Flag Boy

by Tony Dunbar

  “Why don’t you cut through all that crap, Dubonnet, and get to the point.” It was Marcus Dementhe, standing in the back.

  “Ah, Marcus. I remember you,” Tubby said. “You were threatening me with jail the last time we met, I think.”

  “Maybe if I offered a benediction,” Rev. Holly suggested helpfully.

  That got a raspy laugh from Mathewson. “I’m particular about who I pray with, pastor,” he said. “Let’s skip over all that. I’d like to hear what pearls of wisdom Mr. Dubonnet is going to share with us today.”

  “Everybody’s busy,” Sheriff Stockstill added in his soft and pleasant voice. “Let’s get on with the program.”

  Detective Vodka, burning off energy by rocking from one foot to the other, nodded vigorously in agreement.

  “By all means,” Tubby said and tried to get comfortable in the armchair. “Just a few weeks ago I came into this house and found two people dead. Faye Sylvester, whom I knew, and Jack Stolli, whom I didn’t know.”

  “Did you find them dead, or are you the one who killed them?” Marina demanded from the couch. Sitting next to her, Peggy raised her hand and came within an inch of slapping Faye’s sister in the face. Marina raised a warning fist at Peggy.

  “Ladies,” Rev. Holly protested. He crossed the room and sat between them.

  “No, I didn’t kill them,” Tubby said. “I called the sheriff, and he was here within forty-five minutes of her death, I’d say. Whoever cut these two people had to have gotten blood all over himself, or herself. There’s not really any way I could have gotten myself cleaned up in the short time before the sheriff got here. Do you agree, Sheriff?”

  Stockstill stroked his chin. “You wouldn’t be at the top of my suspect list, Dubonnet,” he conceded.

  “Good enough,” Tubby said. “And then, ten days after these killings, a Sultan and his whole family is wiped out in New Orleans. And I ask myself, is there any connection? I’d like to know, because I happened to be somehow associated with both of these crimes. The murders in New Orleans occurred in a house rented from one of my friends for whom I do legal work. And the man who is accused of doing these crimes, one Ednan Amineh, happened to be an existing client of mine, and still is today. He is in the New Orleans jail for these terrible acts. And I don’t believe he did it.”

  “Why not?” Johnny Vodka asked. “He had the opportunity and plenty of motive. Them folks was as rich as kings.”

  “Maybe,” Tubby responded, “but there are lots of reasons why it wasn’t Ednan. One is that he’s not very cunning and he’s not very mean, but I don’t have to persuade you of that. What might persuade you is the striking similarity of the two crimes, the New Orleans murders and the two right here, right here in this house. Everyone is stabbed. Everyone is killed almost ceremonially with a knife or a dagger, maybe a small sword.”

  “Okay,” Vodka said. “I’m listening. Who did it?”

  “It’s instructive to know who Jack Stolli was, the man killed in this cabin with Faye. As I’m sure Sheriff Stockstill knows, and anyone else who may have access to law enforcement data bases might know, Mr. Stolli was not really a local guy from Hattiesburg, as Faye thought. He was in fact a licensed private detective named Nomes with the N&H Agency in Cincinnati, Ohio, an affiliate of the Pinkertons and some other national chains, and a specialist in undercover fact-finding. Right, Sheriff?”

  Stockstill shrugged.

  “I speculate that he was here in this county to seduce Faye Sylvester, which he apparently did very successfully.” Tubby’s face started to get hot. “And to learn compromising facts about her. We all have our own compromising facts, don’t we?” His eyes roamed the room and landed on Dementhe’s.

  “Who would want to make up anything bad about my sister?” Marina protested. Reverend Holly patted her knee.

  “My inquiring friend Flowers can think of several people.” Tubby gave his detective a nod. “But one question I asked myself is, who else besides me has some connection to both the Mississippi and the New Orleans murders?”

  “What did you come up with?” Dr. Kabatsin asked. He had not spoken before. Most of the others had no idea who he was, but some had noticed his Ferrari and were therefore interested in him.

