by Tony Dunbar
“That’s pretty neat,” Tubby admitted.
“No foolin’,” Jason agreed. “We can sell these. I’ve got some sample drawings. The whole thing is set out in this précis.” He tossed a manila envelope at Tubby. “Do what you can with it.”
“Don’t they already have something like that?” Tubby asked.
“They have something like everything, Tubby, but I’m the first guy you heard it from, right? Anyway, I’ve got another idea cooking right now.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“You are aware we are in the midst of a cigar craze. Everybody wants to smoke cigars. They’re paying ten or twenty bucks apiece for the things.”
“Right.”
“So I’ve got a plan for a special cigar that will really capture the public’s imagination.”
Tubby made encouraging sounds.
“We lace these little suckers with crack.”
“What?”
“Just checking to see if you were listening. Now my real idea is completely legal. You’ve got to realize that half the people who smoke cigars actually can’t stand them. They don’t like the taste or the smell. It makes them sick, but they have to hide that from their friends.”
“Maybe,” Tubby said. Personally, he enjoyed a good cigar, but he had suspected that not everybody around him did.
“Allow me to present to you a ‘Cuba Libre’ or ‘Cigar-Lite’ as I call them.” He pulled a stogie from his jacket pocket and handed it over lovingly.
“Looks like a cigar, right?”
Tubby agreed that it did. He ran it under his nose.
“Smells like a cigar?”
“It does.”
“Well, my friend, that little status symbol is packed with a special blend of lettuce, sugar cane bagasse, and soybean husks, and it burns so light it merely scents the tongue. Anybody can smoke one. On top of that it puts out a cloud of odorless blue smoke so you can puff it like a locomotive and everybody thinks you’re enjoying a real Havana, but you don’t get sick. And we can make a companion product with honest-to-goodness real mint leaves ground up in there that makes the Lite as sweet as a Virginia Slim.”
“This will sell?”
“God, yes. I can make these babies for ten cents apiece and wholesale them for four dollars. That’s what my buddies in the business tell me. And I don’t have to go to Cuba for them because there’s a guy in Chalmette who can turn them out in his garage.”
Jason assumed a serious expression as a patriotic aura settled over him.
“You know, that’s what I love about New Orleans,” he continued, resuming his assault on Tubby’s strange mood. “There are people here from all over the world, and they brought their talents with them. And most of ’em have a sense of humor too. Don’t you think? Like this guy. He came here on a wooden boat from Haiti or someplace and he pumps gas in a grease pit out on Judge Perez Highway. But in his garage he has built a cigar-rolling machine, and in his backyard he grows tobacco. And he tells me, ‘Mr. Boaz, St. Bernard Parish is de land of golden opportunity.’”
“We have a rich culture,” Tubby acknowledged.
“Yeah? You bet we do.”
“Sometimes one longs for simplicity, don’t you think?”
“Balls!” Jason protested.
“Whatever. As for your cigar, though, I’m not certain this is something you can patent.”
“Well, do some research on it. As soon as I line up a guy who can make me a decent box, you know, with gold embossing and cool stuff like that, I’m going into production.”
“Who would distribute them?”
“Not known yet. Hell, I’ll sell them out of the back of my Mercedes if I have to, just to get started. This is my best idea since the Port-a-Soak.”
“What about your state taxes and Uncle Sam?”
“There’s not a shred of tobacco in this cigar. The feds don’t tax lettuce.”
“Maybe I should research that, too.”
“Please do, but be quick. Surf’s up, and I want to ride the wave.”
“By the way, Jason, did you ever happen to meet Norella’s husband, Max Finn?”
“I’ve never been invited behind the red door, I’m afraid.”
“How did you know their house had a red door?”
Jason rubbed his mustache. “Somebody must have pointed it out to me,” he said absently. “Eat your damn oysters. Want some horseradish? Would you like to hear about my hat?”
