Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 06 - Lucky Man

by Tony Dunbar

  Enchanted, in slow motion, he considered the infinite variety of humanity as its many forms presented themselves to him. He quickly decided he would greatly prefer solitude in a woodland glen. Tears of gratitude slipped from his eyes when he inhaled some fresh air and saw familiar stars above. They broke apart in a fountain of diamonds. The exhilaration of the thrust when his big engines kicked in caused him to snort like a horse, and he rocketed off into space.

  Sapphire got him onto the streetcar, arresting the conductor’s alarmed expression with a stony glare, and prayed that Raisin would just shut up.

  “The air is full of pixies,” he crooned.

  ***

  Cherrylynn had primped for her date with man number five. She had gotten five responses to her ad in the paper. Part of what she received for $29.95 was a package deal including a voice mailbox where callers could leave messages describing themselves. The one who said he was a Tulane student and the one with the Australian accent she could eliminate. Likewise the guy who said he was from Shreveport and the one who worked seven-on and seven-off on an oil rig. That left a deep voice that said, “My name is Harrell. Yes, I like to dance. Give me a call when you’re tired of dead ends. Your ad is really cool. You won’t be sorry.”

  Setting aside her first four suitors for a rainy day, she returned “Harrell’s” call and, of course, got his message service.

  Since that first call they had swapped messages several times, and he asked her out. When he suggested meeting at a coffee shop on St. Charles Avenue, she was sure she had her man. They made a date for Wednesday afternoon without ever actually talking in person.

  Cherrylynn wore a short gray suit for the occasion and a black sweater and thought she looked smart. She carried her mocha latte to a table in the corner where she could watch two men in dashikis playing chess.

  She became quite engrossed and did not notice the person behind her until a voice said, “Are you Cherrylynn?”

  “Oh,” she said, looking around. “You’re a lot better looking than Mel Gibson.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  “It’s a Mary Kay cosmetics party, dear. I’m afraid I’ll be gone all afternoon.” Norella Finn was sprucing up her hair with delicate finger flicks. She was short, compact and dark— a sultry Latin, she called herself. The mirror she was using covered the entire wall of the living room in what the Finns called their boathouse. She could watch the reflection of her husband, who was reading a yachting magazine and sipping a cup of coffee, sitting on one of the straw-and-chrome barstools. Beside him were the spiral stairs that led to the bedroom above, and behind his bowed head was the picture window through which he could keep an eye on his sleek thirty-eight foot OmniMach HydroRocket, driven by twin 454 V-8 engines. The boat was safely hoisted above the water in its shed.

  “You will miss me, won’t you?” She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “Uh-huh,” he mumbled, not looking up.

  “What are you going to do without me?” she asked.

  “Lucky called. He may have a deal I’m interested in. And I’ve got to be here when the painter comes by to finish up.” He used a paper towel to dab up a drop of coffee before it could slip onto his white shorts or matching polo shirt with a red crawfish stitched onto the pocket. “Later tonight I have business downtown.”

  She left the mirror to poke around in the cushions of the white leather sofa that wrapped around part of the room in search of her purse.

  “You are gone too often at night. Last night and the night before you had business. It makes me wonder,” she said, almost as an aside.

  “That’s the name of the game, honey. I don’t make the money unless I hang with the high rollers.”

  Norella came up with a pink leather bag and checked her mirror again.

  “I was hoping this evening we could eat at home. Maybe I would give you a back rub in our great big bed.”

  Their real house was a mile away, but they spent more time out on the lake than they did at home.

  “Better if we stay here tonight,” Finn said, flipping a page. He did not give any explanation. “Have we got enough beer?”

  “I can pick some up if you want. That’s what wives are for.” She came up behind him and bit him on the ear, careful not to smear her lipstick. “Don’t work too hard while I am gone.”

  “Not likely,” he said, and she slipped out the door into the bright sunshine. Seagulls floated hopefully above the boat launch, and Lake Pontchartrain stretched flat as far as the eye could see. She jumped into her red Miata, flipped on the air-conditioning and was gone.