  Tubby was tired of sitting. His natural presentation style was to stand up, walk around, point and gesture. The room was too small to permit him the full range of his theatrical skills, but he gathered himself up and did the best he could.

  “Who is connected? Well, you for one.” He pointed accusingly at Kabatsin. “Your son was one of Faye’s students, and you are the brother, are you not, of the Sultan Bazaar, who was the patriarch of the family killed in the French Quarter?”

  Vodka straightened to attention, and Officer Daneel put his hand where it was most comfortable – on his gun.

  “Nonsense,” Kabatsin said. “I hardly knew Ms. Sylvester.”

  “Maybe so, but you wanted to know her better. That’s why you hired an Ohio detective agency to infiltrate her life and dig up some dirt on her. And the two operatives in that agency were Mister Nomes, who is dead, and Mister Hines, who is in this room. That would be the Nomes and Hines Agency, wouldn’t it?”

  Willie Hines just smiled and nodded.

  “Who told you that I hired a detective?” Kabatsin protested.

  “I think the police should be able to obtain the records that will substantiate it, but perhaps we can take care of it right now. Mr. Hines, didn’t Nomes, who was pretending to be Jack Stolli, work with you, and wasn’t he here to spy on Faye?”

  Hines went through a routine of “well well’s” and “ha-ha’s,” but finally he said, “Of course, sir, that’s probably correct.”

  “He was supposed to find incriminating evidence about her? Did he?”

  Hines again went through his murmuring and throat-clearing, but he eventually came up with “Not a speck of it, sir. She was as pure as snow in an Ohio cornfield.”

  “And you’re one big asshole!” Marina shouted. “Were you spying on me, too? Is that why you’ve been taking me out?” She started to her feet, but again Holly eased her down.

  Hines went through all the “now now’s” and “tut tut’s” he had and then simply clammed up.

  Tubby looked sad. “And now I’m afraid that Hines is just trying to find a way to make some profit out of all these events. But there is another person with connections to each of these murders. I have to acknowledge that it is my good friend, Peggy.” He nodded in her direction.

  “You think I’m that jealous of you!” she shrieked gleefully. “And I could kill a whole family of potential New Orleans arts patrons? That’s rich!”

  “I agree, and so, my dear, I’ve personally eliminated you, but I had to be fair to all of the law enforcement personnel who are present and taking mental notes.”

  “I’m taking note that the clock is ticking, and I’ve got a lunch to go to with the mayor of Poplarville,” Stockstill told him.

  “They’re shooting people right and left in New Orleans,” Vodka said. “I’ve got to get home.”

  “You drove a long way to get here, Vodka. You ought to be more patient, but I’m moving,” Tubby said. “The other person with connections all around is young Carter over there, and who is the guy with you, Carter? Did you say your name was Parakeet?”

  “I am Paraclete,” the young man said with aplomb. “I am the first son of Prince Bazaar. My family was killed. I am the one who was not killed.”

  Vodka’s partner, Frank Daneel, laid his free hand on Paraclete’s shoulder. “Who killed your folks, boy?” he asked.

  “I’m not yet sure. I was asleep in the attic. My private space, and that is why I am here. But though I am sad to hear of the two people who met their unfortunate end in this house, they don’t truly concern me.”

  “No, probably not,” Tubby agreed. He was pacing again. “But, you know, Carter, I’d have to make you a prime suspect.” The boy stuck out his chin and glared at the attorney. �
�And the reason is that your teacher Faye gave you a bad report. She put stuff on your school record that Buddy Holly hasn’t told me about, but I’m sure he will tell Sheriff Stockstill. You might even be a degenerate young man. She was getting you kicked out of school. That might have put the whammy on your whole college career. What was it you did, Carter, to earn that bad record?”

  Carter bolted, about a foot, but Stockstill’s deputy held him in place.

  “What was it you did, Carter, that made your father so concerned that he hired a detective to discredit your teacher?”

  The boy just shook his head.

  “Did you kill them with that knife, Carter?”

  “No!” Carter spat out. “You’re crazy, man!”

  Tubby considered that possibility and dismissed it.

