by Tony Dunbar
On his way home, he called Peggy O’Flarity from the car.
“Howdy, stranger,” she said. “How have you been?”
“That’s a big question,” he replied. “What would you think about having dinner tonight?”
“I’m in Nashville, hon. Can’t do it.”
“Visiting your son?
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
“He’s doing okay for being a grad student with a two-year-old baby and a nutty wife. But there’s a party Saturday night in New Orleans I think you’ll enjoy. Maybe you can take me.”
“A party? I don’t know. I’ve been having a difficult couple of weeks.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I thought you might be having a bit of a vacation.”
“It didn’t turn out that way.”
“So sorry. I’ll call you when I get back, which should be day after tomorrow, and see if I can talk you into having a little fun.”
He remembered to check his messages as he drove up Freret Street. One was from Judge Hughes, who basically said he was retiring and on his way out of the world of responsibility. He advised Tubby to cultivate younger friends. What had happened to Mrs. Hughes, Tubby wondered? Did she ever get Hurricane Katrina out of her mind and return from the Bahamas? Maybe that’s where Tubby should go. Maybe he had atoned enough. If so, the process wasn’t terribly demanding.
Nevertheless he had given atonement a shot, so to speak. He had offered himself to the police. Time to put this entire episode out of mind and get back to the present, where there were certainly problems enough.
CHAPTER 10
There is an Indian tribe nestled in the Ninth Ward, named the Tennessee Street Social Aid & Benevolent Association, organized 1959. It had originally been founded, some say, back in slavery times. Some say it was for runaways and their swamp-dwelling Choctaw protectors, but none of that history got written down. They were a gang, but not a plain and simple gang. They had a turf, but nobody else much wanted it anymore, at least not for the Indians’ purposes. The tribe didn’t want to control the local drug trade. They just wanted to look pretty.
For that, the members had to make a resplendent garb of headdresses and aprons, patches and umbrellas, to make a man’s form bigger, built of a thousand feathers and a million colorful beads. All wholesaled from China, but carefully stitched together by each member, upholding their family traditions. The appearance of the gang on the street – any street – displayed in their dazzling colors was an occasion to sing, dance, and drink, so they were always in demand.
The chief and the two second chiefs of the Tennessee Street Association were discussing business over beer in a grocery and po-boy shop on Dumaine Street. Nobody was wearing their feathers. They had all just come from work.
An important position in the gang had come open – that of Flag Boy. This was a key job, common to all of the Mardi Gras Indian groups scattered around New Orleans. During the parade, the Spy Boy ventured far in advance and sent signals regarding the whereabouts of adversary gangs and any police back to the Flag Boy, whose role was to relay those messages to the Chief by means of his feathery flag on a tall staff. The Tennessee’s Flag Boy had been hit by a city bus and was under semi-permanent chiropractic care. He was required by his lawyer to stay in bed until his lawsuit was resolved. Above all, he was under strict attorney’s orders to give up parading, and all other displays of vigor and mobility, for the duration of the litigation.
“I think my boy Ednan can do it,” said the chief.
“He’s in jail though, brother,” his second pointed out, tapping a Marlboro out of his pack. He couldn’t smoke on the job, so this was pure heaven.
“That’s true. He’s got to get past that. But he’s one of the gang and understands all the rules and traditions. He was working on a very fine patch for his chest when he got popped.”
“He’s actually sewing?” The deputy was dubious.
“Yeah. Of course, my wife is helping him. But he’s trying and getting better.”
“What about that boy Stroker? You remember his father?”
They all nodded. Stroker’s father had been a passionate and popular man in the neighborhood. But then the chief added, “I don’t know if that was his actual father or not.” Everybody smiled and sipped.
“Anyway, Stroker’s never done a lick of work in his life. He just plays music and struts around the clubs.”
“The people like him though,” the other second chief said sagely. “We could use some new blood. Hasn’t your daughter Ayana been seeing him?”
“No way, not ever!” the chief shouted. “Don’t let me hear that kind of talk! Ayana’s got higher goals than some Stroker!”