  ***

  Jamal, a little stoned, was almost in a trance, pushing his old red lawnmower through the high grass of Mrs. Chin’s yard on Burdette Street. The mower’s blade was a little loose, which made it click in jitterbug time and caused the motor to vibrate all the way up to Jamal’s back and arms. It was almost soothing him to sleep. Nothing but crumpled beer cans and oyster shells to look out for anyway. Mrs. Chin called him once a month, whenever she got her check, and he tried to keep her yard in tolerable shape. Not much to it, really. Mrs. Chin was half blind anyhow.

  He finished mowing her driveway, which had not been used in so long that the gate in the chain link fence along the front of the small yard was rusted shut.

  Deliberately, he followed her flower bed as close as he dared until he got to the broken concrete walkway. He paused to catch his breath, eyeing the stretch between the sidewalk and the curb. The grass and weeds were really high there— about knee-high by the telephone pole that marked the corner of her domain. He aimed for the pole on his first pass. The poor engine almost choked in the tall grass, and Jamal woke up a little. Sweating from the exertion, he forced the machine’s small wheels closer to the tall mound around the pole. Black smoke belched from the exhaust.

  Something shiny caught his attention as he chugged into the deepest grass. He pulled his over-heated machine out of the way and let it idle so he could stoop down and pick up the litter.

  He stopped suddenly— stubby fingertips an inch from something glittery. He tried to process what he was seeing. Gold-painted nails on a stiff brown hand.

  “Lordy!” he exclaimed, and jumped back. Cautiously, he inched forward again and pushed the weeds away with the tip of his shoe. It was a human hand he saw, and it was connected to an arm. He could make out a faded blue fabric covering a shoulder and, under a nest of twigs, what might be a jaw. He closed his eyes and turned away so he would not have to see any more.

  Jamal glanced around wildly, but he did not notice anybody looking at him. Mrs. Chin was back in her house somewhere. The row of shotguns across the street all had their doors closed against the afternoon sunshine. Some kids down on the corner were playing with a jump rope, just like they had probably been doing since they got out of school.

  None of my business, Jamal told himself, mad at whoever had left this mess outside where a poor yardman might stumble on it.

  Heart pumping, he revved up his mower and reversed course. Trying to recover his air of detachment, he carved a semicircular edge around the hummock by the pole and, as quickly as he could, finished the rest of the yard. Pausing only to mop off his forehead, he hoisted his old clunker back onto the bed of his pickup truck.

  He knocked on Mrs. Chin’s door, and, as always, it took her a long time to answer. Propped up by her cane, she pushed open the screen.

  “You must be trying to set a record,” she told Jamal sternly. “You ain’t never finished this quick before.”

  He dropped his eyes. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I try to earn my ten dollars.”

  He had to wait again, shivering in the hot sun, while she tottered back inside to get his pay.

  Next door, Mr. Armstrong rocked slowly on his porch, concealed from view behind a fig tree. He had watched Jamal hesitate by the hump, and seen him jump back. Mr. Armstrong scratched his white whiskers and shook his head. His eyes had been on that stand of grass for two days now, wondering what he
should do. The yardman had not been the first to stick his nose in that spot. Every reaction had been the same. One of the boys from the city garbage truck had stumbled off the curb and endured the jeers of his co-workers, so anxious was he to get away.

  “It’s a hard world, ain’t that the truth,” Mr. Armstrong said out loud, but there was nobody around who cared what he had to say.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Tubby was at his desk trying to look busy when Cherrylynn asked him on the intercom if he had time to meet with her.

  Fearing the worst, that she would tell him she had a new job, he nevertheless invited her to come in.

  “I don’t want any bad news,” he said as she took a chair. She faced him calmly.

  “What’s that? Oh, no. This has nothing to do with me. I mean it does, but it’s different.”

  “Ah.” Tubby sat back, relieved.

  “I found the man who suckered Sapphire and paid Sultana to come on to Judge Hughes.”

  “You what?” he asked incredulously.