  “I believe you,” he said after a minute. “I think you may have hated Ms. Sylvester, and your dad may have gone too far by hiring a detective to make her go away, but I don’t think you killed her. The guy who killed her drove a truck. I know you’re old enough to drive, but your dad has a Ferrari, not a truck. The guy with the truck is you, Marcus Dementhe, you perverted piece of crap. That’s who killed Faye Sylvester.”

  Dementhe didn’t even flinch, though Marina Sylvester did. She gasped and went white, but kept her seat. Dementhe just stood tall and looked skeptical.

  “Kill somebody?” he said. “Of course not. I’m a respected member of the bar.”

  “So am I,” Tubby said. “That doesn’t mean anything, I’m afraid. You hated her just because she was good and sane and decent, and because she had the brains to divorce you. You hated her because only she knew what a degraded specimen of humanity you are. That would be reason enough for you, now that you are back in the country with time on your hands, but you’re also thinking about running again for public office. She was one big black mark. She was someone who could be counted on not to shut up about your cruelty.”

  “Cruelty. What in the world are you talking about?”

  “The cruelty of young girls being raped and murdered in New Orleans years ago. One of them was named Sultana Patel,” Tubby said bitterly. “Cases that Johnny Vodka never solved. Cases where your fingerprint appeared. And you know how I know you did it?”

  “Entertain me.”

  “Because that Ohio detective Stolli or Nomes was killed with one clean stab to the heart, but Faye was carved up. You took some time with her. Did you rape her, too?”

  “This is so ridiculous.”

  Tubby turned to the Sheriff. “Was she checked?”

  “Yes,” Stockstill said.

  “If you can sample this guy, it will match. Either way, I wouldn’t let him touch anything else in this house. If you find his prints anywhere but in this room, you’ll have him.”

  Dementhe bolted for door. Marina dived after him. The Sheriff and his deputy collared them both.

  “And you drive a truck,” Tubby added. “And I bet they’ll find traces of blood on some clothes when they toss your condo!” he shouted.

  Dementhe was hustled out the door, but the party didn’t break up.

  “What did he have to do with the New Orleans murders?” Peggy O’Flarity, ever unflappable, asked from the sofa.

  Tubby plopped back into his chair. “Not a thing. I was wrong. The French Quarter killer was just a copycat. Carter?”

  The boy crossed his arms.

  “It wasn’t you, kid. It was your father, Doctor Kabatsin.”

  “No!” Kabatsin yelled.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The motive was entirely different. The killer was entirely different, but Dr. Kabatsin, you were aware of how Faye Sylvester died and you decided to achieve your own goals and confuse everybody. Your brother had something on you. You have financial difficulties. Maybe you stole the family’s money. You are being accused by your own patients of morally-reprehensible acts. So you are the man for the job. Only you could have gotten them all to get together in one room. Did you drug them? Did you lock them in and terrify them? Somehow you got them in there. You would be very fast with a knife. You could get them all before anyone escaped. Or maybe your brother the Sultan helped you out. He could have ordered them to submit, and then you could have surprised the Sultan by doing him in, too. But you missed one. You missed Paraclete.”

  “I deny…” Kabatsin started, before he collapsed to his knees.

  “It was you,” Tubby finished, and stood back up.

  “It was you!” Paraclete screamed, and pulled a jeweled knife from his shirt. He dove at his uncle. He got the blade deep under the ribs before Daneel wrapped his arms around the youth and wrestled him down. Vodka dropped to the floor and tried to stop the bleeding while Willie Hines, his dreams of a payday melting away, ran into the yard to get Sheriff Stockstill to call for an ambulance.

  CHAPTER 28

  “He’s dead, folks,” Vodka told them sadly, referring to Dr. Kabatsin spread out on the floor. Coming through the door, Stockstill took a look at the body and said that the ambulance was on the way.

  “Who gets this one?” Daneel asked the Mississippi sheriff, meaning the young Paraclete, whom he had managed to put in handcuffs.

  “I guess he’s ours,” the Sheriff said. “This one happened in Pearl River County. The doctor here,” he pointed to the body Vodka was kneeling beside, “he belongs to you.”

