Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 06 - Lucky Man

by Tony Dunbar

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, it sounded great. He had a real nice voice. He came on as so sincere. He said maybe we should exchange photos. I said I didn’t have one, which I didn’t have a good one at the time. Then we talked some more. I remember he said he liked to swim and had a pool.”

  “Then you made a date.”

  “Yeah. Just for coffee, at a place on St. Charles Avenue. I think they call it Java, or something. He was late, so I just waited for him. They have TVs you can watch.”

  “But he showed up?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Describe him, please.”

  “Oh, he was good looking, all right. Wavy black hair. Not actually like Mel Gibson at all, but younger. He combs his hair back, like, with a mousse. He has a good tan. There’s a dimple in his chin. Well built. What do you want me to say?”

  “That’s fine. What did he say his name was?”

  “Harrell. Harrell Hardy. I don’t think that’s really his name.”

  “What happened then?”

  “We had coffee. We talked. He invited me out for dinner.”

  “When?”

  “That same night. We went straight from the coffee place. First we went out for drinks. I think it was called the Bombay Club. I’ve got the matches somewhere. Then some Italian place. I don’t remember its name.”

  “And?”

  “And we’re eating spaghetti, and he asks me do I dance. I say yes. He says did I ever do it professionally. I told him no, even though I do, sort of. I just didn’t want to get into it, but… anyhow, he says maybe I can learn, which I thought was odd. Then he asks what I think about escorting important men to parties.”

  “Escorting?”

  “That’s his word. He said it paid extremely well, and it didn’t have to involve, you know, sleeping with anybody. That was up to me.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That he was out of his fucking noodle.”

  “And his response?”

  “’Just something to think about, doll. It’s easy money.’”

  “After that you went to a hotel and had sex with him?”

  “Do I have to say?”

  “Sure. It’s part of your complaint.”

  “Well, we didn’t have sex right away, but, yeah. We did.”

  “After he’d asked you about the escort service.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t say I was proud of myself.” She looked away from the camera, and when she turned back there was a tight smile on her lips as if she had just told herself a little joke.

  “What happened then?” the voice asked.

  “Another man came into the room and got into bed with us.”

  “And then?”

  “I tried to get out of the bed. Nothing like that ever happened to me before, but they wouldn’t let me.”

  “They raped you?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Well, did you resist, or did you consent?”

  “I told them no way, but they were touching me all over my body, if you must know, and it’s kind of hard to think straight in a situation like that.”

  “Okay, what happened?”

  “Nothing. They did lots of things to me. I did lots of things to them. I’m not going to describe it in graphic detail. Later on, the other man left. Then Harrell took me home. He gave me two hundred dollars and said it had been a great time.”

  “You took the money?”

  “I tried not to.”

  “Well?”

  “He stuck it between my… in my bra, and he rode off in his car before I could do anything about it.”

  “Did he call you again?”

  “Yeah, a bunch of times. I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I felt bad about what happened. It was very degrading, and I didn’t want it to happen again.”

  “Why did you report it to us?”

  “Because I don’t want somebody else to get tricked like that. You read these personals, you think that something good might happen for you. You get to dreaming. It’s not fair.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I turned eighteen last week.”

  “You were seventeen when this occurred?”

  “Right. What’s the difference?”

  “If you were a little younger, it wouldn’t matter if you consented. It would be unlawful of him to have carnal knowledge of you in Louisiana.”

  She shrugged.

  “Anything else you can add to describe this man?”

  “Harrell smells like the seashore. The other man had real hard skinny fingers. He kept saying ‘Sweet Mary, sweet Mary,’ when he was coming.”

  “Well.”

  “Not much help, huh?”

  “What exactly does it mean to smell like the seashore?”

  “Fresh, salty, I guess. I’m sorry. I’m a musician. I write country songs. It’s just the way I talk.”

  “You sometimes dance professionally and you sing country songs?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Anything else you remember?”

  “When the other man was getting dressed, I saw a pin on his shirt that said FROG on it.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a club, I thought. Maybe that’s his name. He was a frog, as far as I was concerned.”

  “You ever see either one of them since that time?”

  “No, but that same personals ad is back in the paper this morning.”

  CHAPTER IV

  It was no big surprise that Judge Al Hughes called Tubby Dubonnet at home. After all, they had been friends for twenty years. Tubby had recently concluded his reign as cochairman of the Hughes reelection campaign. The surprising thing was the fear in the judge’s voice.

  “I’ve got a problem, Tubby. Have you got some time? I would like to discuss it with you right away.”

  “Of course I’ve got time. How big a problem is it?”

  “Big enough. When can we meet?”

  “Right now if you want. I could be down at your office in half an hour.”

  “I’m not sure how private that is. What about your house?”

  “Okay with me. It’s a mess, but you know the way.”

  “I’m leaving in a few minutes,” Hughes said and hung up.

  Within half an hour the judge— portly and elegant— was sitting at the round table in Tubby’s kitchen. The dishwasher was humming from a last-minute cleanup job, and Tubby was putting CDM coffee into the pot.

