by Tony Dunbar
“Sure,” Monster Mudbug nodded inside his shell. “Where did I see him? It’s kind of hard to know exactly what street you’re on in here.”
His front fenders were grazing the rear of a fat naked man, and Fox Lane pushed the steering wheel a couple of inches to the left.
“It was like he was drunk,” the Monster said, struggling to remember. “Two guys were, like, helping him up the steps, like minutes ago.”
“Where was this?” Fox yelled.
“I’m thinking.” Monster whacked his pointed head with his claw. “Governor Nicholls Street. I’m real sure it was Governor Nicholls Street ‘cause it was right after I passed Verti Mart. That next block was where I saw him.”
“Okay,” Fox shouted. “What door?”
“It’s like the second or third place. I’m pretty sure. I thought he waved at me.”
A tipsy babe jumped on the front of his funny car and struck a depraved pose so that her friend could take her picture with a tiny yellow camera.
“Hey, get off the Monster Mobile,” the boss cried. “I can’t see.”
The vehicle plowed through the crowd, leaving just one spectator jumping around holding her ankle, and gradually straightened course.
Fox held her position until all the commotion washed past her. Just as Dan was stepping off the curb to join her, she set off running in the direction of Governor Nicholls Street. He wheezed and thumped in pursuit, trying not to lose his Foreign Legionnaire’s hat.
CHAPTER XXII
In Lafitte’s Lair, the telephone beside the couch rang once, suspending the conversation at the card table.
“Rue must’ve got it in the bedroom,” Big Top concluded when it didn’t ring again.
“It’s your deal, Marguerite,” Monk said, tossing the cards over to her. “Who’s ahead?”
The bedroom door creaked open, and LaRue stepped out.
“We’re going to be leaving in a few minutes,” he said. He told Monk and Big Top to get their stuff together.
“What about all these people?” Monk asked.
“We’ll deal with that next.” He looked down at Tubby. “Where’s your car?” he asked.
“Under water about five miles from here,” Tubby lied.
“I’d like your opinion on a few things,” LaRue told him.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Why don’t you tell everybody what’s the penalty for kidnapping in this state?”
“Could be up to life at hard labor at Angola Prison Farm,” Tubby said emphatically.
“Hard labor, huh? What about for murder?”
“Depends, could be the death penalty.”
“You hear that guys?” LaRue crowed. “Which do you figure is worse?” he asked Tubby.
No comment.
“I see it that way myself,” LaRue said. “Makes it easier to figure out what to do with you.”
“I don’t even know who you men are,” Tubby said. “What’s your problem with me. I mean, what did we ever do to you?”
Peals of laughter came from the card table.
“You got some dumb luck,” Monk cried.
“I’d like to ask your legal opinion about something else,” Rue said. “Come over here.”
“Like how?” Tubby asked.
“Oh yeah,” LaRue smiled. “Kind of hard to walk with your feet tied, isn’t it.”
He crouched to untie Tubby’s legs.
“I don’t want to have to kick you in the nuts again,” LaRue warned. He had always found this to be an effective threat.
It worked with Tubby.
LaRue put an arm under the lawyer’s shoulder and helped him stand.
“We’ll leave your hands tied so you don’t get too frisky. Because if you try anything, I will mess with the girl. You hear that, Monk?”
He turned his back, and Tubby followed him into the bedroom, limping awkwardly. It was not so easy to walk straight with his hands behind him.
LaRue took a seat on the bed, settling down so lightly that the mattress did not seem to notice him. It struck Tubby that this man was something between a goat and a ghost. He couldn’t help but notice the sparkling stones and stacks of cash spilling out of the two stuffed bags by the foot of the bed.
The card players in the next room were insulting each other about something. LaRue was feeling totally in control. “You remember when we met before, attorney-at-law?” he asked.
“I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?” Tubby took a seat on the other bed. “They call you Roux?”
“Yeah.”
“Like when you make a roux for gumbo?”
“Something like that,” LaRue said. He turned away to burrow out some papers he had stuffed under the pillow.
Tubby came off the bed like a bull out of the chute.