CHAPTER XVII
Lucky LaFrene’s Chevrolet, Hyundai, Nissan, and Isuzu occupied twenty acres of reclaimed swampland on Veterans Highway. The path inside led past a thousand cars in a dazzling array of colors, almost blinding in the sunshine, and a skirmish line of salesmen in sport coats determined to intercept anyone who tried to slip through with his wallet.
“Ninety days, same as cash,” cried one linesman who tried to block Tubby’s way. Nimbly the visitor side-stepped.
“Push, tow, or crawl, we trade them all,” another one loudly promised.
“You’re demented,” Tubby muttered.
As he muscled his way through the glass doors into the frigid showroom his attitude was instantly altered by the vision of the car of his dreams. It was a gleaming red Velocitar, like nothing he had ever seen. Lithe and muscular, lavished with chrome, it spoke to his inner Iron John. Drive me on the levee, let me wrap my seats of black leather around you, it whispered caressingly.
“She’s a beauty, huh?” a man with the wrong coat but gleaming teeth whispered in Tubby’s ear.
“Ah,” Tubby exhaled. “What’s the sticker on that thing?”
“If you have to ask, you probably don’t want to know.” With this wisdom imparted the man tapped a pencil on his temple.
Tubby leaned forward to look, and his bubble popped. Almost as much as my house, he thought.
“Not bad,” he said loudly. “Say, can you tell me where I can find Lucky LaFrene?”
“The boss of bosses? His office is in the back. Maybe I can tell him who’s calling.”
“Sure. Tubby Dubonnet, from the Al Hughes campaign.”
The salesman wobbled away, and Tubby lost himself again in the rich ruby luster of the Velocitar. Why, this baby had a full wet bar in the back and a TV set on the dash. If only the kids would drop out of school, he might have some money. If only the Kleeb settlement would ever come through. If only an injured seamen would hobble into his office. He again pondered the nagging question central to his profession. Should he advertise in the Yellow Pages? The boys who could buy this car probably did.
“Howya doin’ Tubby, Tubby, Tubby?” Lucky LaFrene spouted, waddling across the floor.
He pumped Tubby’s hand with both of his own.
“Are you car-shopping or just name-dropping? What’s the lowdown, dude? We can deal if you’re for real.”
“We met at the Hughes fund-raiser, remember, Lucky?” Tubby worked his hand loose.
“I’ve gotta memory like a bat trap, bubba. I know you like a glove.”
“That’s great. Is there someplace we can talk for a minute? I’ve got something kind of private to discuss with you.”
“Confidential, huh?” LaFrene winked and motioned Tubby to follow him. “Let’s retire to my inner sanctotum.”
LaFrene’s office boasted a cluttered desk, a cabinet full of model ships, and a bright orange sofa. The turquoise walls were covered with plaques and awards for automotive one-upmanship and civic loveliness.
“Make yourself comfy,” the host invited. “What can I do for a legal beagle?” He settled behind his desk and tossed an executive tension-reducing bean bag into the air. He snatched it with one hand and grinned.
“You know Max Finn?” Tubby asked, keeping an eye on the orbiting sack, “He died day before yesterday.”
“Yeah. Sad thing.” LaFrene frowned obligingly. “We was campadres from way back. We all called Max ‘Twenty-One Gun Salute’ at St. Anthony’s. Bet you can guess why. We had some times together.” A tear oozed out
of the corner of his eye. He sniffled.
“I represent his widow, Norella.”
“What a lady. She must be totally begrieved. They was together such a short time. What happened to poor Max? Nobody’s sayin’ nuthin’.”
Tubby shrugged. “I was hoping that you might have some idea. Norella leaves the house at noon and everything’s fine. By four o’clock, he’s dead on the floor. She says the last thing he told her was you were coming to meet him.”
“Me?” LaFrene let the beanbag plop onto his desk. “That’s a pile of poop-poop-pee-do. I was nowhere around Max yesterday or the day before. That’s really what she told you?”
“She says that’s what Max told her.”
“Must be some kind of misunderstanding. Max and me hung out a lot together, but not when he died, I can promise you that. No, no, not us.”
“What did you do when you hung out?”
