by Tony Dunbar
Coins clinked against each other on the table.
Tubby, sitting at the bar, put Jynx Margolis out of his mind as he listened to the betting and smiled. Raisin Partlow, his buddy, held down the stool next to his. Raisin had a pretty good head of curly black hair and what you would call a mature, rugged look. Women liked him – and he hardly ever worked, which made him an easy guy to pal around with. He followed Tubby’s gaze across the room.
“What are you grinning about?” he asked.
“’Cause the same crowd is still coming to the ol’ bar even though Mr. Mike isn’t around anymore,” Tubby said. “I’m pretty happy about that.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a crowd, Tubby, and they don’t seem to be drinking all that much either.”
“This isn’t about money, Raisin. This is about tradition and continuity. Look around you.” The sweep of Tubby’s arm took in the trophies above the bar, earned by softball teams of years past; the team photographs on the wall signed by old baseball players; the jukebox, now playing Louis Prima; and Larry, the ghostly bartender hidden in the shadows beside the cashbox.
“It’s a monument, all right,” Raisin agreed. “How come you don’t ever sit in the nice chair?”
He meant the worn leather armchair at the card table, where Mike, the previous owner, had held court.
“Maybe when I retire,” Tubby said. “For now it’s reserved for Mr. Mike, whenever he drags in. In fact, I’m thinking of having a little plaque made up and hanging it there.”
“Like the Half Moon Bar used to have? ‘This table reserved for Victor Bussie, AFL-CIO’?”
“Yeah. It could say: ‘Reserved for Mr. Mike when he isn’t fishing.’”
The door buzzer sounded, and Larry’s arm emerged from the darkness to press a button.
Tubby and Raisin both turned around and watched a tall thin man in a rumpled suit, silhouetted by the lights of a passing car, enter unsteadily. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the perpetual dimness of Mike’s, and then he made his uncertain way to a stool at the far end of the bar.
“Don’t I know him?” Raisin asked Tubby.
“Yeah. That’s Mickey O’Rourke. He was in law school about ten years before I was. I know you’ve noticed him around. But Christ, he’s seen better days.”
“He don’t look like he’s doing too good,” Raisin agreed.
“He had a couple of big cases a long time ago, like real big. He won one of the first seven-figure judgments we had around here. I haven’t heard much about him lately though.”
“Tubby Dubonnet,” O’Rourke exclaimed. He got off his stool and, gripping the large glass of Scotch and something Larry had just served him, weaved down the bar to say hello.
His tie was loose and he smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke, as if he had been taking his meals in a tavern. The lines on his face turned to deep creases when he grinned at Tubby and grasped his hand.
“Howya doin’, Mickey? You know my friend, Raisin Partlow?”
“Raisin? Good to meet you. Tubby’s friends are all good people.” He pumped Raisin’s hand. “What y’all drinking? I’m buying.”
“Wild Turkey on the rocks,” Raisin said.
Tubby waved, and Larry floated over to take their orders. He checked Tubby, who nodded to indicate he wanted his usual for this week, a Barq’s root beer and lime. He was experimenting with various nonalcoholic combinations in an effort to cut his toxicity level a little.
“It’s been a while,” Tubby said. “What’s been happening to you?”
“Things have not been too good. My wife left me. My kids won’t return my calls. I’ve been drinking all the time. I lost my house, and my law practice has just about dried up.” Mickey knocked back whatever he had in his glass and signaled the barkeep for another. “I think that sums it up.”
“Gee, that’s too bad,” Tubby said.
“How’s your dog?” Raisin asked.
Mickey studied Raisin. “I like your friend,” he said, putting his arm around Raisin’s shoulder and giving it a hug.
“Lemme tell you a joke,” O’Rourke said. “See, this Jewish guy goes into the church, right? He goes into the confessional. ‘Padre,’ he says, ‘I went out last night with this beautiful twenty-two-year-old girl. She’s gorgeous. Looks like Jodie Foster, whatever. And I got laid, Father. It was great.’
“‘Mr. Katz, why are you telling me this?’ the priest says. ‘You’re Jewish.’