  “I put a personals ad in the paper,” she told him. “The guy who calls himself Harrell answered my ad, and I met him. I followed him home. I know where he lives. I have his real name— Max Finn— and his phone number.”

  Satisfaction glowed on her eyes, in part because her employer was at a loss for words.

  “What does that mean, you followed him home,” he asked finally.

  “Just that. We ate dinner together and then I told him we just didn’t click and I would take a cab home. He didn’t believe I would dump him, but I did. I told the cab driver to ride around the block, and we saw him get his car from the valet. We followed him home.”

  “Very interesting. How did you get his name and phone number?”

  “From the city directory at the library this morning. With a street address you can find out anything.”

  “That’s quite impressive, my dear. What possessed you to do all of this without telling me?”

  “I wanted to.”

  “I see. Well, I think I would like to talk to this man without further delay. Can I have the number?”

  Cherrylynn pushed a piece of paper across the desk. Tubby looked at it and picked up his telephone.

  “What did you order for dinner?” he asked while it rang.

  “It was called Trout Smilie. They roll a trout fillet in breadcrumbs and top it with crabmeat. It’s baked in wine.”

  “That’s the name of the restaurant? Smilie’s?” The phone was still ringing.

  “Right.”

  ***

  An arrow of sunlight crossed the carpet where Finn lay on his face. It disappeared when the door softly closed. On the wall, the telephone began to ring. Eventually, it stopped.

  ***

  “Nobody there,” Tubby said as he placed the receiver back on the hook. “I’ve never been to Smilie’s. Perhaps we could go together.” He stared out the window at a bank of clouds rolling in from the west. “Maybe I should drive out to the lake right now and see if I can find this Max Finn guy.”

  “I’d like to go with you,” she said.

  “I guess if you ‘want to,’ that’s what you’re going to do.”

  “Right,” she said again. “You owe me twenty-eight dollars for the taxi cab.”

  “Write yourself a check out of the office account.” Tubby collected his things. “If you ‘want to,’ of course. By the way. Did you find this guy was the irresistible lover everybody says he is?”

  “Not my type,” she said. “I don’t go for the wavy hair.” Tubby quickly passed his hand over his own forehead, trying to flatten out any curls.

  ***

  Nikki mopped the perspiration off the back of his neck and stuck a folded blue tarp under his arm. He locked the white truck with NIKKI’S PAINTING stenciled on it and walked slowly to the red door of the boathouse.

  He knocked and waited patiently. Droplets trickled under his collar. He knocked again and groaned.

  “Ms. Finn. Oh, Mr. Finn. Nikki’s here. The painter.”

  He rocked from foot to foot. He had called ahead, only three hours ago. Mr. Finn had told him to come on.

  “Hello?” He rapped on the door, and it pushed open.

  “Well.” Nikki put his foot inside on the carpet. A burst of cool air invited him to advance. “Painter here…”

  The feet on the floor, shod in white Docksiders, weren’t moving. Nikki took another step and saw the top of Mr. Finn’s head behind the sofa. The face was plum-colored and locked in a grimace so tight the teeth were bared. Finn’s eyes bulged out and stared lifelessly at the intruder.

  Nikki screamed and covered his face with his hands. He stumbled all the way out of the door, back in the blazing sun, before he dared to look again.

  ***

  Tubby piloted his flashy blue Chrysler out the Interstate, where the rush- hour traffic was finally subsiding. The evening was turning cloudy as some distant storm started to blow in. When they got off at West End Boulevard, gusts of hot wind were kicking around the tall trees lining the street.

  “Doesn’t look like we’ll see much of a sunset,” he said.

  “I like the water in a storm,” Cherrylynn replied. “I’ve always thought it looks exciting.”

  “Sometimes too exciting. Don’t forget Hurricane Georges. That sucker missed us by a hundred miles and still made the Mississippi River run backwards.”

  “It’s our own fault if we haven’t got any better sense than to live near the Gulf of Mexico.”

  They turned at the marina, passed the restaurants that had been rebuilt after the last storm, and then a choppy inland sea was before them.

