Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 06 - Lucky Man

by Tony Dunbar

  “Jesus, Al. I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  His friend stared hard at the table top.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be a judge,” he said quietly.

  The lawyer kept his peace.

  “What do you think?” Hughes asked weakly, wanting an answer.

  “I think until we get a machine with a brain and a heart, judges are going to be people. I haven’t met a perfect person yet, and that includes me.”

  “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

  “And before I forget, keep your conversations on the telephone to a minimum.”

  “Sure thing. Remember Judge Collins? He taught everybody that lesson.”

  “And as soon as possible, I’m going to send a private investigator named Sanre Fueres to check out your judicial chambers for listening devices. They call him Flowers. He’s very good.”

  “All right. So I wait to hear from you?”

  “Yep.”

  Hughes pushed back his chair and stood up, in a hurry to be gone. Tubby walked him to the front door.

  “Nobody wants to show the whole world his backside,” the judge said somberly.

  “Yeah, but don’t forget what Edwin Edwards said.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The voters wouldn’t care unless he got caught in bed with a live boy or a dead girl.”

  “That was back when people had a sense of humor,” the judge grumbled.

  “True.”

  “And he’s likely to die in jail.”

  “You’re right. Bad comparison.”

  “My main worry is Olivia Hughes.”

  After he left, Tubby dialed Flowers’ number from memory, but his thoughts were with his unexpected client. If he had been asked which friend of his would be most likely to commit an embarrassing personal peccadillo, Alvin C. Hughes would not even have made the list. Sexual exposés were now all the rage. Was Al so above it all that he didn’t even know that?

  “Flowers, I’ve got a job for you,” he told the message service. “Dust off your magic mystery box and call me.”

  CHAPTER V

  The music was “Ahab the Arab,” and Sapphire was imitating a python, winding herself around a brass fire pole, flicking her tongue and swinging her hair to the beat. The men in the place all wore shirts with collars, and half of them had on ties. The only ones not watching the snake writhe and undulate were getting the private attention of a table dancer shaking her powdered crotch at their eye level.

  Raisin paid his ten dollars at the door, stepped around the island loaded with prime rib and potatoes au gratin, and took a little table alone.

  His waitress, monumental butt restrained by a purple thong, offered him a drink.

  “Whiskey and water, honey,” he shouted over the music. The club was dark as a movie theater, but he left his sunglasses on.

  Even in the shadows, charged with sexual tension, he could tell that the dancer on stage was the woman from the videotape.

  She had not been so hard to find.

  The music changed to “I Saw Her Face.” Raisin could see her face despite the fake lashes, lip gloss, and gold eye makeup. Her gaze was stuck on a distant mountaintop, and her lips quietly counted the beat while the rest of her did the act. His eyes traveled down her body, which was to all intents and purposes naked and shaved smooth as a leather purse. She definitely demanded attention— must be her muscle tone. There was something fascinating, disabling, to a man about a naked woman dancing in a dark room under colored lights.

  His drink came, and he paid with another ten.

  “Keep the change,” he said, and the waitress slipped the bill in her waist strap. There were lots more there to keep it company. She likes me, he thought. Raisin knew he had a little sex appeal. Tanned and leathery, wavy black hair and a gleam in his eye, he looked like a ranger blown in from Wyoming.

  When Raisin looked back at the stage he was barely in time to catch a final fanny wiggle as his girl undulated into the mirrors.

  She returned once to strut around the perimeter of the stage, accepting applause and cash from the men within reach. When the next dancer appeared Sapphire stepped daintily offstage to make the rounds of the tables in the back.

  From what Raisin could tell, she did okay. She plopped onto some guy’s lap for a moment, then jumped up giggling from the joke he coughed into her ear. When she got to Raisin he held up a twenty.

  “Table dance for the gentleman?” she inquired, raising her arms high and twirling like an ice skater. He pushed his money into her briefs.

  “How about just sit and have a drink with me,” he said.

  “Okay, mister.” She fell lightly upon a vinyl-covered chair. One of her ankles touched one of his, and he could smell her cinnamon perfume.

  “My name’s Raisin. I’ve seen you on a videotape, and I’ve been searching for you for a long time.”

  She looked at him like he’d popped out of a manhole and stopped weaving in time to the music.

  “What kind of videotape?” she asked.

  “I think maybe you were at a police station. You were talking about answering a personals ad. You had coffee with a guy, and he came on to you.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Thirteen months and change,” he said. “A friend down at the paper went through the back issues with me until we found the ad.”

  “It wasn’t a police station,” she said. “Mister.”

  “Where was it?”

  She shrugged. “Why are we talking?”

  “I guess because I’m crazy. There was just something about you, about your story, I don’t know, I had to meet you.”

  “So now we meet.”

  “Sapphire Serena? That’s your name now?”

  “You got it.” She smiled and stood up.

  Hastily, Raisin produced another twenty. “Hey, where’s my table dance?”

  She squinted at him, but put out her palm.

  “Or if you’d rather, just sit back down and talk to me for another five minutes.”

  “Three, tops,” she said and sat down, crossing her arms over her breasts. Raisin noticed that the bartender across the room was starting to pay attention.