“All right, all right,” his friend said to cool him down. “But we might dig up some parading suit from last year and give the boy a try if Ednan is still in jail when Super Sunday rolls around.”
“That would just be embarrassing,” the chief said. “Stroker doesn’t even know who we really are.”
The guys just shrugged, and the conversation shifted to the price of tiny imported glass beads.
CHAPTER 11
Ednan had had a rough few nights in the Orleans Parish Prison. Though the facility was brand spanking new, it had already been found to be unconstitutional and was under Federal court supervision. The main problem, from where Ednan sat on his metal cot, was that the place was full of maniacs who wanted sex and money. And there weren’t very many guards. And the ones who showed up for work also seemed to want sex and money.
The other problem was that he was being held on suspicion of murdering some Vietnamese guys, two of them, and he had never even heard of them. He understood that he was going to be taken to court for arraignment that morning when a rotund officer in black informed him he had an attorney visit.
Heart full of hope, the prisoner was escorted to the visiting room, where he found himself seated across from a tall stocky man in a three-piece suit and a head of blond hair, separated from him by a pane of heavy glass. This man gestured at the phone on Ednan’s side of the table and the prisoner snatched it up.
“My name is Tubby Dubonnet,” the visitor began. “I’m a lawyer. I’ve been asked to look into your case.”
“Praise God for that.” Ednan nodded eagerly. “Who called you?”
“Actually, Sheriff Duplessis asked me to speak with you. He says he knows you…”
“Oh, bless you, Monster Mudbug!” Ednan cried, referencing the sheriff’s former parade persona. “You are the man!” He pounded the stainless steel table.
“Well, he says he knows you.”
“Sure, from forever! We were next-door neighbors on West Casa Calvo Street. His daddy and mine played the horses together. Why I’ve known Adrian since…”
“Yeah,” Tubby interrupted him, “so now you are in a jam for murdering the two Vietnamese kids who got killed over in Lakeview. What’s the story?” Tubby opened his palms awaiting an explanation.
“Are you here to be my lawyer?”
“I haven’t decided yet. You might do better with a public defender anyway. They know the judges.”
“They don’t do nothin’.” Ednan was sure about that. Everybody in the joint said so.
“Have you got the money to hire a lawyer?”
“Not a whole lot. I’ve been on some hard times, mister.” Ednan wiped his brow, then put his shoulders back. “But I’m good for it. I always pay my bills.”
Tubby sighed. He stared at the stalwart and honest Black Sea face. Finally he said, “Let me hear your story, then we’ll talk about the particulars.”
Ednan had quite a tale to tell, and he blurted it out in one ten-minute monologue.
Turns out, he actually had an alibi. At the very time the two Vietnamese were killed, Ednan was engaged in stealing a car, exactly the same car in which he had been apprehended, from the parking lot in front of a Discount Zone on Bullard Avenue in New Orleans East. The store was operated by his cousin.
&
nbsp; “There was a camera in the lot, I’m pretty sure of that, cause that’s what I was told by the guy who was robbing the 7-11.”
“Are you saying that the store was being held up while you were stealing a car outside?”
“Yep. It sure was.” Ednan’s head bobbed up and down.
“And you know the guy who was robbing the store?”
“Not before, no. But he’s here in jail, and we talked about it.”
“He’s in jail, here with you?”
“Right.”
Tubby was dubious but said, “Okay.”
“True. So his name is Jockey, and he sees me stealing his getaway car, which he had also stolen, but I didn’t know that, and he tries to shoot me.”
“Tries?”
“Well, he does shoot at me. But he didn’t hit me. He put a bullet through the windshield when I was backing out of the parking lot. And, man, I was scorching tires.”
“Why did you steal the car?”
“I needed to get back to my aunt’s house in Chalmette.”
“Why? It was a special occasion?”
“Right, her godchild’s christening. I was supposed to be there. So I grabbed the car.”
The lawyer considered this. “That’s not too bad,” he said.