“‘You don’t understand, Father. I’m telling everybody!’”
They all laughed.
“But seriously,” Mickey said, “my life is hell.”
“You think it might have something to do with the booze?” Tubby asked casually.
O’Rourke nodded – no argument there.
“You should maybe try giving it a rest,” Tubby suggested. “There are lots of programs.”
“I’m a lush, Tubby.” Mickey was sad. “It’s got ahold of me deep down. There’s no use me trying to quit.”
“That’s bullshit, of course,” Tubby said. “I’ve seen you in the courtroom. I know you can control yourself.”
There was a sudden spurt of laughter and groaning from the table in the corner. Mrs. Randazzo in her black wig slapped her cards down and cackled.
“I just got where I don’t want to do it anymore.”
Mickey sat down on the stool. His shoulders slumped. He turned away from them and rubbed his eyes. Tubby and Raisin exchanged glances.
“Take it easy, man,” Tubby said. He patted O’Rourke lightly on the back.
Mickey swiveled around.
“I need your help, Tubby,” he said, almost sobbing.
“Sure, Mickey. What can I do?”
Raisin rolled his eyes.
“I’m in a situation. I got a trial in a week. It’s a murder trial. And I don’t have the faintest idea what my defense is. You understand me?”
“No,” Tubby said.
“I’m telling you I’m defending a man for murder, and I haven’t done a fucking thing.” Mickey’s eyes were wide open. He was frightened.
Tubby was shocked. “You ought to withdraw or something, Mickey. You might do some serious damage to your client. You could get disbarred for that.”
Mickey nodded his head. He knew.
“Have you talked to the judge about this?”
“Yes, and the son of a bitch won’t let me out. Tubby, I need help. You’re a good trial lawyer. Be a pal, will you?”
“No way,” Tubby said.
“Bravo!” Raisin roared.
Mickey gripped Tubby’s arm. “It’s like a gift from God running into you, Tubby. Everybody I know avoids me. You’re a good lawyer, a great lawyer. I can’t do this alone. I’m a fucking drunk, for Christ’s sake.”
“Mickey, there’s no way for me to drop everything and jump into some murder trial at the last minute. It would be malpractice.”
“Look, Tubby, I could pay you.”
“Really?” Tubby was doubtful. “How much?”
“A whole lot. Whatever you say. My Aunt Anne, bless her heart, is gonna kick the bucket any day now. She’s gonna leave me a bundle. I’ll be able to take care of you.”
Tubby was insulted. “That’s ridiculous, Mickey. That’s the kind of thing some poor guy in Central Lockup would try to put over on me.”
Mickey shrugged his sad shoulders and studied the last of his ice cubes. “Yeah, you’re right.” He squinted and turned to face Tubby. “But you owe me.” His voice was raspy.
“Owe you! For what?” Tubby exclaimed.
“It was me” – O’Rourke pointed at his sunken chest – “who introduced you to Mattie.”
“Jesus,” Tubby barked. “Mattie left me, in case you didn’t know. I should show you all the bills I got for marriage counseling. Maybe you want to pay those.”
O’Rourke shook his head. He took his glass and drained it. Then he stood up and brushed imaginary crumbs off his chest.
“I understand, Tubby.
See you around.”
With dignity, he took a wobbly path toward the front door.
Tubby watched him go.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Hey, Mickey,” he called.
Mickey halted and rotated.
“Sleep it off. Call me in the morning. If you remember to do that, I’ll have lunch with you and we can talk about your problem.”
Mickey saluted and banged out the door.
“Can you believe this guy?” Raisin asked the bar. “Tubby, you should have been a priest.”
“I’m a Protestant,” Tubby said, and sipped his root beer and lime.
“So you think you owe this guy something?”
“Hell no,” Tubby said. He thought about what the last year with his ex-wife had been like – the life of the walking dead. Then he remembered his first encounter with her on Mickey’s yacht, back when Mickey was flush. Mattie, buxom and redheaded, full of herself in a white cotton dress blowing in the wind, had given him her special smile from across the deck, and his life had changed. Together they had brought three children into the world. The way he cared for them was a secret thing. Maybe he did owe Mickey.