  “I’d offer you a beer, Al, but I haven’t got any.”

  “That’s not like you. Getting in shape for a pool party?” the judge asked, making a small attempt at humor, but the twinkle was missing in his eye.

  “Coffee it is then,” Tubby said, looking around for napkins.

  “Forget it. Just listen to me for a few minutes.”

  “Roger, chief.” Tubby sat down. He had never seen Al Hughes this distressed, and he feared he was about to hear about a terrifying medical diagnosis.

  “I’ve been a judge for fourteen years,” Hughes said. “I’ve made some good calls and some bad calls, but I always could face myself in the mirror. Now I…” He choked. “The bastards are out to get me,” he said, showing his teeth.

  “Which bastards, Al? What are you taking about?”

  “The goody-goodies, son. The holier-than-thous. To name names, Marcus Dementhe, our extremely repressed and rapacious district attorney.”

  “Marcus Dementhe?” That was bad news. The celebrated race in the recent election had not been for judge but for district attorney. Dementhe was the new man in, succeeding the crusty old Boy Scout who had retired after holding the job for a couple of generations. In victory, Marcus Dementhe was arrogant. Tubby thought him a bitter, crafty person. His literature said he went to church every Sunday. In protest Tubby had voted for Yvonne Pews, who got her customary twenty-six per cent.

  “Yeah, the prick.” Hughes
looked around nervously. “Anybody else here but you?”

  “I wish,” Tubby said. “No, I’m here alone. I have a temporary boarder, but he went down to the newspaper for some reason.”

  “No girlfriends, huh?”

  “It’s been a bad year.”

  “For me, too, it looks like. I’m under investigation.”

  “What in the world for?” Hughes was straight as an arrow.

  “For having a relationship with a woman other than my wife.”

  “You?” He was dismayed. Recovering, he said, “That’s not illegal in Louisiana, except in the most technical sense, of course.”

  “This is pretty damn technical, I can assure you. The point, however, does not seem to be to put me in jail but to humiliate me and threaten me into cooperating with a full-blown investigation of what our new DA perceives as corruption in our local judiciary.”

  “Wait a second. Better start at the beginning.”

  “It’d quite embarrassing talking to you like this, but I am forced to conclude that I do need a lawyer.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “And this doesn’t go any further than you.”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s this girl. Let’s call her Peggy Sue. She has apparently told the DA that she and I had sex in my chambers at the courthouse.”

  “I see.”

  “That I touched her genitalia,” Hughes said dryly. “That’s the way Dementhe put it. He summoned me to his office with a telephone call. He mentioned the young lady’s name, and I couldn’t say no. I had to actually postpone a trial in progress for the first time in my career.”

  “You went alone?”

  “Yep. I should have called you first, but I was in shock, I guess. He made me wait a half hour too. But we finally talked in his office— alone. He presented me with the dates, times, and places when he said I had sex with the girl. He said he’s going to pull me before a special grand jury he’s convening to nail corrupt judges. He said he might work out a deal with me if I cooperate with him by getting some dirt on my colleagues.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “No. He mentioned Judge Trapani like it was a joke because that’s a giveaway. Trapani already has his share of problems with the Judiciary Commission. He also mentioned Boggas and Tusa.”

  “Both of whom he opposed in the last election.”

  “Yeah. He’s hated them for years.”

  “How are they supposed to be corrupt?”

  “Hell if I know,” Hughes said. “They don’t tell me their secrets. Our DA may want me to manufacture something.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I had to think about it for a few days. Then I called you.”

  Tubby looked at his reflection in the toaster.

  “Son of a bitch wouldn’t shake my hand,” Hughes muttered. That seemed to bother him as much as anything else.

  “How much of the stuff about the girl is true?” Tubby asked, still looking at the toaster.

  “Depends on what you mean by sexual relations.”

  “Come on, Al. You know that dog is dead.”

  “If any of this gets out, Tubby, my wife will leave me flat. No two ways about it. I can’t have that.”

  “What do you want me to do, Al? Never screw a client, never lie to the judge— that’s me. But you’ve got to lay it out now.”

  “I want you to represent me, for Chrissakes. Find out what they’ve got on me and make me the best deal you can. Better than I deserve, if possible.”

  “You messed up, huh?”

  “Big time. I feel so damn sick about this, so guilty and disappointed in myself, I can barely sit here and talk about it.”

  “How did you meet the girl?”

  “She was at a campaign party Lucky LaFrene put on for me at his house. I don’t know who she was there with, but Lucky introduced us.”

  “Lucky LaFrene the car dealer?”

  “That’s him.”

  Tubby had never met the man, but he was a local celebrity, well known for TV ads where he threw money into the air and squealed, “Get Lucky at LaFrene’s!”

  ***

  Lucky LaFrene’s immodest stucco mansion glowed with a thousand lights. Big shiny cars lined the curbs in both directions, and a mounted policeman at the corner exchanged pleasantries with well-dressed couples walking toward the party. His horse quietly sampled the St. Augustine lawn.

