by Tony Dunbar
A lot of the money was stained with the blue dye and he didn’t feel safe carrying it around. But there also were many uncontaminated bills, and he collected those into his pockets. The white chemical suit was his ally, so he retrieved that as well.
Attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible, he went back to the house where he had been working all day. He went upstairs to investigate.
There was some furniture—a sofa, mattresses on the bedroom floor, the ubiquitous kitchen refrigerator. The homeowner had apparently already removed everything he desired, like tables and bed frames, consigning the rest to curbside pick-up by the disaster contractors. Among the abandoned tins of spices and bottles of Log Cabin syrup in the pantry, he found a few edibles. There was an unopened jar of Tabasco pepper jelly, a can of Campbell’s Split Pea with Ham and Bacon soup, and even a vacuum-sealed canister of cashew pieces and bits from Walgreens. Whatever he didn’t take was going onto the street tomorrow. This place fit him, and he bedded down for the night.
He thought about lighting a candle, but decided that he preferred the darkness and the solitude of an empty house in an empty neighborhood. Two blocks away there was light, and the glow reminded him of the human race at the gates. If they invaded his space, he would invade theirs. Given just a little time, he would be moving on anyway, further east on the Gulf Coast where the waterfront was blown clear of inhabitants, where the houses had been reduced to piles of splintered lumber and stone and the woods were full of furniture. To the beach. Where the storm was still strong. Christine would be with him there. As long as she could stay away from that preacher. No, that was his sister. He had momentarily mixed them up. Christine would be there with him, and together they would keep the energy of the wind alive.
He slept on the floor, and he was meditating outside the front door the next morning when the boss showed up.
“Man, I like this,” the boss said. “It’s good to have someone you can count on.”
Since it was Sunday, they only put in half a day. In the course of clearing out a bedroom, Bonner had found a cardboard box of clothes. A pair of pants fit him well enough that he was able to discard his blue leggings into the trash heap. He still had a clean white suit in a bag, but he would save that.
When they broke off at lunch, Bonner packed his gear. The boss told him to be sure to show up tomorrow morning, and he said he would, though he had an entirely different plan.
He knew where Christine’s father lived. The address was on the library card, and it was an easy walk away.
His route took him past a neighborhood restaurant that had just re-opened. Only one of the tables outside was occupied, and the man there was drinking coffee behind his New York Times. Bonner felt safe enough to go inside and order a ham and cheese sandwich to go. The Middle Eastern proprietor tried to start a conversation about the Saints game he was watching on television—a Saints game from their new home in San Antonio—but Bonner played dumb. He paid for his sandwich and took it with him to eat while he walked.
He passed a house where some college-student types were sunning in lawn chairs in the yard, using storm debris, decorated with Mardi Gras beads, as a table for their beer. Bags of trash and two old refrigerators were on the curb in front. There was a Suzuki motorcycle sitting in the driveway with a “For Sale” sign taped to its handlebars.
Bonner kept going for half a block while the scene percolated around in his head, and then he reversed course.
“Who’s selling the bike?” he asked.
One of the boys raised his sunglasses. “That would be me,” he said.
“How much do you want?” Bonner asked.
“It’s in good shape. Didn’t even get wet in the flood. I’m asking $3,900.”
“I can see the mud on the spokes, dude. Does it run?”
“Oh, yeah. I wouldn’t sell it but I need the cash ’cause I lost my job at Commander’s. They’re closed, so what can I do? No, this bike is a honey.”
“Let’s hear it crank up.”
The guy was barefoot and in a bathing suit, but he managed to fire his Suzuki up. It made a great blast, with only a couple of erratic coughs.
“Might be some bad gas,” he said.
“Let me try it out,” Bonner said.
“Sure.” The boy tried to relieve Bonner of his pillow-case pouch, but his customer jerked it back and glared.
“We be cool, dude,” the athlete said. “Just bring back my bike.”
Bonner took it for a spin around the block. The motorcycle ran okay as long as it was above 4,000 RPMs. It had a hard time idling. And he did bring it back.
“I’ll give you $2,000.”
“Oh, man…”
They settled at $2,700.
Bonner went into his pack and pulled out the money.
The kid was surprised but not averse to be receiving cash money. He even had a title to the motorcycle. “How shall I fill it out?” he asked.
“Just sign it,” Bonner said.
“I guess we’re supposed to have a notary do this.”
“Don’t sweat the small stuff. I ain’t worried about it.”
And he did a wheelie roaring off down the street.
Tubby did not think there was anything amiss when he went to visit Christine’s new apartment in the Garden District. It was about a ten-minute drive away in one of the city’s nicest sections. To say that the area had been spared by the storm would be incorrect. Elephant-sized trees lay dead on the sidewalk, waiting for the heavy-duty equipment to arrive and truck them away. Roofing slate was piled high on the curb, and refrigerators were everywhere, but there had been no flood here. Most of the houses showed signs of life.
The building where Christine lived was a duplex, finished in mauve stucco. Its two entrances were announced by boxwood hedges and framed charmingly by once-functional gas lights. He rang the bell, and was momentarily surprised that the chimes worked. He had become unused to normal electrification. Samantha answered the door in pajamas and a robe. She apologized for not being dressed at two o’clock in the afternoon, but said that they were cleaning house today. Christine was upstairs vacuuming. Come on in.
