Cherrylynn home for the day and immediately called Sanré Fueres, known as “Flowers,” the private detective whom Tubby trusted. But Flowers’ voicemail came on, and the message was not like one the lawyer had ever heard from him before.

  “I am out of the country this week,” Flowers’ voice said, “and will have limited phone contact.”

  This was totally unprecedented. Flowers was relentless about always staying connected with his work. Tubby started pecking away at an email.

  “Flowers! What? Where are you? I need you.”

  He was rewarded with, “Buenos Dias. I am in Victoria de Durango, Mexico.”

  Tubby knew that Flowers had originally come from somewhere “down there”, but his detective’s actually traveling out of the country was a new thing.

  “What’s wrong?” he typed. “Is someone ill?”

  “No one sick. I brought a friend to meet my mother. We are eating breakfast.”

  A friend? A girl friend? Flowers had not previously mentioned a girlfriend. He had not even mentioned his mother. This was a shock and bad timing. “When are you coming back?” he typed.

  “In four or five days, I think.”

  The lawyer’s mind was working fast, trying to figure a way out of this. Flowers was one of his major assets.

  “Am I missing something important?” appeared on the screen.

  Tubby finally typed, “No big deal. What’s for breakfast?”

  “Chilaquiles and fried eggs, tortillas and beans,” came back.

  “Enjoy,” Tubby wrote, and signed off.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Tubby immediately called Detective Mathewson. “Let’s follow up on your idea to hoist a couple together,” he proposed. Mathewson accepted.

  The bar selected was Robert’s on Calhoun Street, a congenial spot anytime it wasn’t overrun by college students. At five in the afternoon it was usually a safe place for two large adults to have a friendly conversation.

  Tubby got there first and grabbed a stool by the pool table. Nobody was playing. There was a couple of Entergy lineman at the bar, bathed in sunshine from the front door. In a minute he saw the cop in silhouette come through it— broad shoulders at six-feet with receding curly brown hair above his red face. He lumbered past the bar, getting his bearings.

  “Seedy place,” Mathewson commented, looking around before sitting down. “Know it well.”

  Somehow that was funny. Tubby chuckled, relieved finally to have something to laugh at.

  George Jones was on the jukebox. Two young women in halter tops emerged from the ladies room and racked in their quarters to play pool. The uniformed guys at the bar were deep in a private conversation while the barmaid was busy drying glasses. For the rest of the world, it was a lazy spring day.

  “What’s your pleasure?” Tubby asked.

  “I wonder if they have Guinness,” Mathewson grunted.

  “Probably. I’ll get a round.” Tubby went to the bar and placed the order.

  Mathewson checked his phone while the lawyer declined mugs and collected two bottles.

  “Mighty nice of you,” the detective acknowledged when Tubby returned with the beer. He courteously pocketed his phone. “Cheers!” he announced and hoisted his brew and then took down about a third of it. “Anyway,” he said, wiping his lips, “what do you do? Criminal law?”

  “Not so much of that,” Tubby explained. “But I’m a solo, so I take a look at whatever walks in the door.”

  “A solo, huh? That’s me, too.”

  “How do you mean?” Tubby asked. He had ordered an Abita Golden, a rare beer which this bar stocked.

  “I’ve outlasted everyone on the police force who has any sense.” Mathewson smiled, but it wasn’t a funny smile. “Or, I could say everyone else who had any sense has long since quit or retired— so I guess they must have more brains than me.”

  “You must be building a very good pension,” Tubby said positively.

  “Hell, no,” Mathewson said, flattening it out. “I do this because it’s all I know how to do. If I was home alone, I’d probably blow my brains out.”

  The lawyer’s eyebrows shot up. Mathewson was serious. The cop nodded to show how serious he was and finished another third of his bottle.

  The girls were giggling over their pool game, and the Entergy linemen had swiveled around to pay attention.

  “Things aren’t going so well for me right now,” Tubby said.

  “What’s up?”

  “My secretary Cherrylynn is good friends with a professor over at Loyola. He got beat
up very badly this morning.”

  “Yeah, I know about the case,” Lt. Mathewson said. “It’s mine. Attempted murder. We’re looking into it.”

  “Right. That beating may be connected to an old case I was working on.”

  “I’d like to hear about it,’ Mathewson said, “but not right now.” There were other things on his mind.

