Trick Question

by Tony Dunbar

  But Mickey was late. Tubby was starting on the second half of his muffaletta, immensely enjoying the spicy olive salad, ham, and salami in the crusty Italian roll, and reading about Tulane basketball in the Times-Picayune sports section, when O’Rourke, looking winded, finally made an appearance.

  “Sorry to be late,” he said. “My car battery died,”

  “No problem, Mickey. Go get some lunch. I’ll wait.”

  “Maybe a little something. My stomach has been acting up.” He went to the counter and came back with a mug of coffee.

  “You should eat,” Tubby said, concerned.

  “Yeah, I know, but I don’t have much of an appetite. I think it’s all the pressure I’ve been under. I can’t remember it ever being like this before.”

  “You probably never hit the bottle so hard before.”

  “There’s been a few other times…” Mickey’s voice trailed off.

  A guy with a tray full of sandwiches and gumbo backed into their table and apologized for spilling O’Rourke’s coffee, but Mickey didn’t seem to notice.

  “About your murder trial, Mickey. You told judge Stifflemire your problem, and he still wouldn’t let you withdraw from the case?”

  “He wasn’t nasty about it.” Mickey found a cigarette in his pocket and began tapping it on the table. “They let you smoke in here?” Tubby shrugged. Mickey lit up. “He gave me several reasons. He said whenever he appoints someone in a criminal case, they always try to get out of it, and his policy is to just refuse them all. Then he tells me about the Speedy Trial Act, and how the DA has to get this guy to trial soon or let him go. Then he says to me that as long as a lawyer can breathe and stay awake at least half the time, he thinks the law and the jurisprudence hold him competent to appear in court.”

  “I think he’s right about that.” Tubby scooped up a little olive salad that was trying to get away.

  “Yeah? Well, then he says, ‘Good luck, Mr. O’Rourke. I’m counting on you.’”

  “Geez, was he just being an asshole? He didn’t give you much relief, did he? When was this?”

  “Just last week. And since then it’s like I can’t concentrate. I know I got a real problem. I’m drinking all the time. Coming here to meet you is like being on a vacation, but I’m going to start drinking as soon as I leave here. I need to be in a hospital somewhere.”

  “Maybe that’s your solution. I don’t think you can expect another lawyer to step in this late in the game.”

  “I know it would be hard. But it’s such a weird case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get this. The deceased is frozen – I mean solid – in a damn specimen case at the university hospital. My man opens the door. The corpse comes out, like ‘Timber,’ and his damn head snaps off and goes rolling around the room like a bowling ball.”

  “You’re kidding me! The head comes off?” There could be some publicity value in this case.

  “Is this wild? This is one guy they aren’t going to thaw out in a hundred years and bring back to life. He was a rising-star doctor, too. An Irish guy,” Mickey added.

  “The, uh, stiff?”

  “Yeah. Good joke, huh?”

  Tubby was thinking that the news media, properly primed, would likely follow this trial very closely.

  “Tell me,” he asked, “was there anything to your story about inheriting lots of money?”

  “Yes and no,” Mickey admitted. “Aunt Anne’s rich as God, but she ain’t sick. She’s gonna outlive us both.”

  Tubby considered that. Of course, showbiz law had its own rewards.

  “What did your man do when the head popped off?” he asked.

  “He tells me he tried to put the damn thing back on. Picture that. Pick up a frozen head and try to put Humpty Dumpty together again. I think he ought to get some kind of reward for his heroism.” Mickey coughed from his cigarette. His face was white with lots of red spots. “Instead they charge him with murder.”

  “Because of… why?”

  “They say he was pilfering drugs from the hospital. They found some in his house.”

  “But why did he kill the doctor?”

  “That’s where it breaks down into pure speculation. The DA’s theory is, the doctor caught him stealing dope and therefore my guy killed him.”

  “Then why does he go back later and open the door?”

  “Really! There are some holes in their scenario.”

  “I can’t understand why I never read about this case.”

  “It was in the papers and on the news, Tubby. Have you been out of the country?”

  “This was in September? It must have been when me and Raisin drove over to Florida. We were gone about a month.”

  “That’s what I need. A long vacation.”

  “It helps. Have you done any discovery – looked at the district attorney’s evidence and all that?”

  Mickey was shaking visibly now. First his shoulders, then his face.

  “I haven’t done shit. I can’t handle this right now. That’s why I’m asking you for help.”

  Tubby watched the ladies behind the counter dishing out platters of trout and shrimp. He rubbed his chin.

  “How far did the head actually roll?” he asked.

  “About eight feet.” O’Rourke lit up another smoke and squinted at the match.

  “Wow!” Tubby said to no one in particular. This could be a headliner. “Okay. Get me the file.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Tubby got to Compagno’s, New Orleans’s smallest Italian restaurant, a little later than he had promised. His eldest, Debbie, was already seated at a table in the back, underneath the Loyola and LSU pennants, the oil painting of Al Hirt at the old Sugar Bowl, and the faded black-and-white photographs of Boy Scouts of generations past. Tubby waved at Sal, the owner, who also tended bar, and spread his hands in apology to his daughter.