Tubby went, inhaling with satisfaction the air of an old house scented with young ladies’ soaps. He was so used to the mustiness and rot of his own part of the city that he felt as though he were on a vacation to some wonderful resort far away on the globe.
“We have some coffee, and there may be some croissants left over, Mr. Dubonnet,” Samantha said, leading him up to their clean and orderly kitchen. She spoke quite distinctly as if each word were important to her.
Not once had Tubby noticed the motorcyclist trailing him on Prytania Street. The fact that the bike had stopped when he did and pulled into a parking spot down the block had completely escaped him.
26
Johnny Vodka called Tubby the next morning to report that a twenty-dollar bill heisted by Bonner Rivette from the First Alluvial Bank had turned up in the deposit envelope dropped off at the bank by the Najaf Deli on Freret Street. It didn’t lead to much, Vodka said. He had already been over to the Najaf, and the owner said he remembered nothing about the customer.
“You know, the typical thing. He doesn’t know a squid from a sea bass. He probably doesn’t even have a Health Department permit to open the restaurant. Or he might, I don’t know. I threatened him a little bit, but it didn’t improve his recollections any. He might have seen Rivette, or he doesn’t know. The point is, we know that Rivette is around, and very close by.”
“My daughter’s in town. She’s hidden away,” Tubby said. “If he comes around here, I’m carrying a gun.”
“That’s fine. It’s every man for himself these days. If you see this character, you can call me or shoot him yourself, whatever you can do.”
“Can’t we get more manpower, maybe the FBI or something?” Although threatening to pack heat, Tubby was not truly ready to assume all of the responsibilities of law enforcement.
The line was
silent.
“Okay, I was just asking,” Tubby said.
“You got to understand, Mr. Dubonnet. This is a national disaster. We ain’t exactly got what you call a lot of resources. I wouldn’t even have known about the money turning up if the bank manager wasn’t related to my captain. I’m just saying this so you’ll understand.”
“Yeah. Well, I appreciate whatever you can do.”
“Sure. I’ll let you know when I find out something, and you do the same. If you do happen to shoot him, call me right away.”
“I got that part,” Tubby said.
Sardis Sanitary Supply, sub-sub-contractor in charge of appliance removal in zip code 70119, was working Florida Street. Its three inspectors worked seven days a week. Their company got two hundred dollars per refrigerator located, then more money to cart it off for refrigerant removal, then more for electrical wiring removal, then more to drop it at the refrigerator dump. At that point another company would take over and get paid to crush the white-goods into cubes for recycling. The street inspectors earned two hundred dollars a day, and were delighted to have it, even if they had to live in an old Winnebago parked at an Interstate rest area thirty miles north of town.
Jack Shimlechek had been a community college professor of biology in Crampon, Indiana, when he learned about this job on the web, his late-night companion. He did the math and was en route to the sunny south twenty-four hours later. The college simply cancelled his course.
During his career teaching at the high school level and in college, he had watched the dissection of thousands of chickens, frogs and mice, but he had never encountered anything so earthy and nostril-filling as the endless population of curb-side refrigerators in New Orleans. The worse it got, and the more his partners gagged, the more he laughed. He was a good leader for his men, two former elementary-school counselors from Nashville.
His humor was tested when he used a utility knife to take off the duct tape on a nice double-wide icebox. He stepped a few paces back and retired to his knees for personal reasons.
His assistant who carried the paper work came to help, took a look in the box and also went to sit down on the curb.
“Old Rocky Top,” he whistled, nonsensically. “Rocky Top, Tennessee.”
“Just letting you know,” Vodka told Tubby on the telephone, “I think we got your boy linked up an actual murder.”
Tubby’s nerves were numb. His face was granite. “Who is it this time?”
“Some laborer who stayed up at the campground in City Park. A guy they called Wire Nut. He was stuffed inside a refrigerator.”
“That’s unusual.” He was sweating. His concentration was failing.
“You know, you’re right. We haven’t had too many refrigerator murders that I can think of offhand. It may be unique. Or maybe this is just the start of a trend.”
“Does this bring you any closer to catching him?”
“Not really. I haven’t got a clue where the guy is hiding himself. I’m just letting you know he’s leaving lots of crapola behind him wherever he goes.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“I mean, we’re looking for him,” Vodka said defensively. “It’s just, he ain’t the only thing out there, and we’re still not up to strength at the police department.”
“I get it,” Tubby said. He was tired of hearing about all the problems. Law and order were out the window. I mean, let’s just find this guy and pop him. Simple as that.
Steve and Gastro didn’t have much to do on Monday morning so they decided to drive up to New Orleans to see if Gastro could find any of his old friends.
“Funny how this all looks so normal,” Steve commented as he piloted his Frontier up the entrance ramp to the Westbank Expressway.
“The Home Depot’s sign blew down,” Gastro pointed out.
“Sure, they had lotsa wind, but everybody’s back in business.”