  The front doors were wide open, and incoming guests could stop at a little table to fix a name tag for themselves. Some, trusting in their notoriety, stepped right into the vast great hall where congestion was developing around four well-distributed bars. Black men with frilly shirts and cummerbunds concocted the night’s specials with never-dimming smiles.

  There was no mistaking who the host was. Lucky LaFrene was recognizable to almost everyone who watched TV, and he was the loudest person in the room. Also, he was the only man with a bouffant hairdo wearing a pink tuxedo.

  “Please don’t give me no news from Washington,” he begged one silver-haired lady in a pearly cocktail dress. “They can all croak on their own venom. The only politics I care about are right here in New Orleans, darlin’.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” he grabbed the elbow of an attractive young brunette trying to slip past toward the hors d’oeurvres. “You know you could be on Babe Watch.” She crossed her eyes at him. Lucky laughed and let her go.

  “Where’s the paparootzie with their cameras?” LaFrene— known in used-car circles as the “great articulator”— cried. “We’ve got some stars out tonight.”

  A tall man wearing a white linen suit and sunglasses came from the hall and entered the room. Behind him was a slight, coffee-colored woman in a blue sarong, gold bracelets on her wrists.

  “My man, Finn!” LaFrene shouted when he spotted the new arrival. “Come on in and buy yourself a drink!”

  Finn worked the crowd, shaking a few hands on his way to the center of the room.

  “Nice turnout, Lucky,” he said appreciatively. “I didn’t know you had so many friends.”

  “What are you talkin’ about? I’ve got more friends than China’s got peas.”

  “Are they here to support your candidate for judge, or just for the food?”

  “I done raised twenty-five thousand dollars,” Lucky confided happily. “What nice contribution are you going to make?”

  “What is Judge Al Hughes going to do for me? I don’t get into trouble.”

  “It never hurts to know the man on the throne,” Lucky said wisely.

  “I’m just here to drink,” Finn admitted.

  “Then go get yourself a penis colossus. We’re having a beach party. Speaking of which—” he put his lips by Finn’s ear— “it’s time we did the deal on your boat. You owe me, doodley, and I’m ready to ride.”

  Finn laughed. “I’ll have your dough sometime next week,” he said and pushed off toward one of the bars.

  “That story’s got more holes than a Swiss watch,” LaFrene said to no one in particular. “Hey, here’s the judge!”

  The four-piece combo known as the “Dixie Gentlemen” was just starting to play when Judge Hughes made his entrance. The lady with the pearly dress started fox-trotting to “I Remember Judy,” which instantly created a space around her as nearby guests guarded their drinks and cheese straws.

  Unawares, the judge stepped into the circle and waved to Lucky. He promptly found himself with a dance partner.

  Not unaccustomed to the spotlight, he gave the jolly lady a spectacular twirl. Encouraged by much clapping, the judge was about to improvise a few tango moves when LaFrene came to his rescue.

  “He can sidestep just like Fred MacMurray, folks!” the host yelled, grabbing Hughes’ hand just as he was attempting a personal pirouette. “Let me introduce Judge Alvin C. Hughes! My candidate for civil district court!”

  After a round of applause the candidate was guided to the nearest potential donor by Lucky LaFrene.

&n
bsp; Miffed, the abandoned dancer drifted up to the band and tried to croon along with the banjo player.

  The young woman in the blue sarong sat quietly on a sofa, munching a ham biscuit and watching the judge move around the room in her direction.

  ***

  “She was quite flirtatious,” Hughes continued, “and I suppose I found that flattering. She said something indicating she was very supportive of my campaign and wanted to help, and I made a big mistake. I told her she could come and talk to me about it anytime.”

  “And she did.”

  “They say there ain’t no fool like an old fool.”

  “You’re not that old.”

  “I sure feel old today.”

  “How often did she come to your office?”

  “Two or three times.”

  “Which was it?”

  “Three, to be specific, counselor.”

  “That’s the way it’s got to be. Did anyone see her?”

  “Sure. Mrs. Evans was there. She let her in the first time. The other times were during lunch, so I don’t know. Maybe one of the clerks saw her.”

  “Did she actually do any work for the campaign?”

  “Not much.”

  “How old is this woman?”

  “About twenty-five, I’d say. I didn’t ask to see her driver’s license. Maybe she doesn’t have one. She’s East Indian.”

  “Did she have a wire on her? You know, a tape recorder?”

  “It would have had to be a mighty small one.”

  “District Attorney Dementhe did not mention a wire?”

  “No. He said that she had come to him anxious to confess the whole story and that she is cooperating fully.”

  “Why do you think she did that?”

  “I’ve got to believe I was set up.”

  Tubby leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. After a moment he rocked forward hard, making a loud thump.

  “Okay. Here’s what I want you to do,” he said. “Go back to your job. Don’t say anything about this to anyone else. If the press calls, don’t call them back. If anyone sticks a microphone in front of you, say, ‘I have a lawyer who handles all my personal questions,’ and refer them to me. I’ll go talk to Marcus Dementhe and see what he really wants. Do you know how I can get in touch with the girl?”

  “I’ve got her phone number. What do you think I ought to tell Mrs. Hughes?”