  “To make a long story short,” he said, “I’m only slightly perverted. I’m not a stalker. I can beat you at tennis. I’m into dining and dancing and redheads. Can I walk you home?”

  “It’s against the rules, I’m happy to say.”

  “Let’s break the rules. I’ll be good. We could have coffee or a couple of drinks when you get off work. If you’re hungry, I’ll spring for a meal. No strings. What do you say?” He gave her his most engaging smile. It had won him a lot of hearts.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s time for my act.” With that she hopped up and threaded seductively around the tables and through a black door beside the stage.

  Raisin settled back and watched Apple Ambrosia stimulate herself with a feather boa. When she was finally lying on her back in apparent exhaustion, legs languidly peddling the air, the whole stage began to rotate. As the supine stripper disappeared behind a curtain, Sapphire returned, now dressed like a rodeo cowgirl with plenty of sequins, and the music shifted into something heavy on fiddles.

  She had two similarly sparkling backup dancers, and the men in the audience were initially startled at the change of tempo and extensive clothing. They came to attention, however, when the three women started high-stepping, and Sapphire launched into an impressionistic rendition of “I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rose garden” to the accompaniment of a self-propelled synthesizer.

  It was quite a show. Cowgirl hats got tossed around and most of the sequins got peeled away. Sapphire hit a fair number of notes right and she even sang a song about a trip to the sea which she said she had composed herself. The set lasted about fifteen minutes and then the band, called the Lady Hi-Balls, rotated off the stage, tambourines banging away.

  Raisin stood up and applauded enthusiastically. The thre
e performers skipped out of the door and passed around their Stetsons for tips. He caught Sapphire’s eye by waving at her and whistling loudly. She made like she might ignore him but then she sashayed over to his table and held out her hat with both hands.

  “You’re singing is tremendous,” he said. “I’m your biggest fan. Give me a chance.”

  She squinched up one eye and looked him over with the other one.

  “I’ll consider it,” she said, “but no funny stuff.”

  “Cross my heart, sweetheart. Hey, you can come just as you are.”

  He thought he had lost her then, since she was frowning when she spun away.

  But she looked over her shoulder and said, “I get off at two and I go across the street to the Monkey Cage for a tequila sunrise. You can find me there.”

  Yes I can, he thought, as he watched her gossamer hips slip off into the gloom.

  ***

  It was about four-thirty in the morning when Tubby Dubonnet was awakened by the sounds of hilarity in front of his house. He put a pillow over his head, waiting for the annoyance to pass, but it didn’t. In fact, it seemed to build toward a crescendo in his front yard. He stumbled to the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and beheld in the beam of the floodlamp that protected his steps Raisin and some female staggering around like walruses. Apparently twisted past caring, Raisin was trying to locate the key Tubby had lent him. The woman was finding the search hysterical.

  At last he produced his object and triumphantly fitted it into the lock.

  The sounds of mirth moved inside. The homeowner heard them banging around in the kitchen, and he got as far as the top of the stairs, intending to shut the party down, before he changed his mind and returned to bed.

  He crammed the pillow back over his ears. Still, he heard them sneaking up the stairs to the guest room, shooshing each other and giggling. This was the last straw. Tomorrow Raisin was out of here.

  Either that or Tubby was.

  ***

  Tubby called Anita Baxter, the real estate agent who had sold him his house. Her voice, when she answered the phone, was fuzzy, and Tubby realized she was somewhere in traffic.

  “I’m doing seventy-five on the I-Ten, darlin’,” she cackled. “It’s a good time to talk.” He could hear sirens in the background.

  “Is there a cop after you?” he shouted.

  “No, that’s an ambulance trying to pass me. You don’t have to scream. I can hear you just fine.”

  “I’m thinking about selling my house.” He lowered his voice. “How much do you think I could get?”

  “More than you might expect, honey. How much of a hurry are you in? I can bring by a contract tonight.”

  “Not much, really. I’m just thinking about moving.”

  “I can find you a deal.”

  “To the Northshore,” he added.

  “Well, well,” she laughed. “Ditching the big city, huh?”

  He could hear a semi grinding its gears.

  “I’m just giving it some thought,” he hedged. “A little place in the country wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

  “Depends on what you like, sweetie. Personally I like nightlife, but that’s just my preference. I handle some great listings on the Northshore, too. We can find you that perfect spot. Do you want to raise horses?”

  “Maybe. Who knows. I’m not giving up on New Orleans, understand. I’m simply exploring some options.”

  “Sure, honey. It’s like they say: ‘Will the last person across the Causeway please blow it up.’ As soon as I get to my office I’ll fax you some pretty pictures.”

  CHAPTER VI

  Tubby had never met the new district attorney, Marcus Dementhe. He used to see the old DA at Saints games, and even once in court, but the Dubonnets and the Dementhes moved in different circles. Dementhe had been a “legal analyst” for a popular talk show and a spokesman for a large organization opposed to underage drinking before the election, and despite the inherited wealth that bought him plenty of TV time he would not have won the job if his main opponents, Lefty Mannaheim and Harvey Hood, had not been such obvious hacks.