The thin, surprisingly strong man repelled him in a second, jamming the lawyer back into the mattress with a tight hand squeezing the cords of muscle in Tubby’s neck. LaRue used his other hand to screw his pistol into Tubby’s gaping mouth, causing him to gag.
“You need a killer instinct to get me, buddy, and you ain’t got it,” he said, breathing heavily.
Tubby fought to inhale. “I’ve done it before,” he wheezed.
LaRue jerked his fingers off the lawyer’s throat, leaving red marks, and Tubby’s breath exploded from his wide-open mouth.
“You’re gonna tell me you killed someone in the Army, aren’t you,” he said, leaving his pistol suspended above Tubby’s face and straddling the lawyer on the bed.
“Not in the Army,” Tubby said, looking up at the hole in the blue steel.
“Sure. Tell me about it,” LaRue said. “I’ll be your counselor.”
Tubby shook his head, but not too much.
LaRue jumped off him and pointed his gun away.
“You might live to talk about this if you can help me. I want to know what something is worth. A legal document. Explain it to me, and I might let you walk out of here.”
“For how much money?” Tubby moved his eyes to the bags of stolen treasure. He didn’t actually believe “Roux.”
LaRue laughed and twirled the pistol around on his finger.
“Like how much money would my help be worth?” Tubby continued. “How much money?” He rubbed his index finger and thumb together behind his back.
“You got brass balls, I’ll say that.” LaRue leaned back. “I guess it has a lot to do with how smart you are. If you can’t answer my question I don’t need you for anything.”
“I’m smart enough to get paid for my advice,” Tubby said.
LaRue’s laugh might have lasted half a second. “So, what’ll it be?” he asked.
“So what’s your question?” Tubby leaned back on his elbows and waited.
“Move over here,” LaRue said. He had some papers in his hand, and he gestured for Tubby to sit beside him. “Tell me what you make of these.”
Since the lawyer’s hands were out of service, LaRue unfolded the document carefully and held it a foot from Tubby’s face, waiting impatiently for him to read it.
“Back that up a tad,” Tubby said. “I’m a little farsighted.”
“How’s that,” LaRue asked.
“Better.”
He was looking at a Notarial Act styled, simply, “Counterletter.” It had been executed in the Parish of Plaquemines in the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Fifty-Two, in the Year of Our Independence One Hundred and Seventy-Six.
The eye-opener was that it appeared to be an agreement between two men who had large reputations— Noel Parvelle, who had made a fortune in the Cajun spices business and Russell Ligi, who had gotten as rich as Midas from oil wells and politics. Ligi was also a recognized benefactor of the Lady of Lourdes All-Girls Soccer League where about half of the kids in town, including two of Tubby’s daughters, had learned the essentials of sportswomanship.
“You’ll have to flip the page,” he said, and LaRue did so.
Now this was interesting. Notwithstanding th
e fact that certain corporate records would reflect that Mr. Ligi owned a hundred percent of the stock of the Great Return Land and Investment Company, and all of its immovable property, tangible and intangible, the document in front of Tubby’s nose stipulated that in truth and in fact eighty-five percent of those shares really belonged to the “Spice King,” Noel Parvelle.
“One more time,” Tubby said, and LaRue flipped another page.
Mr. Parvelle was entitled, if it were ever necessary to quiet title to any real property and mineral rights owned by the company, to record this counterletter in the public records. But clearly, the purpose of this counterletter was to keep the true ownership of the company hidden from the public’s eye.
“Hmmm,” Tubby said, wanting badly to scratch his chin.
“So, what’s it mean?” LaRue asked, lowering the page.
Tubby told him.
“Is it any good?” the robber asked casually, folding the papers and putting them back in his pocket.
“Depends on what you mean by good.”
“I mean is it legal?”
“A counterletter? If I’m not mistaken they’ve been legal in Louisiana since the time of Napoleon. You’re entitled to hide your business from the public.”
“That don’t sound proper,” LaRue said sourly.
Tubby tried to shrug. “Look, you mind taking this rope off my wrist? It hurts like hell, and I’m surely not going anywhere.”