  “I’m sorry, I got held by traffic.”

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I’ve been having a good time.” A stuffed artichoke, full of seasoned bread crumbs and tiny shrimp, sat half demolished on the table in front of her. Debbie had always had a good appetite. Tubby had been watching her put away astounding platters of food for twenty years. She had gotten her big shoulders from him, but she managed to stay slim, like her mother.

  Tubby sat down and ordered a beer. He liked the ceiling fans, the bull horns over the bar, the Charles Bronson movie playing on the television, the bottles of Crystal hot sauce on the tables – just about everything in this place.

  “It never changes,” he said happily.

  “Remember when we used to all come here on Saturday nights?” Debbie recalled, bringing up a good memory of when the family had all been together – before he and Mattie split up.

  “Yeah. You never would order anything but lasagna. We could never get you to even try anything else.”

  “I’m going to have it tonight, too.” She laughed. She still wore her brown hair long, and it bounced around when she talked. Tubby’s heart filled up.

  He grinned.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “So tell me some current events. Did you ever find your mother?”

  A few weeks ago Debbie had invited him, her sisters, and Mattie to a “family” dinner to christen Debbie’s new apartment. She had hinted that Mattie had some big news to relate, and Tubby had dutifully attended. Mattie, however, had stood them up. They finally decided to eat anyway, but they were worried until she called in about dessert time. Her excuse had been a bad headache. Everybody shrugged – that’s Mom. Tubby had been relieved, because he didn’t socialize much with Mattie, but he was also oddly disappointed. He had wanted to know what her news was.

  Debbie didn’t answer because the waiter came.

  “Stuffed merlitons,” Tubby said. “You know they grow these on the roof over their carport?” He always tried to sample the city’s backyard squash when it was in season.


  Debbie ordered lasagna.

  They went back to work on the artichoke.

  “She’s not lost. You ought to talk to her,” she said, poking a stray crumb into her mouth with a sensibly manicured nail.

  “What for?” Tubby asked.

  “Just to stay in touch,” Debbie said enigmatically.

  “Sweet pea,” Tubby explained, “your mother and I stay in touch just as much as we want to. She’s doing okay with her life, and I’m doing the best I can with mine. You can’t expect more than that.”

  “Okay. Just a suggestion,” Debbie said, and went back to eating.

  “I am curious, of course,” Tubby said matter-of-factly, “about the latest gossip. Is she dating someone?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to stay in touch with her.”

  “I’d just rather do it through you,” he said.

  “Hah!”

  “So tell me,” he said.

  “Okay. It’s no big secret since they’re starting to go out in public. She has been dating. I thought you would have heard about it by now anyway.”

  No. Mattie’s comings and goings were not exactly headline material.

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” he asked.

  “You know him.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Who is it?” He braced himself.

  “Dr. Margolis.”

  “Byron Margolis? Jynx Margolis’s ex-husband?” Tubby yelled. He was temporarily in shock. “That man’s a complete turkey.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” Debbie dismissed him.

  “No, really. He treated Jynx like dirt, and he hates me like poison.”

  “That’s because you were his wife’s divorce lawyer.”

  “Right, and I had to chase him all over creation to get him to reveal his income and pay up.”

  “Well, maybe that’s why you have a bad opinion of him. He’s been very polite to me.”

  “You’ve seen him?” Tubby demanded. Was his own daughter a traitor?

  “Why yes,” she said, surprised. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

  “But…” Tubby sputtered. And why should he mind?

  “You don’t want her to date?” Debbie asked.

  “Of course I do,” Tubby declared, but he didn’t. This would all require more time to digest.

  “So? What?” Debbie asked.

  “Nothing, I guess,” Tubby said more calmly. “I just wonder if he’s trying to use your mother to get back at me.”

  “Because you helped his wife get a divorce? Daddy, maybe you’re not quite that important.”

  Could it be?

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Look, let’s eat.”

  His merlitons had arrived, pale green receptacles for crabmeat and boiled shrimp. “I could give up red meat,” he commented to no one in particular.

  “So, to change the subject, how are you?” he asked, savoring a first mouthful.

  “So, since you asked, maybe not so good.” She picked at her lasagna.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m possibly pregnant.”

  His fork clattered off the plate and hit the floor.

  She was watching him, the humor gone from her eyes.

  “Are you going to tell me more?” he asked finally.

  “Yes. I’m probably two months pregnant. The father is probably Marcos.”

  “Probably?” His voice was rising.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” She blushed. “Marcos is the father. I just don’t know if I’m going to have the baby.”

  “What does Marcos have to say?” Tubby asked, trying to sound calm.

  “He says he wants to get married.”

  “And you?”

  “I told him I’d think about it. I’m not sure I know him well enough yet.”

  “Good God,” Tubby said. “You must know him pretty well.”

  Debbie laughed a little.

  Tubby thought about what a young girl she was and what an old man he was, and shook his head.