  “I think the address is right up ahead,” Tubby said, rounding a bend.

  “Whoa,” Cherrylynn exclaimed. He stepped hard on the brakes.

  The street was blocked by police cars, lights flashing, and an ambulance was backed up to the curb.

  Tubby followed the officer’s wave and detoured into the parking lot of the public boat launch. Other cars were making a U-turn and leaving the area, but Tubby found a parking space and, with Cherrylynn trotting behind, hurried up to the police line to see what was going on.

  There were quite a few spectators, and one of them turned around and gave a mocking salute.

  “How’s it going, boss?” Raisin Partlow asked. “Did y’all come to gawk at the dead body? You remember Sapphire, don’t you?”

  He did, from the video tape.

  “They’re bringing him out now,” Sapphire announced dreamily.

  Without asking for an explanation of this coincidental meeting, Tubby and Cherrylynn pushed up to the yellow tape and watched two women in white coats wheel a sheet-covered gurney out of the front door of a chartreuse boathouse with a red door. They bounced it over the sidewalk and, with a sudden shove, sent the cadaver sliding into the back of the wagon.

  “Do you know who it is?” Tubby asked. He observed that Cherrylynn was intent on the ambulance attendants.

  “Cop said it was the man of the house, and the neighbor said the man was Max Finn.”

  “That’s the guy we came to see.”

  “Same with us. Looks like we got here too late.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. The police aren’t saying. We’re here because Finn was the man who trapped Sapphire with that phony personals ad. I thought you weren’t interested in that case.”

  “This Finn also seems to be connected to something else I’m working on,” Tubby explained vaguely.

  “I guess that’s a bad coincidence, since he’s dead.”

  There was a commotion behind them. The sightseers’ heads turned to watch a short black-haired woman running through the parking lot. She passed within a few feet of Raisin, and a policeman tried to stop her from ducking under the tape.

  “Is it my husband?” she screamed. “You get the hell out of my way! Is it my husband?” She lifted the tape over her head and made a bee line for the gaping back door of the ambulance.
Tubby immediately recognized the woman.

  “Norella!” he yelled. “Officer, I’m that woman’s lawyer.”

  “Keep back, buddy, unless you want to spend the night in jail.” The policeman sounded bored.

  The woman turned briefly when she heard her name. She seemed to see Tubby, but her eyes weren’t focused. She remembered her purpose and tried to jump inside the ambulance. One of the EMTs pushed her back, and a detective in street clothes grabbed her arm and pulled her firmly though the red door of the boathouse.

  “I’m that woman’s lawyer. I want to see her,” Tubby insisted.

  “Listen, dude,” the cop said, “this here’s a crime scene, and it has to stay clear.”

  Norella was not actually Tubby’s client, but he knew her. Not very long ago, she had been the romantic interest of his friend Jason Boaz, the inventor. Still, Tubby could not stand by while she was manhandled by the NOPD.

  He ducked under the ribbon and scurried past the surprised policeman. Since he had a good head start, he made it to the sidewalk before the bellowing cop caught up with him.

  While the officer roared and reached for his cuffs, and the crowd cheered him on, a plainclothesman rushed outside to see what was the matter.

  “Stand back, I’m a lawyer!” Tubby cried.

  “Oh, Tubby, please help me,” Norella screamed from the room inside.

  “Who the hell are you?” the detective in charge wanted to know.

  They managed to get it all sorted out without anyone getting arrested.

  The deceased was indeed Max Finn.

  The detective was LaBoeuf Kronke. On closer inspection he remembered Tubby, having once interrogated him regarding the murder of a dockworker named Broussard.

  Norella Finn, formerly Norella Peruna of Honduras, was the widow.

  By virtue of butting in, Tubby was now her lawyer.

  She was not, however, under arrest or even under suspicion at the moment, and the detective had only pulled her out of the ambulance to determine her identity, he said. Unfortunately, she was not free to go just yet because the detective wanted to talk to her. And she did not want to go because, in the midst of this tragedy, she had nowhere else to be.