They got in line to pay their toll at the Crescent City Connection Bridge and had time to check out most of the radio stations on the dial before they finally got to the toll plaza, it was that crowded.
“Look how many cars is from Texas. Guess I should come back up here and get another job,” Steve said unenthusiastically. “I liked working for Mr. Flowers. Maybe he’s got something else for me.”
“If I can find a certain somebody, I might be able to get some weed to sell,” Gastro suggested helpfully.
“I don’t know about that,” Steve said, “But you tell me where you want to go.”
They took the first exit off the bridge and did stop-and-go into the French Quarter. The traffic lights still weren’t operating, and some drivers had trouble understanding that they didn’t have to sit all day waiting for a four-way stop sign to change. Finally they crossed Canal and grabbed a place to park on Chartres Street. The sign said “Loading Zone,” but it was hard to believe that anybody was issuing tickets.
“My old hang-out’s Jackson Square,” Gastro said, and he led them walking in that direction. The October afternoon was warm. Steve had a cut-off wife-beater T-shirt over his blue jeans. Gastro had on black pants and a black button-up shirt, and looked like the caricature of a geek, though his face had so many wires implanted in it he should have been able to receive e-mails.
They strolled into the Square, where the stately Cabildo and Presbytere were still blocked off behind a plywood wall and most of the shops, even La Madeleine’s coffee and croque monsieur, were locked up.
“This is dismal,” Gastro said.
He brightened when he saw one tarot card reader plying her trade. Normally there were at least ten. And though he didn’t customarily relate to the portrait painters who had once hung their work on every available spot of iron fence, he was kind of glad to see that at least one had returned and even had a customer, a man who looked like George Bush, and who was having himself rendered in charcoal, en profile.
Two young men were playing guitars together on a bench, and Gastro tapped Steve on the shoulder to make him stop and listen. The musicians were also dressed in black and wore their hair long. There was an upturned cowboy hat on the cobblestones where contributions might be made.
They were having a hard time finding a tune they both knew, but approached the task seriously.
“You guys know where ‘Blues Rap’ is?” Gastro interrupted.
They looked him over.
“Don’t know who you’re talking about, dude,” one of them said in a strong western accent.
Gastro walked off, and Steve had to hurry to catch up.
“Those guys are not even from here,” Gastro complained.
“Well, man, you ain’t from here either,” Steve reminded him.
“I paid my dues in New Orleans,” Gastro said haughtily. “Those kids probably came in here after the hurricane.”
Steve followed his friend through the French Market, where there were only a few stands selling sunglasses, and over to Royal Street, which was deserted. Gastro’s eyes darted left and right at every intersection.
Finally he sat down on the curb.
“This sucks,” the street ranger said.
“What’s the matter, man?”
“Nobody’s around. It’s all empty.”
“We ain’t even knocked on no doors, dude. How you gonna find your friend if you don’t go to his house?”
Gastro looked at him like he was from another planet.
“Most of my friends don’t have no stupid houses or apartments. They hang on the streets, like we’re doing now. Only we’re the only ones hanging here.”
That was certainly true.
“The whole counterculture is gone. It’s someplace else. It isn’t here,” Gastro griped. “This is just empty city. This could be… like… Montgomery on a Sunday afternoon!” He couldn’t come up with anything worse.
“I hadn’t ever been to Montgomery.”
“I wonder where everybody went,” Gastro said, leaning back against a fluted cast iron column, feeling discouraged.
> “You mean to tell me you lived here how long? A year at least. And you have friends, and you don’t know where a single one of them lives?” Steve was having trouble comprehending this.
Gastro was too bummed to answer.
“At least let’s go have some fun,” the big fellow said. “I can find Bourbon Street, that’s for sure.”
He got up and started walking, and Gastro scooped himself out of his miasma and followed behind.
“Look,” Steve said as they got closer to the scene and encountered more people, “why don’t we call Mr. Dubonnet’s daughter, Christine, and see if she wants to come down and party with us? Maybe she’s got a girlfriend.”
“I don’t care either way,” Gastro said. Yet the appearance of open bars and people stuffing pizza in their mouths as they walked was restorative.
“Okay then. I got her number in my phone.”
Steve leaned against a wire trash can and tapped the keypad of his pocket wonder.
“Yeah, hello, this is Steve Oubre. You remember me? From Petrofoods and all that? Sure. Listen, are you doing anything this evening? Me and Gastro…”
Christine arranged to meet them at a club Gastro suggested called the Dirty Dungeon to hear a band called the Breaded Sisters at eight o’clock. Since there was a curfew at 2:00 am, the bands had to start playing early. She would try to bring her roommate Samantha.
Meanwhile Steve and Gastro had a couple of hours to kill. They pooled their money, which came to sixty-eight dollars, and decided that gave them enough to drink a few beers, so they walked around taking in the sights. It was after five o’clock and at least Bourbon Street was alive with foot traffic. There was a crowd outside the Famous Door. Music poured from the clubs as the day’s sun went down. Everyone was sporting a plastic cup of beer, and the voices were loud.
“This is the strangest thing,” Steve said, swallowing his Dixie draft. He didn’t realize it had been kegged before the hurricane flooded the brewery.