  “I’m not sure he’s mature enough to get married,” Debbie added.

  “You’ve got some tough decisions to make,” was all he could manage to say.

  “You used to tell me that’s what life’s all about,” she replied sagely.

  His eyes fogged up.

  “Is everything all right?” Sal inquired heartily, leaning over the table, his arms and tomato-stained apron like a tent around them, and a big friendly smile on his round face.

  As he walked back across the park, all Tubby could think about was children having babies. Was it realistic to think that Debbie could care for a child? She had a good head, some of the time, and a good heart, but where was the money going to come from? Watching all the ladies pushing their colorful strollers around the lagoon, the dads showing their little boys how to toss bread at the ducks, reminded him of all the work involved in raising a baby. He bet he’d end up having to take care of that kid himself.

  CHAPTER 7

  Flowers looked sleepy.

  “I got here as fast as I could,” he said. “The message from Cherrylynn was that this was an emergency.”

  It was after hours, and Tubby was standing over his desk with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt collar open. He had the pieces of the Cletus Busters file spread out, hoping to conjure up some brilliant idea from the scattered notes O’Rourke had managed to collect. When Flowers walked in he was trying to make sense of what Mickey had jotted down about Cletus finding the body.

  He shook Flowers’s oversized hand. People thought of Tubby as big, but Flowers was bigger. And younger, taller, darker, handsomer, and in better shape. Flowers, whose real name was Sanre Fueres, worked out regularly, as befitted his image as a macho, ex-FBI, big-city private investigator. Why is a barely-thirty-year-old man “ex-FBI”? Tubby had never asked.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “You call, I’m here. Have you got a new case for me?”

  “Yes, and a very interesting one.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been staking out a young woman’s apartment in Slidell for two days trying to get photographs of her boyfriend. I think he’s in there, but he’s not coming up for air. You think they’re having a party?”

  “He probably came out as soon as you left.”

  “I hope so, ’cause my man Charlie is waiting down the street with the big Nikon three-hundred-millimeter lens.”

  “You lead an exciting life, Flowers.”

  “Too exciting. Last week I was watching this house trailer on Chef Menteur Highway, and this guy came flying out with a damn shotgun. I got careless and he spotted me. He comes charging across the lawn in his underwear like he’s hitting the beach on D-Day.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I peeled rubber. Hit the road, Jack. Gone pecan. I had my old Cherokee around the corner and out of sight in about one and a half seconds, and I haven’t been back. I got a good picture of him though, crashing out the door and pumping shells in his gun.”

  “The neighbors must have gotten quite an eyeful.”

  “They were running for cover, sure enough.” Flowers laughed.

  “Well, now I need you for some real investigative work. I’ve got a murder trial coming up in a week, unless I can get it postponed, and I’ve got to prepare my case virtually from scratch.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Pull up a chair and start taking notes.”

  Flowers took a leather-covered notebook from the pocket of his Saints windbreaker and sat. The old chair creaked.

  Tubby stood looking out the window at the ring of city lights that marked the shoreline of Lake Pontchartrain at night, and he started talking.

  “The victim is a doctor at New Orleans Medical Center. His name is Whitney Valentine. He’s what they call a research pathologist. He finds special diseases nobody ever heard of and figures out what makes them kill people, that sort of thing. He lived here in New Orleans for five years, and he graduated from Tulane. Or
iginally he’s from Seattle. He’s got a wife in the suburbs.

  “My client is a nobody – a janitor at the medical center. He’s been there three years. Evidently he has a prior from selling crack or something. They didn’t know about that when he was hired. Every night he cleans up the labs, including the one where Dr. Valentine worked. Four months ago, on September twenty-second, it’s a Sunday night, he goes into the lab like usual and opens the freezer cabinet they got built into the wall. I haven’t seen it so I can’t be too clear on the specifics. Out comes Dr. Valentine.”

  Tubby told Flowers how the doctor’s head had come loose.

  “That’s a new twist,” the detective said in admiration.

  “Ain’t it though,” Tubby agreed. “A real turn of events. Busters says it wasn’t him that twisted it though. He didn’t touch it, even. Apparently to freeze a body hard enough for that to happen takes a couple of days. The coroner says Dr. Valentine had to be put in the closet no later than the previous Friday night.”

  “Was he already dead when he was put inside?”

  “Not sure. Dead or unconscious. He may have been stuck with something like an ice pick before he was frozen.”

  “How did the police decide it was Busters?”

  “He was the most available target, is what I think. But he was working Friday and had the opportunity. He seemed to be fleeing the scene when a security guard discovered him, in the lab, with the corpse. He has a drug prior. His fingerprints are on just about every drawer and cabinet in the place where drugs might be kept. The cops searched his house on Piety Street and found some bottles of pills from the medical center, and some other paraphernalia. And he had no business going into that freezer.”

  “But no confession?” Flowers was writing fast.

  “No. He denied everything. I’ve got to go see him at Parish Prison tomorrow. I haven’t met him or heard his side of the story yet.”