LaRue shook his head. “You wouldn’t think a piece of paper would be so important,” he said.
“I imagine it could be very important to Mr. Parvelle,” Tubby said. “If the Great Return Land and Investment Company is worth anything, Parvelle can record this document any time he feels like he isn’t getting his fair piece of the pie and take control of the whole company.”
“You ever heard of it?” LaRue asked.
“No,” Tubby said truthfully, but that didn’t mean anything. There was lots of oil and gas property in south Louisiana, owned by lots of companies you never heard of.
“Me either,” LaRue said, “but we went to a lot of trouble to get this paper.”
Tubby was wondering exactly what “trouble” Rue and his helpers had gone to, other than shooting Mrs. Lostus, to acquire the mound of jewels on the floor.
“You was the one out in the flood with the woman, wasn’t you?” LaRue asked, staring directly into Tubby’s eyes.
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Tubby said, staring back.
Rue was impressed and grinned, showing Tubby his long pointy incisors.
“Yeah, that was you. You were just dressed differently. Just gives me more of a reason to off you.”
“I thought we were talking about payment in cash. You could probably use a good lawyer in the future,” Tubby suggested hopefully.
“Not if you’re never going to get caught.” LaRue stood up.
“Sure, that’s what you think now. And how about investment advice? You don’t want to throw your money away.” Tubby nodded at the canvass bags.
“What?” Rue laughed. “Are you offering your services?”
“You won’t find any better.”
“You’re a slick son of a bitch, I’ll hand you that. But don’t try to hustle a hustler.”
There was a light rap on the bedroom door, and Marguerite stuck her head in. Her eyes took in the shiny stones and lit up like flashbulbs.
“Mr. Rue,” she said nervously. “There’s some people on the street calling for Tubby Dubonnet.”
LaRue bounded across the room and knocked Marguerite aside.
Big Top was at the window, peering through the slats, and Monk was pressed behind the door. Edward and Wendell were frozen at the table, still holding their cards.
Someone was rapping on the shutters.
“Tubby Dubonnet?” A woman’s voice.
“Look out!” Tubby cried from the bedroom, and caught his mouth on Willie LaRue’s elbow.
Rue pulled his gun back out and with three quick strides he was at the cracked green shutters. They were fastened together by a bent iron hook. Rearing back, he kicked them open with the heel of his boot and stepped into the drizzly daylight, pistol ramrod-straight at his waist.
A big man in a hotel uniform was caught flatfooted on the steps. He waved his arms in the air, uncertain which way to jump. A female dove to the sidewalk on LaRue’s left, fighting to get a pistol out of her pants.
The cowboy started shooting, going first for Dan’s starched and ruffled white belly, where he left a round red stain, and then for the woman leaping for cover. She, however, was shooting back.
LaRue dodged back inside the apartment. The green wood above his head splintered. Fox Lane scuttled down the sidewalk like a crab on a beach and rolled around the corner of the building.
She peeked around quickly enough to see the man with the gun jump off the steps and take up a secure position behind a parked car. He rose and fired at her head, knocking mortar into her hair and eyes. He was calling out orders. She heard him tell someone to grab the bags and follow him.
Monk and Big Top bowled Tubby over in their haste to get into the bedroom and grab the loot.
Big Top looked once then jumped like a paratrooper out the door, clutching one of the heavy sacks to his bosom. Monk started to follow but jerked back, squeezing his suddenly bleeding shoulder in agony where one of Fox’s bullets had caught him. He let the bag drop and, crying like a baby, dove out the doorway.
Tubby hobbled over to the top of the steps to look out, twisting and tearing his wrists against the ropes.
Every time Officer Lane poked her head around the edge of the mildewed brick, LaRue fired at her. Then he didn’t, and she saw three men, using the parked car to shield themselves from view, running down the street. They were going in the direction of the river, and Monk was trailing. Tubby stumbled onto the top step, looked down, and let out an anguished howl.
At his feet, Dan was keeled over on his back with a red bubbling hole in his stomach. His blue eyes were open and staring heavenward at the black clouds blowing high over New Orleans on a wind from the west.