“Oh, we was just pals, you know. We’d hoist a few or go out on the boats. Max, you know, was a great sailor. He was planning to sell me his OmniMach HydroRocket. It’s really mine. I guess Norella told you that.”
“She didn’t mention it.”
This information troubled LaFrene. “I hope she ain’t having any mental magnesia. We already shook hands.”
“I’ll ask her. What can you tell me about Max’s business?”
“Me? Not much. No, no, can’t say what he did. He was a whiz at craps, I’ll say that much. He made some dough working the telephones, too, if you call that working. What do I know about it? I’m just a car magnate.” LaFrene held open his hands to illustrate his humble empire.
“Did you ever know about him being involved with call girls?”
“What the hell’s that?”
“You know. Setting up girls with men for parties. Escorts. Hookers, maybe.”
“Whoo, he had some fillies, sure, but I don’t believe everything I see.”
“What’s that mean, Lucky?”
“For instance, I once saw a flying saucer right over Lakeside Shopping Center, plain as rain. And I saw it zoom right down Veterans Boulevard all the way to where Clearview is today. In my hot-rod Chevy!” He pounded his desk. “It was just swamp back then. And I wasn’t the only one who saw it. But I don’t believe it.”
LaFrene’s benign grin wrestled with Tubby’s incredulous stare.
“So,” the lawyer resumed, “you saw Finn with different women?”
“I seen him with lots of pretty dames, that’s true.”
“Did Norella know about it?”
“You just asked me a question I can’t answer,” LaFrene said primly.
“Let’s try this one then. Who had a reason to kill Finn?”
“So, it was murder. I thought it might be. And you know, there ain’t a single soul I can think of who would permeate such a crime.”
“The man had no enemies?”
“He was clean as a golden fleece.”
“You gave a party for Al Hughes during the election campaign?”
The change of subject caught LaFrene by surprise, and his eyes narrowed for an instant.
“I was happy to do so. Al’s my judge. I’ve always voted for Al. He’s right as a rock.”
“There was a young lady who came to that party. Her name was Sultana Patel. Do you know her?”
LaFrene scratched behind his ear.
“Can’t say as I do.”
“Short, dark, maybe twenty-five, nice looking.”
“That don’t ring a chord.”
“Then I guess you wouldn’t know who she came with.”
“How could I, Tubby. I don’t know who the hell you’re talking about.”
The lawyer could think of more things to ask, but he couldn’t see that he was getting anywhere. Either LaFrene was a fool or he could sure pretend to be one. It was probably the latter, considering all of the diamonds flashing on the car man’s fingers. But no matter how you translated LaFrene’s remarks, they were not much help. He stood up.
“Thanks for your time, Lucky. If you think of anything that might help Norella make sense out of this tragedy, please give me a call.”
“I sure will.” LaFrene swept across the room, blowing Tubby out with him. “And don’t you forget who gets that boat. We rolled the dice and I need my slice,” He guided Tubby across the showroom, slapped him hard on the back, and pushed him out the door.
Tubby looked back through the glass at the beautiful Velocitar, and there was Lucky LaFrene talking on a portable phone.
CHAPTER XVIII
Todd Murphy was no genius. That’s why the LSU medical student was doing his residency in the morgue. No high-price surgeries here. No smooth bedside manner was required.
He made his incision with a practiced hand. There was something in that belly that shouldn’t be there. His fingers had detected it. An X-ray had confirmed it.
There was no blood. The man had been converted into a body more than sixteen hours ago. That was an educated guess, at least.
Neatly and precisely, the assistant coroner pulled apart the dermis and parted the muscles. Ah, there was the stomach, all gray and oysterlike. He prodded and squeezed the heavy organ with his latex-gloved hand, just out of curiosity.
Murphy took a deep breath and held it, anticipating the burst of gas he was about to release. Then he drew his scalpel through the unresisting tissue.
Right away, he saw something foreign. Setting aside his scalpel, Murphy gently extracted a handful of plastic golden disks, like a small treasure from the sea, from the cadaver’s gut. On each was engraved, “$1,000 Grand Mal Casino.”