  “Great,” the New Orleans cop complained. “I’ve got six homicides, and now the primary suspect is dead, too.”

  “I thought that’s the way we liked it,” his partner said. “Saves a lot of work for everybody.” He laughed but caught himself when he realized that nobody else thought it was funny.

  “The party’s over, folks,” Tubby said.

  “Not quite,” Stockstill told them. “We’ll need statements and names and addresses for everybody. But it doesn’t have to be in this room.”

  “Why don’t we all go out to the kitchen,” Rev. Holly suggested and started to try to usher people in that direction. Only Willie Hines went with him.

  Tubby realized that Peggy was still on the sofa. She was seeking to offer consolation to Carter Kabatsin. The boy was staring without much evident emotion at his father’s body. Marina Sylvester disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a quilt to lay over Kabatsin’s body. “No, ma’am,” Sheriff Stockstill said softly. “We’ll have to wait for the coroner to do that.”

  Not knowing what else to do, she handed the quilt to Flowers and went out to the kitchen. Tubby’s man was just hanging about, keeping an eye on Carter in case he might share his family’s passion for unexpected knife work.

  Mathewson sat down in Tubby’s armchair, leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Tubby went over to Flowers and whispered something in his ear about looking after Peggy until they all got on the road back to Louisiana. Flowers was already doing that, but he just nodded.

  Vodka stood up and looked at his hands, seemingly surprised that they were smeared with drying blood. He frowned and wiped them on his pants.

  Addressing Tubby, he asked, “What the hell does anything that happened here today have to do with the shooting of Detective Kronke last fall on the Mississippi River levee? Does anyone know?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Mathewson roused himself to say. “Nothing.”

  “Are you still telling me it was some African-American woman, who happened to be armed with a 12-gauge shotgun, who did that?”

  “I can’t tell you the type of shotgun, but that’s the way it was,” Mathewson said flatly.

  “Well…” Vodka was thoughtful. “I guess we’ll just have to keep looking for her.” He inspected his hands again, then felt behind his ear for a toothpick.

  The county doctor arrived, and an ambulance and some more sheriff’s deputies. They cleared everybody – except the Sheriff, the coroner, and the body – out of the room to give their statements.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when they got back to the city, Tubby and Peggy in his slick Corve
tte and Flowers tailing them in his big Tundra. Tubby made phone contact and organized a switch at Napoleon Avenue. Peggy hopped into Flowers’ truck to go home, and Tubby headed up to Tulane and Broad to tell Ednan that he was going to get out of jail. And then he had another stop to make.

  * * *

  Five o’clock in the afternoon, even in late winter, meant bright sunshine bathed the city. Going through the doors of the Trumpet Lounge turned the day into night. Tubby let his eyes adjust and then made out Adam Mathewson hunched over the bar. He sat down beside the detective and ordered a beer from the proprietor.

  “Made in America by Americans,” Priebus proudly proclaimed as he set down the frosty mug.

  Tubby shrugged. He guessed that Abita Springs qualified as America.

  “You still got that gang of kids? You still working with those Cuban boys and their crazy priest?” Tubby asked, trying to warm up the mug with his palms.

  Mathewson turned to stare at him, his eyes a little bleary.

  “My kids aren’t after you, Dubonnet. They’re after the money.”

  “To do what with?” Tubby asked.

  “To give it to me.” The detective chuckled and took a pull on his beer.

  “What about the cause? Defeating socialism, isn’t that it?”

  “Now it’s just defeating liberals, Mexican immigrants and the crooked media, old man. There aren’t any socialists anymore.”

  “Liberals? That’s what you’re all about now?”

  “Personally,” Mathewson said, returning his crimson gaze to Tubby, “I don’t give a shit about any of that, except I’m not a big fan of Mexicans. I’m just after the money.”

  Tubby stared back. “Same question. For what?”

  “Younger women, older whiskey, faster horses, more money.” Mathewson drank and waved at the bar man.

  “To do what with? Just sit on the beach in sunny Florida?”

  “Florida’s as good a place as any. Or I might stay right here. I feel the urge to spread a little more mayhem before I die. Do you ever feel that way?”