  “Okay. And then, night before last…” Tubby was not to be deflected, “…a lady friend of mine was run off the Causeway and nearly killed. I think that it was intentional and that someone is trying to get at me through her.”

  “That’s outside of my jurisdiction.”

  “Could you look into it?”

  “I suppose I might, but you’re asking for a lot of favors here.”

  “I guess I am,” Tubby said. “I’m used to having a private detective at my disposal, but my guy has run off with some woman to Mexico.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” Mathewson said.

  “You don’t have a family?” Tubby asked.

  “Naw. Divorced.”

  “That makes two of us,” Tubby said.

  “Yeah, I figured. That’s why you’re allowed to have a beer after work while the sun still shines.”

  They drank to that. Tubby was thinking maybe this guy would be interesting to play poker with. “Do you like being a cop?” he asked.

  The detective shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess. Putting bad guys away.”

  “Isn’t that gratifying?”

  Mathewson just poured the rest of his beer down his throat.

  The silence dragged on. “Step right up. Come on in…” George sang from the jukebox.

  “I’m in this anger management class,” the policeman said, looking away at the juke box as if help might come from there.

  “Yeah? Was that some problem with your ex-wife?”

  “Shit, no,” Mathewson said angrily. “I mean, yes. Of course. But no, that’s not why I’m in ‘group’.” He made quotation marks with his fingers and rotated his eyes to show he didn’t think much of the idea.

  “So? What was it?”

  “I shot a guy in the leg who was running away. It was justified, since he had a big ol’ knife in his hand, which he had just shoplifted.”

  “Preventing danger to the public. I can see that,” Tubby said.

  “Nope. Truth is I shot the dude just ’cause he made me mad, being so stupid as to steal a knife from a convenience store with me parked right outside.”

  Tubby couldn’t think of a reply to that so he just finished his beer.

  “But that’s not what really did it,” Mathewson continued. He paused and looked at his empty bottle. “I also got into a broo-ha-ha with this other officer over his smoking cigarettes in the locker room. One thing led to another. He took a swing at me. I pulled my service revolver on him.” He wiped his forehead. “There was this red cloud came over my eyes,” the detective growled like a dog hit by a car. “I’ve tasted my own blood a few times,” he added.

  Tubby flashed back to the few times when that red cloud had descended on him. That cloud foreshadowed coming brutality. “Did you shoot the cop?” he asked gruffly.

  “No, thank God. But now I get to go to class.” Mathewson was rubbing his knuckles angrily.

  “Class might help,” Tubby suggested.

  “Could be,” Mathewson said doubtfully. “But you know what the shrink wants me to do?”

  Tubby did not.

  “She tells me to go out of my way to cultivate male friends.”

  That cracked Tubby up.

  “That’s the way it is,” Mathewson said. He laughed, too.

  “How about another beer?” Tubby offered.

  “Okay. But this one’s on me.”

  * * *

  After a couple more, Tubby came back to the topic. “I know it’s out of your jurisdiction, but my suspicion is that the guy who tried to push my girlfriend into Lake Pontchartrain was an individual some refer to as the ‘Night Watchman’.”

  The policeman’s nose and cheeks had been glowing red, but now his blank stare came back.

  “Someone who knows,” Tubby went on, “told me that he’s actually a retired policeman named Paul Kronke.”

  “I don’t like to hear crap like that about good cops,” Mathewson snarled.

  That shut Tubby up. Pretty soon they called it a night and left the bar. They shook hands and each went his own way.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Aimee Thaw sat in Tubby’s office. She had presented herself to Cherrylynn outside, explained that she was a close friend of Angelo Spooner’s, and been quickly ushered into the private office.

  “Angelo gave me your name,” the slight woman stated in a brave voice, “and told me to come see you.” Tubby indicated the chair which he had recently had reupholstered in yellow, and she sat on the very edge of it.

  “I’m glad you did,” he said. “And I would also like very much to talk to Angelo. Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know. I think he must be hiding somewhere.”

  “When did you last speak with him?”

  “Three days ago, before all these terrible things happened. He was angry about some man trying to put him out of business. But I know that Angelo could not have killed anybody. He is too sweet.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Tubby said. He was so inclined because there had been two axe murders, one at Angelo’s well and the other of some man who ran a Subright sandwich shop. “Fortunately,” he told Aimee, “as far as I know Angelo had no connection to the Subright guy’s beheading, I mean killing. That’s almost a perfect defense.”