  During his six months in office Dementhe had cleaned house and fired everybody above the level of file clerk. Thus, the faces of the earnest men and women bustling around the DA’s office were new to Tubby. The pudgy receptionist was polite enough, however, when she told him to please have a seat. For the next thirty minutes he stared at a copy machine, until the DA gave her the signal.

  “You’re here on behalf of Judge Hughes.” Marcus Dementhe was stating the obvious while examining the lawyer from head to toe. At six foot plus, Tubby usually looked down on people, but Dementhe stood a head taller. The other dissimilarity was that everything about Dementhe— from his beaklike nose to the long fingers that briefly touched Tubby’s— was thin.

  “This is my first assistant, Candy Canary.” He indicated the woman standing quietly by a brown leather chair in the corner of the spacious office. In the shadows she would have been easily overlooked, but she had bright, glistening eyes.

  “Won’t you sit down,” the DA offered magnanimously.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”

  “The Hughes matter is quite serious,” the DA said, lowering himself softly behind his wide desk. Above his head was a painting of black flambeaux strutting in a Mardi Gras parade.

  “Well, what exactly does the ‘Hughes matter’ encompass?” Tubby wished to keep the serve.

  “Didn’t he tell you about our meeting?”

  “Of course. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Then you know we have received credible evidence of malfeasance in office and violations of the Canons of Judicial Ethics, and I suspect a great deal more.”

  “What exactly is this evidence?”

  “These are the ground rules. I’m not going to pussyfoot around with you, and I’m not going to argue with you. I will tell you the basis for our investigation, but not its extent. I have assigned my top people to this. Your client is but the tip of the iceberg.”

  “I wish I knew what you were talking about,” Tubby said, furrowing his brow.

  “Specifically, your client engaged in sex acts with a person over whom he held the power of the court. Give Mr. Dubonnet a sample of the details, Candy.”

  “Certainly, sir. On September eighteenth, Miss—” The DA slapped his desk, and she stopped abruptly.

  “Let’s not mention names,” Dementhe said.

  “Of course. On September eighteenth, the informant entered Judge Hughes’ private office. She was admitted by the judge’s secretary, a Miss or Mrs. Evans, at approximately two-fourteen P.M., and she remained there until approximately two forty-two. During that time she asked the judge a number of personal questions relating to his preferences in women and what he liked to do for fun. On the pretext of explaining how she might fit in to his campaign organization, of which you, Mr. Dubonnet, were the cochairman, he likewise asked personal questions about her.

  “She felt that the judge was attracted to her and was making advances to which she was not unreceptive. Upon her departure, the judge held her hand for an inappropriately long time. He asked for, and was given, her personal telephone number.”

  The first assistant flipped a page in her notebook. Tubby, who had sunk guiltily in his chair when she mentioned his name, wished he had a notebook of his own.

  “On September twenty-first,” Candy continued, “Judge Hughes called Miss, uh, the informant at her home at six o’clock in the evening and invited her to come to his chambers on the following day. He suggested twelve-fifteen, at which time his staff would be gone for lunch—”

  “He said that to her— that his staff would be out?” Tubby interrupted.

  The first assistant regarded him bleakly. Apparently give-and-take was not to be a feature of this lecture.

  “The informant arrived at the courthouse a few minutes after noon, as instructed. She took the elevator to the ju
dge’s floor and found the door to his chambers locked. She knocked, and the judge himself let her in. They walked into his chambers. No one else was present. As before, the judge began the interlude by talking about his campaign and what he said was his need to reach out to the youth vote, to get young people involved in the process. She reports that they were sitting together on his couch, that their hands and knees touched, and that suddenly she found herself in his arms.”

  Tubby rested his chin on his fist, hoping he was not blushing.

  “At that time the judge became visibly aroused and fondled her breasts. He broke off the physical contact and told her she would have to go, which she did.”

  Thank God, the lawyer thought.

  The first assistant continued. “On September twenty-fourth the judge again called the informant.” Oh, no, Tubby aid to himself. “He apologized for what had happened, though she explained that she believed it was her fault.” The first assistant frowned. “The judge assured her that nothing like that would happen again, and she suggested that she would still want to work on his campaign. He invited her to come to his chambers again— again at lunchtime.”

  District Attorney Dementhe stared woodenly at Tubby, who felt properly skewered to his chair, and his first assistant adjusted her glasses and continued.

  “On September twenty-fifth, the informant again knocked on the door of Judge Hughes’ courtroom, arriving at twelve thirty-three. On this occasion she stayed for approximately thirty-five minutes. They again sat on the couch, and after conversing for a short time, they again began touching each other. They embraced, and the judge helped her unbutton her blouse. He felt her breasts and underneath her skirt. She undid his belt and his zipper, exposing the judge’s penis. He achieved orgasm with her sitting on top of him.”

  “With her sitting on top?” Tubby demanded.

  “Why, yes,” Ms. Canary said.

  “What does that have to do with anything? What is all this detail for? Is there any connection between these alleged events and any of the duties of the judge’s office? Was the woman a litigant in his court?”

  Marcus Dementhe’s face became animated for the first time. He positively glowed.