* * *
Tubby had some luck and located the correct assistant district attorney, a young woman named Bianca Maricopa, who it turned out went to school with Tubby’s middle daughter Christine. They had both been cheerleaders in high school, though Bianca was a year ahead of Tubby’s own.
“Do you remember me?” she asked.
“You betcha,” Tubby assured her warmly, though, in truth, back then all the high school girls looked alike in their school uniforms with short pleated skirts (except for his own standout, of course).
Tubby laid out his case. “In fact,” he concluded, “Ednan is totally innocent of this crime.”
“If you’re right, he still committed a car theft.”
“True enough,” Tubby conceded, “but look at it this way. He foiled the armed robber’s getaway, so you got your man. In a way, Ednan’s a hero.”
They shared a laugh.
“I’ll check into it,” she told him.
The lawyer walked out of the courthouse feeling good. Also, Judge Hughes had told him he needed younger friends. Maybe Ms. Maricopa was a good candidate.
CHAPTER 12
Debbie Dubonnet drove to Waveland, Mississippi with her father to go to Faye Sylvester’s funeral. There was a nice cemetery under the live oaks behind an old wooden chapel and a couple of blocks behind the strip malls and gas stations on Highway 90. The dearly departed had a simple coffin, hanging over a grave dug in the sandy soil. The hole was covered by a purple velvet cloth
Father and daughter parked on the grounds and walked across the recently-mowed grass. Rev. Holly was there, in a blue suit, talking to a young couple. A few mourners were wandering about, visiting and looking at old stones nearby. They wore dark glasses in the searing white sunlight. Plastic flowers dotted the graves. Spotting Debbie, the preacher broke away and came to greet her with a hug.
“It’s been too long,” he said. They took a minute to catch up on things, the state of Debbie’s marriage and the healthy development of her son, nicknamed Bat.
Tubby asked what had become of Faye’s boyfriend, the other victim he had found stretched out on the kitchen floor.
“I’m told that his brother showed up and whisked him away to Ohio.” That seemed odd to Tubby since, when Faye had introduced her beau, she had said he was from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Oh well, maybe he was from Ohio but he went to school at Southern Mississippi – that could explain it.
Tubby noted the arrival of “Oily” Milhouser, a neighbor of his, and a financial adviser in Uptown New Orleans. He drifted off from the preacher to give his acquaintance a quiet hello. “What brings you here, Oily?” he asked.
“Just want to pay my respects to this lady. She was my kid’s favorite teacher. She gave him a lot of help when he needed it most. Being at this school really straightened him up. There are quite a few New Orleans parents here today, I see. There’s Temple Graves and his wife Birdie. There’s Dr. Kabatsin and his son Carter.”
He walked Tubby around. In an appropriately somber and serious manner they shook hands with all. Temple and Birdie embodied old-line New Orleans. Orderly people in fashionable pressed suits, each complementing the other, and, each one’s composed silver hair similarly streaked with flashes of white. Another one, Dr. Kabatsin, was in his early middle-age, black-haired, tall, thin, and good-looking. There was an early shadow of whiskers along his jaw, but his white shirt, open at the collar, and his blue blazer were crisp. His pleasant eyes found the lawyer’s when their hands met and seemed to offer friendship. His young son, Carter, had been properly outfitted for the occasion, but he looked very uncomfortable in his yellow suit, and his eyes stayed on the ground while introductions were made. “Carter plays lacrosse here at Nazarene Diggers School,” Dr. Kabatsin explained. “Ms. Sylvester was one of his best teachers.” The doctor had an appealing manner, Tubby thought. His eyes were creased with warmth and caring, as if he thought there might be some way he could make you feel better. The boy was sullen, as if by nature.
Also in attendance was Sheriff Stockstill. They nodded at each other. The less said to his recent interrogator, the better, the lawyer thought.
Tubby found Debbie talking to a short woman who turned out to be Faye’s sister, Marina. She was in the company of a large chubby man with faint remnants of red hair who was introduced as a friend, Willie Hines.
Tubby expressed his condolences to the pair.