“I’ll just talk to him tomorrow and figure something out. We’ll get the trial postponed.”
“What do you think of that story about his rich Aunt Anne?” Raisin asked.
“It’s gonna snow Big Shot soda on St. Charles Avenue in August,” Tubby replied.
CHAPTER 5
“How was your weekend?” the lawyer behind Tubby in the elevator asked the person next to him.
“Nice,” a woman replied. “We spent Saturday in Pass Christian. But the traffic. It’s all the casinos. Lord, what a mess.”
“It’s really too bad,” the man agreed. “Gambling has just about destroyed the Gulf Coast.”
What is he talking about? Tubby wondered. The world’s funkiest, most hurricane-blasted, totally man-made beach could not be much damaged by the bright lights of dockside gambling. His recent experiences representing a mob-infested and now defunct New Orleans casino might have soured him on the industry, but jeez, gimme a break. Ruin the Mississippi Gulf Coast?
The elevator door opened and he stood aside to let the couple pass. Both of them were well scrubbed and attractive, both carrying bulky briefcases, full of weighty legal matters.
The doors slid shut, and Tubby ascended to the forty-third floor. Out the doors, two right turns, and he reached the offices of Dubonnet & Associates, designated in large gold letters on a pair of solid maple doors.
Inside, Cherrylynn looked up from her desk.
“Morning, boss,” she called cheerfully. “Good to see you.”
Was she being sarcastic? She made a little fun of the hours he’d been keeping lately, and he was getting sensitive. It seemed to have placed some kind of a strain on his secretary that he was not working overtime every day.
“Lots of messages for you. I put them on your desk. How’s the bar business?”
Now he knew she was being sarcastic.
“Just fine,” Tubby said stiffly, and went into his office. Cherrylynn was a mite wild herself, at age twenty-six, but over the past three years working for Tubby she had decided that one of her functions was assuring that he stayed on a straight and narrow course. She could be a pain, but he realized that he probably needed a pain like her around sometimes.
He liked his office. Its best features were the simple wooden desk and the window through which he could see most of the universe he cared about – the cracked tile roofs of the historic buildings in the French Quarter, the steady bustle of Canal Street, ships navigating the hairpin bend of the Mississippi River, and a thousand blocks of old neighborhoods stretching away to the seawall around Lake Pontchartrain. He could make out the sails of a few pleasure boats and started imagining what a day of fishing for his supper would feel like. Right now a morning rainstorm was breaking up over the Industrial Canal, dark clouds thinning out to blue, while downtown the sun shone on office workers shuffling miserably along the sidewalks.
“Knock, knock,” Cherrylynn said from the doorway. Tubby reluctantly stepped back from the window.
“Can I ask you a question, boss?”
“Sure,” he said, taking off his coat and dropping it on one of the two armchairs facing his desk. “You want to sit down?”
She lowered herself gently onto the other chair, smoothing out her dress underneath.
“This feels like I’m a client,” she giggled. She had freckles, and they blended together when she did that. Tubby had described his secretary as “pert,” a quality she had brought with her from Puget Sound. She had a well-scrubbed northwoods glow that set her apart from many a well-powdered New Orleans lady, but she liked to smile, which looked right at home in the city that care forgot. She complained that she had a drawerful of sweaters and nowhere to wear them. There had once been an oilfield roustabout in her life, a boyfriend or maybe even a boy-husband. Cherrylynn didn’t talk about him, but she maintained an unlisted phone number.
Tubby took his familiar place behind the desk and folded his hands on its well-worn top of ruddy cypress. He looked at her benignly.
“What’s up?”
“Okay,” she began seriously. “I didn’t say anything when you bought the bar.” That wasn’t true. “But now you’ve had it a couple of months, and it seems to me you’re spending more and more time over there, like every afternoon.”
“Are you worrying about me drinking too much?”
“I always worry about that, but that’s really your business, boss. I just want to know how I fit in and what the future holds.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, are you thinking about closing down your law practice, or anything like that? Should I be looking around for a new job?”