“Ah,” he said again, with satisfaction.
After some more digging he found another chip stuck in Mr. Finn’s windpipe.
***
Murphy rolled the cadaver away and secured the fifteen golden chips in a clear plastic bag. He held the bag up in front of the light and thought things over.
Then he moved on to his next interesting problem, the unclaimed body in the next drawer. It was time to look at it again. It was also a peculiar case. Some evidence of trauma to the vagina and rectum. Still, that was not what had killed the young female. She appeared to have been malnourished. And she had been sliced across the neck with something sharp. But there were no obvious signs of a struggle.
He had been able to postpone admitting the difficulty of classifying this death because, conveniently, no one had shown up to claim or identify the body. So long had it been left exposed to the elements after death— at least three days, Murphy thought— that most of its features had been eaten away by bugs or rodents, further complicating identification. What was also curious was that one foot had been almost totally hacked off by a crude blade, much like a propeller, and the woman’s underwear was on backwards. Once or twice a day, Murphy would pull out the drawer and study the corpse for minutes at a time, searching for clues.
CHAPTER XIX
Al Hughes chose to meet in the open air. Seems he was paranoid now about eager ears in the walls, not just in his courtroom but in his house, in Tubby’s office, and everywhere else. Waking around on the street downtown wouldn’t do, because there might be surveillance cameras and long-range listening devices hidden in the high-rise buildings. He was worried about restaurants, too, because somebody might overhear his conversations.
“Well, where can we talk?” Tubby was exasperated.
“How about at the zoo,” Hughes suggested, so finally the two men were sitting on a wooden bench watching zebras, giraffes and gazelles graze on a re-created African veldt. School kids and ladies with prams flitted around them. Al had on his idea of a disguise, which was sunglasses and a red tam-o’-shanter. They made him look like a school principal moonlighting as a cab driver.
Unwilling to starve, Tubby had picked them up a couple of soft-shell crab po’ boys at Domilise’s.
“Feel safe enough?” he asked when he sat down beside Al and opened his brown paper sack. He was being sarcastic.
“Don’t make f
un of me, pal. It’s not your butt they’re after.”
“I’m not so sure,” Tubby said, thinking about the DA’s almost casual comments about his daughter’s sex life.
The judge accepted his long sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper. He carefully unfolded his lunch and lifted the bread on top to see what it was loaded with. “Did you put some hot sauce on this?” he asked.
“Yeah. I thought you liked it that way.”
Hughes nodded and took a bite. He had to use both hands to hold it together.
“How did your meeting with our friend go?” he asked, mouth full.
“Strangely. The DA seems to feel that you are guilty as charged, and I get the feeling that he has no qualms about destroying your reputation and career if you do not cooperate with his investigation.”
The judge shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
“Great news,” he said. “How am I supposed to cooperate?”
“That’s the strange part. He didn’t reveal any specific target for his snooping, so I guess you can pick and choose which judges on the court you want to incriminate. I get the feeling he thinks all of them are equally corrupt but can’t put his finger on anything specific that anybody has actually done.”
“Except for me.”
Tubby nodded.
“And the sad truth is, most of my colleagues are so honest they’re boring as Mondays. I mean they all might do a favor for a friend now and then, but nothing important, if you get me.”
“What about Judge Trapani?”
“He’s a bad apple, that’s for sure, and I’ve often heard it said you could buy him.”
Tubby did not personally know about “buy,” but he had once done a subtle arm-twist on Judge Carlo Trapani, and a client named Cesar Pitillero had miraculously gotten his sentence reduced. Pitillero was due out of state prison in three more months.
“Is that why you reported him to the Judiciary Commission?”
“Who said I did that?”
“You told me.”
“I’ve got a big mouth. No, I reported him because he pulled a gun on me in my own chambers and said he’d blow my brains out.”
“What for?” Tubby caught an errant slice of tomato from his sandwich before it hit the sidewalk.
