by Tony Dunbar
Praise for TONY DUNBAR and the Tubby Dubonnet series:
“The literary equivalent of a film noir – fast, tough, tense, and darkly funny…so deeply satisfying in the settling of the story’s several scores that a reader might well disturb the midnight silence with laughter.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Hair-Raising… Dunbar revels in the raffish charm and humor of his famously rambunctious city.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“From the Bywater … to Uptown, Tubby eats and drinks his way through interrogations and rendezvous, and it’s all delicious. Packed with contemporary New Orleans culture and plenty of humor from the quirky characters.”
—New Orleans Advocate
“Reminiscent of the best of Donald Westlake and Elmore Leonard.”
—Booklist
“Solidly put together. Dunbar’s understated, syncopated delivery makes you wonder if there are enough honest men in New Orleans for a rubber of bridge.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An enjoyable romp through a city that makes Los Angeles seem normal.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Sharp and jolly … There’s a lot here to enjoy – especially some great moments in local cuisine and a wonderfully jaundiced insider’s view of a reluctant lawyer in action.”
—Chicago Tribune
“For all the eccentric characters and bizarre events that Dunbar stuffs into his colorful narrative, the story holds up in court.”
—New York Times Book Review
FLAG BOY
A Tubby Dubonnet Mystery
BY
TONY DUNBAR
booksBnimble Publishing
New Orleans, La.
Flag Boy
Copyright © 2017 by Tony Dunbar
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is available in both mobi and print formats.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9973630-6-7
Print ISBN-13: 978-0-9973630-7-4
www.booksbnimble.com
First booksBnimble electronic publication: September, 2017
Print layout by eBooks By Barb for Booknook.biz
HOW ABOUT A FREE BOOK?
Keep up to date on terrific new books, and get a freebie at the same time!
First click here to join our mailing list and get Louisiana Hotshot!
Confirmed grump Eddie Valentino placed the ad. Hotshot twenty-something Talba Wallis knew exactly how to answer it.
And thus was born the dynamic duo of New Orleans private detectives, one cynical, sixty-five-year-old Luddite white dude with street smarts, and one young, bright-eyed, Twenty-First century African-American female poet, performance artist, mistress of disguise, and computer jock extraordinaire. Think Queen Latifah and Danny DeVito in a hilariously rocky relationship— yet with enough detective chops between them to find Atlantis.
5.0 out of 5 stars Julie Smith’s Triumphant Return
Long time fans of Julie Smith's witty mysteries will not be disappointed by this new title. Spinning off a character from her latest Skip Langdon mystery “82 Desire”, Talba Wallis, this book definitely ranks up there with Smith's Edgar Award winning “New Orleans Mourning.”
Table of Contents
Dedication
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
How About A Free Book?
Guarantee
A Respectful Request
Also by Tony Dunbar
About the Author
To John Henry, Annalisa, and Sam,
the next generation
PREFACE
A slim woman whose golden hair was tied back by rose-colored clips, and her partner, a taller, broader woman, got out of a beat-up Toyota on a quiet side street in Uptown New Orleans. They walked swiftly down the dark block, passing run-down office buildings, vacant lots, and worn-out shotgun houses, without conversing. The streetlights were buried in the hackberry trees that had gotten out of control along the curb, and there were no signs of life in the houses. It was two hours past midnight, and both women had, for the past couple of hours, been drinking wine. Approaching Napoleon Avenue, they stepped off the sidewalk to huddle beside a two-story medical building, close against the wall, as if they were sharing a smoke or a kiss.
Both women were in very good shape, which was why the larger one could make a cup with her hands, hoist her friend onto her shoulders, and steady her there by her ankles. And with a hissed command, she flung her somersaulting into the air to land miraculously on the narrow concrete ledge, no more than eight inches deep, below a double window on the second floor. This was quite a remarkable feat, had anyone been around to see it. The gymnast tossed down a soft nylon rope, and her big partner was up it as fast as a snake.
Perched on one foot the small acrobat dexterously pulled a plastic shim from a pack belted to her waist and slid it under the top window sash. She found the latch as if it were as familiar to her as the clasp of her own purse and had it open. Using a tiny razor to trace the window’s outline, she cut through the bead of accumulated paint. Then she edged away so that her partner, with her superior strength, could force the window up. A sudden rush of air conditioning welcomed them into the doctor’s office.
“Here’s where they all sit and wait for him,” the small woman whispered and let her pencil flashlight play over the chairs, the table full of Vogues, Southern Livings, and glossy New Orleans magazines – and over the tasteful, peaceful seascapes hanging on the walls. The paintings depicted domestic content and beautiful female sunbathers, mothers on vacation. Their children, playing in the sand, were happy and blond. “Here’s where they wait for him to cut them up for dinner.”
This woman did not always make perfect sense, but her partner was used to that. “A real son of a bitch,” she agreed, under her breath.