Tubby thought a moment before he answered. Had things really gotten so bad?
“No,” he said finally. “I think I’m stuck with being a lawyer. I’ll be honest with you. I get tired of all the conflict sometimes and like to dream about just lying out on a beach chair, sipping exotic fluids and watching the waves roll in. But I think I’m not ready to retire yet. I like being involved in people’s lives too much.”
“Yeah, I know you’re that way,” Cherrylynn agreed. “You’re good at talking to people. I just wondered if maybe you weren’t getting all the conversation you needed at Mike’s Bar.”
Tubby smiled. “I get plenty there, all right. But the relationship I have with people as a lawyer is a lot different than a bartender has. Being a lawyer is like a holy trust, Cherrylynn. That sounds like bull, I know, but when a client tells me something it’s private, and no judge can make me divulge my clients’ secrets. Let’s just say I don’t always like what I do, but I still love the profession. I’m not about to close up shop as long as I can pay the rent.”
“Okay,” Cherrylynn said.
“And one reason I can leave early in the afternoon is because I have you to rely on, so I hope you stick around.”
“I don’t have any plans to leave, Mr. D.” Cherrylynn was glowing. She popped up. “That’s all I wanted to know,” she said, dancing out.
Tubby waved goodbye to her. How much of that was true? he asked himself. Did he really think it was a holy trust? He had forgotten most of the zillion ethical rules he had once sworn to uphold, but he did believe you should never screw a client. And never lie to the judge. And always try to get paid. That was holy enough for him.
Tubby forced himself to look at the pile of mail Cherrylynn had stacked neatly by the telephone.
He found a couple of bills, which he glared at and tossed back into her box to take care of later. And an interesting square pink envelope with his address neatly written in a childlike hand.
He tore it open and found:
Sunday
Dear Mr. Dubonnet,
How are you? I am writing because a friend of mine has a problem. Her name is Denise DiMaggio. And it involves her father’s business. She will tell y
ou about it. She has lots of problems.
I told her she could call you. I hope you don’t mind. She doesn’t have a lot of money, but I might be able to help pay your fee.
Everything is going fine with me. Lisa is in school in Lakecrest Elementary and likes New Orleans. She is making friends and is happy to be with me. I will always be grateful to you for getting her back for me. If I ever have another child, I will name him Tubby if it is a boy. I don’t know what if it’s a girl.
I would like for you to come out and see us sometimes.
Love Always,
Monique Alvarez
Tubby read the letter again and got a bit misty-eyed. Such a nice girl, Monique. A sweetheart. She ran a bar called Champs. Her boyfriend, Darryl Alvarez, had been shot to death right by the cash register. Monique had seen the whole thing. Then she took over the bar, and apparently Darryl’s last name as well, which was news to Tubby. He kept meaning to drop in and see how she was doing. He liked Monique because she had grit.
He buckled down to work, running through his mail, marking his upcoming court appearances on his calendar, and reading with mounting irritation a bogus set of eight exceptions an opposing counsel had filed to delay and obstruct a perfectly legitimate lawsuit Tubby had filed to assert his client’s right to a family fortune.
“I’m having lunch today with Mickey O’Rourke,” Tubby told Cherrylynn on the way out the door. “Can I bring you anything from Ditcharo’s?”
“Nope, I brought my nuke food,” Cherrylynn called, referring to her Weight Watchers microwave casserole of low-cal glop.
“Ugh,” he muttered, and walked to the elevator thinking about fried oysters. The Ricca family did a great job with any kind of seafood, stewed chicken, stuffed peppers, any kind of regular food you could name. Just what Mickey needed to soak up all that booze. They kept the place simple. No fancy art on the walls; just a few letters from the fans. The menu hanging over the counter hardly ever changed, and instead of decor, the restaurant offered the kind of aroma that made you want to push the guy ahead of you out of line.
But Mickey was late. Tubby was starting on the second half of his muffaletta, immensely enjoying the spicy olive salad, ham, and salami in the crusty Italian roll, and reading about Tulane basketball in the Times-Picayune sports section, when O’Rourke, looking winded, finally made an appearance.