“She was such a pioneer,” said Marina, “always looking out for troubles to solve.” Hines nodded solemnly, resting his chin in his neck.
Everyone cared so much for the dearly departed. So why had somebody wanted her dead?
* * *
Marina had always felt a major attraction to her sister Faye’s ex-husband, Marcus Dementhe, the powerful, always forceful New Orleans District Attorney. On the other hand, Willie Hines, her date at the funeral, was just a placeholder, though he might hope for more.
There had actually been a time when Marina had not just been a sister to Faye, but also a Sister in a Catholic Order. A year in the monastic life had been enough for her, however, and her service as a helper in a Birmingham food kitchen had left her with a distaste for the poor, so she left that all behind.
Their parents were mid-state farmers, having acreage planted in beans, and Mom also sold insurance. They were Catholics, a certain strain of Germans who had come to Alabama and never succumbed to the flamboyant oratory of Protestant television evangelists. Once Marina left the order, she never wanted to set foot in a church again, but she was also aware that the sanctuary might be the best place to locate a husband. While waiting, she lived with her parents for lack of something else to do. She always envied her sister, Faye, for meeting a promising man, for having a big wedding, and for being smart.
She had felt no great sadness, a few years back, upon learning that Faye and her husband, Dementhe, who then was a rising politician in New Orleans, were getting divorced. Once upon a time Dementhe had stroked Marina’s hair in a very suggestive way after a family Thanksgiving dinner on the farm, pretending to adjust her glasses. And he had once contrived to let her see him naked, climbing into his bathing suit down at the lake.
Marina had been sorry to hear that Marcus had medical problems, as he had described the circumstances of his departure from the United States for a protracted sojourn in the Caribbean, but she had kept up with him via the Internet, her main social outlet. He eventually let her know that he had returned to Alabama. And he was feeling much better and working again. It was a shame that sister Faye had such a bad opinion of him, but since she had always been so closed-mouthed about the split-up, the family could never be sure who was really to blame.
Marina concealed them, especially at t
he funeral, but she had feelings that had never been tapped. Of that she was sure. Marcus Dementhe, for example, though older, was a successful and respected man. A little hot to the touch, but his eyes were a pleasant cool green. Whatever Faye’s problem with him, Marina thought it was probably her sister’s fault. The only question was whether Marcus still thought fondly about Faye, or about Marina. But now Faye was dead.
On the other hand, Marina’s escort at the funeral, Willie Hines, had entered her life by happenstance. It was at the laundromat. He had picked her pink undies off the floor and made a gentlemanly comment. It was enough to merit supper, and since then he’d been her reliable date. But as for romance, not a thing.
***
The service was short and dignified. At its conclusion, Tubby and his daughter shared a quiet, subdued journey back to New Orleans.
CHAPTER 13
Peggy O’Flarity enthusiastically promoted the party at the “Sultan’s mansion,” and invited Tubby to be her date. He took this as more than a casual request, since Peggy was on the board of the Arts for Veterans Committee which was to be the beneficiary of this fund raiser. He understood that it was being thrown by a newcomer in town, a mysterious foreign stranger, which is the best kind, and of course Tubby said yes. Now that he was getting over surrendering to the law, he was ready to space out a little bit, kick back, and party.
The venue was a historic building in the French Quarter, recently refurbished by Chaisson Real Estate and now occupied by a Middle Eastern throng reputed to be led by an Arab prince. Or Egyptian, or Turkish … or perhaps the brother of a prince. Accounts varied, but everyone was anxious to find out. And to see the lavish place and the exotic strangers.
Peggy explained all of this as she carried him in her car – because she had a party parking pass – down to Canal Street and across to the nighttime traffic jam of the Quarter. The same harried Lucky Dog vendor, pushing his long frankfurter-shaped cart, passed them three times as they went stop-and-go through two crowded blocks on Bourbon Street. Finally they broke free and soon were handing the keys over to the valet, who appeared at curbside to serve them in front of the three-story building. The galleries above were afire with lights and crowded with people laughing and calling out to friends and to tourists on the street below.