Silently the blonde tested the door to the examination rooms and found it locked. Rather than fool with it, she slid herself through the portal behind which, in the daytime, a receptionist would sit to greet patients. She opened the door from the inside. There was the faint sound of reggae music coming from the wall speakers, a sound system that was never completely turned off. The passageway led to a large room blacked out completely from the world outside.
“Here’s where he does it to you,” she said. There were pastel pictures on the wall here also. And comfortable chairs and lamps to read by. And in the middle of the room was the long table, wrapped in expensive and soft white sheets and blankets, where the devil had operated on her.
“Nice set up,” her friend whispered.
“Yeah,” the fair-haired woman said. “Really nice. Let’s find those pictures.”
They found the filing cabinets, with wide drawers that glowed pink and lavender in the flashlights, in the next room. They were locked but yielded quickly to a tiny pick from the magi
c pouch. The small woman began rifling through them, looking for her name. Her friend also searched, more methodically.
There was a noise outside. It was the elevator coming to life. They heard it stop. The doors on their floor opened. “Shit,” the intruders whispered in unison.
It was a night watchman making his rounds. The bigger of the pair instantly leapt to the ceiling, securing herself by a toehold on the top of the doorframe and two fingertips on an overhead light. This was pretty amazing, but she did it. The small one curled into a file drawer and closed herself in. Who would have thought a woman’s body could do that?
They heard the front door of the office open and saw the lights in the other room switch on. They didn’t breathe.
In a few moments, the lights went off and the entrance door slammed shut. One burglar popped off the ceiling and landed like a cat. The other unfurled from her cabinet. They went back to work – with more urgency this time – riffling through piles of documents and letting them spill onto the floor.
“They’re not here,” the small woman said finally. “The bastard keeps me somewhere else.” She looked over the heap of paper they had created. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
“Do we leave this mess?” her partner asked.
“Why not? It will give them something to worry about. They deserve it.”
They left the way they had come, silently, and latched the window from the outside so that no one would ever figure this out. They dropped to the street, no louder than falling leaves, and floated away into the night.
CHAPTER 1
Prince Bazaar and his entourage arrived at Concourse A of Louis Armstrong International Airport on a direct flight from London. The group had been inspected carefully at each security checkpoint along the way and had attracted much attention on the plane, due largely to their exotic appearance.
The Prince himself wore a flowing robe and keffiyeh, which covered much of his forehead. It was held in place by a black rope circlet. A golden medallion in the center represented a coiled snake. Above his starched collar was a pointy beard and a thin black mustache, but his face, which was visible, was tanned, relaxed, and youthful. A woman followed closely behind him and intently fingered the back of his tunic, as if holding a tether. She was vividly covered in a long purple shawl with a fashionable blue hijab around her hair, all a little bit wrinkled from the long flight. She was quite fatigued, but she hid it well. Behind her came two other women so well-concealed by their billowing garments that their faces, figures, and ages were purely guesswork. Underneath their robes, which were a charming pale shade of green, both women were in their early twenties and quite beautiful. On their invisible heels was a pair of young men with bushy black hair and faces too young for razors wearing identical creamy white Italian suits. Their tapered, uncuffed pants ended ankle-high, revealing black shoes of Tuscan leather. Finally, two fair-skinned youths came pulling two roller-bags apiece. Cultivated muscles were well displayed through tight Armani T-shirts and skin-hugging jeans.
Once they passed beyond security and emerged into the lobby, the party was immediately greeted by a thin and dapper man with an effervescent smile. He rushed up to them overflowing with enthusiasm.
“Hello, your Highness!” the man proclaimed in a high voice, “and welcome to my city.” E.J. Chaisson made a grand sweeping gesture with both hands, as if to show that all of New Orleans was his to lay before the feet of these esteemed newcomers. “I’m sure you must have luggage. Please, please, let me help you!”
Indeed they did have luggage at the baggage claim carousel, and it took two redcaps with large wheeled carts to transport it. During the time it took to get all of their suitcases and trunks assembled, E.J. called Uber, having quickly recognized that the mini-van he was driving couldn’t handle the job of carrying this vast household to the city. The Prince thanked E.J. for meeting them, and the genetically effusive French Quarter landlord assured the new arrivals, repeatedly, that everything was well arranged for their comfort.
“We’re ready to party, you might say,” the Prince reported as they exited through the sliding glass doors into reassuringly familiar heat.
“Monsieur, it’s in the bag,” E.J. promised happily. His visitor smiled, though he wasn’t familiar with that particular expression.
The local man took the lead of what had become a small caravan. He cruised down Interstate 10 with Prince Bazaar seated beside him and the woman in the purple shawl, whom he introduced as “my wife, my faithful wife,” in the back. Following them very closely was a white stretch limo carrying the rest of the entourage and all of the luggage.
“I will have the house all ready for your inspection first thing in the morning,” E.J. told the Prince as they went under the Causeway. “If everything is in order, and I’m sure it is, you can move over tomorrow.”