Tubby fell down the steps and dropped to his knees. Fox ran toward them, holstering her pistol.
“Is he alive?” they both asked the other desperately.
“I think he’s breathing,” Tubby said, and the broad chest suddenly jerked.
“He needs an ambulance,” she cried. “Call nine-one-one!” she screamed at the woman standing above them in the doorway. Marguerite put her hands to her mouth and backed up, disappearing inside.
“Anybody else in there?” Lane asked.
“No more bad guys,” Tubby panted. “Cut me loose!”
Even while she was digging in her pocket for her Swiss Army knife, Tubby started running clumsily in pursuit of Rue. The police officer had to cut the ropes while they were in motion, and she chopped off a few nuggets of skin in the process. Tubby picked up the pace when his numb hands swung free. He got the arms pumping and raced full tilt down Governor Nicholls Street.
“Stupid man,” Fox spat through gritted teeth as she sprinted to catch up to the lawyer while at the same time trying to jam a new clip into her 9 mm.
Puffing, Tubby had a fleeting glimpse of Monk and Big Top hustling around a corner in the French Market. Some visitors to the Quarter, attracted to the shots as they would be to any other pyrotechnic entertainment on a dreary holiday, got in the way, and Tubby pushed them aside.
“I’ll be damned. Watch where you’re going,” one of them said in dismay.
Fox caught up with Tubby just before he got to Decatur Street and got a grip on his shirt collar. She pulled hard on the reins just as he reached the corner and forced her way past him. She saw Big Top’s red hair and hints of the two others vanish behind a row of produce trucks and stacks of crated vegetables.
“You stay here,” she ordered. “I’m going around the market that way and catch ’em when they come out.” She streaked away
to her right, dodging some tomato vendors who were passing the time sipping coffee and eating hot sausage sandwiches on a wooden box of onions.
“No, I’m going this way,” Tubby called to her retreating figure. He took a gulp of wet sea air and splashed across the parking lot toward the gap in the line of trucks where Big Top had last been seen. He worked his way between the vehicles and found himself in the old open-air farmers’ market. The stalls were mostly closed and covered with plastic. He thought he heard the sound of fleeing footsteps on the pavement flanking the river side of the market and ran in that direction.
A fog obscured much of North Peters Street. Tubby heard a muffled shot and followed the sound, hugging the side of the concrete floodwall for protection. A sudden gust of wind parted the mist, and he saw Monk lying down in the rain-washed street, curled in a fetal position behind some trash barrels.
A ferretlike man, unmistakably the one called “Roux,” with Big Top on his heels, was snaking up the concrete steps that led over the floodwall. Both figures went over the top and were quickly hidden from sight.
Tubby puffed after them, leaving Monk on the ground where he was for Detective Lane to apprehend. The wounded robber heard Tubby running behind him and rolled over to watch him trot the steps. When Monk rolled back around he found the policewoman pointing a gun at him between the garbage cans.
“Oooh,” he moaned, “You got me. Can you help me with this shoulder? I’m bleeding to death.”
Tubby peered cautiously over the top of the floodwall. He could make out LaRue and Big Top running along the railroad tracks, past a string of rusty orange Public Belt rail cars which appeared to be empty but for some vagrants camping out in relative dryness. Big Top had one of the canvas bags on his shoulder. Beyond the two running men, the Mississippi River rode high and swift against the bright green grass of the levee. Unlike the City, the river was not close to overflowing.
Panting down the steps in pursuit, Tubby began to consider his situation. He was unarmed and alone, chasing a pair of murderers at close quarters in a section of the riverfront that, save for a few pot-smoking street freaks, was deserted on this wet Mardi Gras afternoon. One such inhabitant, perched cross-legged on an overturned olive oil can, stared at him dully and suspiciously, but not especially unpleasantly. She tugged at a loose strand of her hair as Tubby huffed past. Two other gentlemen who were closer to Tubby’s age rested on a railroad tie. They passed a joint and nodded vaguely at him in possible recognition.