  The visitor shook her head sadly and her eyes got moist.

  “You’re going to tell me something bad, aren’t you?” the lawyer asked.

  “That man who was killed outside Subright was my boss, and he took sexual advantage of me.”

  Tubby had the impression this woman had never used the word “sexual” before.

  “Did Angelo know about this?” he asked resignedly.

  She nodded and cried some more.

  “That’s not so good. Your friend Mr. Spooner definitely needs help.”

  “Please find him for me.”

  Tubby wasn’t quite sure he wanted to find a big man with an axe whether or not he sold healing water. “What is your name again?” he asked.

  “Aimee. Aimee Thaw.”

  “Ms. Thaw, your boyfriend should go to the police and turn himself in.”

  “If he would only call me,” she said wetly, “I’d beg him to do that. He truly is a gentle man. I’m sure he didn’t do these horrible, uh, things.”

  “Possibly not, but the circumstances do not paint a pretty picture. Did Angelo say why he was giving you my name?”

  “Yes. He wanted me to get a lawyer to make Mr. Momback stop harassing me.”

  “His murder put a stop to that.”

  She nodded and patted her eyes.

  “Have you filed a complaint with the government or anyone about the sexual harassment?” Tubby asked.

  “No, it all just started a couple of months ago.”

  That could be good. Under the applicable statutes it wasn’t too late to complain and sue.

  “Was there a pattern of such behavior?”

  “Oh, yes! Almost every day I worked. And I don’t think I was the only one.”

  “Did it affect your work?”

  “I could barely think. I spilled the mayonnaise. My hands were shaking all the time. They’re still shaking. See?”

  Tubby could see that. “Why didn’t you quit?” he asked.

  “I needed the job!” she exclaimed and started crying again. “Now I don’t have one, and I’m a single mom! And now Angelo’s missing!”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Tubby murmured. He fetched a box of Kleenex from the bottom of the cabinet behind him and carried it around his desk. “We’ll try to do something about this.” He patted her on the back.

  He buzzed Cherrylynn, and she qui
ckly appeared.

  “This is my personal secretary, Ms. Thaw. You met her when you came in. I want you to give her all the details. And Cherrylynn,” he added, “please prepare an engagement letter. I’m going to step out for a few minutes while you get this all sorted out. Have hope, Ms. Thaw, and be sure to let me know the minute you hear from Angelo.”

  She nodded faintly, and Tubby scooted.

  “There, there.” Cherrylynn put her arm around his new client’s shoulder.

  It was an unusual situation, Tubby reflected as he rode the elevator down, complicated by the fact that the harasser was dead. The Subright company, on the other hand, might have vicarious liability, and it surely had plenty of money. Another complicating factor was that Aimee’s boyfriend, Tubby’s potential client, seemed to have committed the murder. “I do hope that Aimee wasn’t involved in that,” he thought as the doors opened.

  * * *

  From a girlfriend’s garage in Metairie, Nordie called Frenchy Dufour on an untraceable phone.

  “They almost got us,” he said, still in a daze from the assault, the escape, the seeming endless series of misfortunes, and the debilitating drugs.

  “Who?” Dufour demanded. “Who is they?” He was parked outside Ron’s Famous Crawfish on Broad Street, having staked out the place for two days in hopes that the proprietor would show up. What else could possibly go wrong?

  “I only saw one. Some big fat white guy with an axe.”

  Dufour knew immediately who it was. Angelo! The fat man at the well.

  “He’ll be after me, too!” Dufour screamed and ended the call.

  “No doubt,” Nordie said to the dead phone. Gums, in his khaki pants and faded Izod shirt, sat cross-legged beside him on the concrete garage floor. He was under the influence and started singing a country and western song about prison. He had a bandage over the nub of his missing finger and was close to passing out next to a lawnmower. Looking at his pathetic gang of one, Nordie was thinking he ought to cruise onto the I-10 and head East to Florida. Or West to El Paso. But instead of rousing himself up for a trip, Nordie washed a yellow caplet down with Jim Beam and quietly fell into a deep and welcome sleep.