“I know it will all be fine,” the Prince said pleasantly, and certainly it should be. He had put down a huge deposit on a three-story historic house on a French Quarter corner, with wrap-around balconies surrounding both the second and third floors and wrought iron railings all about. Within was a ballroom, the master’s living quarters, an enormous chef’s kitchen, baths with extraordinarily expensive faucets, bidets, and appliances, and at least nine bedrooms. “Where are we going now?” his Highness inquired.
“Temporary quarters at a hotel, the Windsor Court. I was sure you would all like an afternoon to rest after your long journey.”
“Does it have a sauna, a pool, a bar?”
“Of course it has a sauna and a very nice pool, and every place imaginable in New Orleans has a bar.”
“That’s good,” the Prince nodded. “Let’s, uh … get it on,” he added, trying out a new phrase.
“Right on.” E.J. glowed. He had to stop himself from elbowing the Prince in the ribs.
After successfully depositing the crowd in the hotel lobby, turning them over to the hovering concierge, and seeing that they had quite satisfactory rooms – an entire floor of them, in fact – E.J. collected his mini-van from the hotel valet. He gave the man a lovely tip.
After humming a little song to himself, Happy Birthday to me, he said out loud, “I’ve got to call Tubby right away and get him to write up a lease.”
CHAPTER 2
Tubby Dubonnet, E.J.’s lawyer, didn’t pick up when E.J. phoned. He wasn’t even in the city.
Instead he was floating in the gently rippling solitude of Boley Creek, a sleepy river that ran through a sandy woodland in Mississippi. It was property he had bought back when he had a few bucks, as an investment, but mainly to chill out on occasion. At the moment he was lying comfortably on an inflated inner tube, held in place by some clothesline tied to a log, and he was staring at an uncomplicated sky. Sunlight sparkled through the tangle of overhanging limbs where dragonflies flitted about with tiny buzzes. He was thinking over the events he had experienced in the past few weeks. Events that, whichever direction he ran the tape, culminated in the unsolved murder by shotgun of a vicious retired cop named Kronke.
In Tubby’s dream, he had pulled the trigger. There had been a great blast, a shattered windshield, and a bleeding headless man crumpled in the driver’s seat.
To explain his departure from the city, the attorney had concocted a series of stories. He told his girlfriend Peggy that he had pressing legal business in Mississippi, which might take a week or two. She was understanding. He told his secretary Cherrylynn that he had family matters to attend to in north Louisiana and might be gone for a month. She was thrilled at his industry. He let his daughters know that he needed a vacation and would check in on them just as soon as he could. They took little notice.
The truth was that he needed to leave town for pressing personal reasons – summed up as getting his mind right.
It was winter in the rest of the country, but it was one of the most beautiful times of the year near the Gulf of Mexico. Cool breezes, blue skies, not too many mosquitos, no rain – perfect for taking refuge,
camping out in the woods of Pearl River County, Mississippi. He had just wanted himself for company. His provisions were bacon and coffee and eggs, a loaf of rye bread, an ice chest, and some beer. Not a menu for fun, but for soul searching.
He had driven his green 1967 Corvette Roadster, with the fake black leather interior, north on I-59, a cup of CC’s coffee gripped in one hand. A lunatic car dealer named Lucky Lafrene had convinced him to trade in his Camaro and invest his life savings in this 300 HP V-8 collector’s item. Its convertible top only leaked when it rained and the plastic rear window was only slightly smoky. The troubled lawyer piloted his green machine through long stretches of pine forest where eagles soared overhead and 18-wheelers whizzed by, and then off the main highway and into the brooding countryside.
Tubby had often been in proximity to crimes of violence, but the recent slaying of the sadistic and menacing retired lawman, Paul Kronke, had seriously unnerved him. And it was all because of those damn Cubans.
There was, he had learned to his dismay and imperilment, a crazy band of old freedom fighters and their grandkids who were under the misguided impression that Tubby cared a whoop about their underground mission, their huge cache of arms, their dwindling but still substantial stash of money, and their possible link to the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Their secret mission had begun as the overthrow of Castro, but it had morphed into resisting worldwide socialism, and morphed again into aspiring to be the vanguard of the armed alt-right. The now-deceased cop was supposedly the band’s enforcer.
Tubby had not a single mite of interest in any of the foregoing, but nonetheless the frightening goons had terrorized him, his family, and his girlfriend – even trying to kill them. That’s just how crazy the world could be.
Over time, the threats became way too real. Tubby Dubonnet was a lawyer, a respected professional – respected by some, at least – who could rise up over six-feet tall, flash his blue eyes and handsome smile at the jury, and make an impression that led to just verdicts. He was a trustworthy, solid, upstanding man – a substantial presence – and he gave it all to the aid of his clients. He had done so for thirty years in New Orleans where standards were high, expectations were low, and hard-charging lawyers were not in short supply. And where the judges were sterling (though some went to jail).
