Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 03 - Trick Question

by Tony Dunbar

  Tubby didn’t explain.

  “Right,” he said. “I’m going to throw myself on the mercy of the court and beg for more time. But you need to assume the worst. Jump in with both feet.”

  “Geronimo!” Flowers said, and vanished out the door.

  Fast-moving for a big dude, Tubby thought to himself. Man, it sure was fun having a detective on the case. Now how the hell was he going to pay for him?

  Now for phase two. He dialed the number for the Times-Picayune.

  “Kathy Jeansonne, please.”

  “Hello, Kathy,” he said when he got the reporter on the line. “You remember the case about the doctor over at the New Orleans Medical School who got frozen to death?”

  “Yeah, and beheaded,” she said eagerly.

  “Well, I just wanted to let you know I’m involved….”

  A good day, he reflected as he drove uptown. The Dubonnet name might soon be back on the front page. And Cherrylynn had accused him of letting his law practice slide. Feeling lucky, he decided to call up Jynx Margolis when he got home to see what she might be up to this time of night.

  But she was so outraged when he told her that her ex-husband was dating Tubby’s ex-wife that he wished he had gone straight to bed.

  “That absolute bastard,” she said, her voice full of venom. “It’s just his way of getting back at me.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, Jynx,” he replied, trying to soothe her, “but probably we have nothing to do with it. Probably they just met and they like each other.”

  “Sure, and rats sing. You don’t think Mattie may be trying to hurt you just a wee little bit? Or make you a tad jealous?”

  To be truthful, that angle hadn’t occurred to him.

  “I don’t honestly know,” he said. “She would have to be awfully devious for that, not to mention still interested in me.” Neither of which, come to think of it, did he find that hard to believe.

  “You should tell her to watch out for herself,” Jynx warned. “Byron sometimes gets violent.”

  “Yeah. You told me that. You painted him as a pretty coldhearted son of a bitch.”

  “He was sweet when we got married,” Jynx admitted, “but he turned bad as I got older. He doesn’t like wrinkles.”

  “Mattie has a few.”

  “That’s one more reason to think he’s just doing this to hurt you or me. His tastes run to early bloomers.”

  “We’ll see,” Tubby said inanely.

  “We sure will. I bet he would hit on anyone he thought you were dating, if he got the chance.”

  “I can’t believe he’s that intent on getting back at you.”

  “You can believe it, all right. He’s like a lot of men. Mean, mean, mean!”

  Tubby’s thoughts of cocktails by candlelight evaporated.

  “Gotta go, Jynx,” he said. “I’m due in court.”

  “And I expect he’ll be back sniffing around my house next,” she was saying when he hung up.

  Staring at the ceiling, Tubby reflected about how much women could complicate a man’s life. Have a couple of drinks, go to work every day, watch the Saints on the weekend, maybe play a little tennis or catch some music at a club: that was the kind of fulfilling life a man could happily lead – unless he started getting involved with women. He went to the kitchen and got a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, even though he really wasn’t thirsty for it. He put it away in two long swigs just to show that nobody could say anything to him. Although, of course, there was nobody else in the house.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tubby was back at his desk early the next morning, gulping black coffee, plotting strategy, and eating an egg and biscuit he had picked up from The Pearl. It was one of the old places that hung on in the midst of all the glitz downtown.

  He buzzed Cherrylynn on the intercom and asked her to call the jail and find out what the visiting hours were. She said there was a Miss DiMaggio outside, anxious to see him.

  Oh? Who was that? Then it came back. The friend Monique had written to him about.

  “Okay. Show her in.”

  His first impression when she came through the door was positive. Blond frizzy hair, young, maybe twenty-five, some meat on her bones and broad on top. She was not a great looker, but she met his eyes directly and had an honest face. Jeans and a red plaid shirt hung loosely on her large frame.

  Her impression of him, when he arose to shake her hand, was less easy to gauge. A little cautious. He offered her a comfortable chair.

  “You’re a friend of Monique’s?” he began.

  “Yes. She and I work out at the same gym.”

  “Right. She told me she wanted to get into shape. Which for Monique, of course, is totally unnecessary.”

  “Exercise feels good, even if you’re not a blob,” she said.

  Tubby nodded in agreement and abandoned the attempt to remember the last time he had worked out. He waited for her to continue.

  “She says you are a good ‘business lawyer’.”

  “Well, thanks for the compliment. It depends a lot on the kind of business you’re in. Are you having a problem, Miss DiMaggio?”

  “I think so. It’s like a family situation. You see, my father and his brother, my Uncle Roger, had an oil company. I mean my Uncle Roger still does, but my father is dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tubby murmured. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his stomach.

  “Thank you. He died last June.”

  “What kind of oil company?”

  “Not what you think of normally – not Texaco or Exxon or anything like that. They leased mineral rights and sold their leases to the big companies. Once or twice they did some wildcatting. The company controls lots of oil leases around Lafayette and in southern Mississippi. It’s called Pot O’ Gold.”

  “Optimistic name.”

  “Yeah. My daddy was a dreamer. And it made good money, too. But now all of it is going to Uncle Roger.”

  “That’s the problem?”

  “Yes.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward to hand Tubby a document rolled up like a scroll. It had a rubber band around it which popped when he tried to take it off. He spread the paper out on his desk. It was an engraved stock certificate, and it had a gold foil seal pressed onto one corner.

  “Stock certificate number three for one thousand shares of Pot O’ Gold, Inc.,” he read, “issued in the name of Albert E. DiMaggio. That’s your father?” he asked.

  “Yes. Now Uncle Roger says that certificate is no good. He says my daddy only owned ten percent of the company and he owns the rest. He’s got a stock certificate for one thousand shares too. That’s certificate number one. And there’s another one in my father’s name for one hundred shares. That’s certificate number two. Uncle Roger says the hundred shares is all my father ever owned.”

  “Then how does he explain this, certificate number three?” Tubby waved his scroll.

  “He just says it’s not real. But see the signature of the secretary on this? That’s Jeanne Theriot. She’s dead now. She managed the office for twenty years at least. She wouldn’t have signed it if it wasn’t official.”

  “Does your uncle say it was forged?”

  “He probably would. He just shook his head when I showed him the certificate and said it was no good. Then he said something like, ‘That was just something your father dreamed up when I was in Mexico that time.’”

  “How did you get the certificate?”

  “It was in my daddy’s safe deposit box at the bank. We opened it after he died.”

  “And you showed it to your uncle?”

  “Yes, but not for a couple of months. It came up at a family dinner we had, because Uncle Roger told me he just sold some leases for about two hundred thousand dollars, and the buyer wanted him and me to sign a paper saying exactly how much of the money we were entitled to. He told me that my share was twenty thousand. I said to him that I thought him and Dad were partners, and he said they were, but
not fifty-fifty. Then he showed me the so-called corporate stock record book, which is like this black Bible covered in leather, and it showed only certificate number one and certificate number two. The certificate to my daddy for a thousand shares wasn’t listed in there.”

  “Let me sum this up,” Tubby said. “Your uncle claims you have a hundred shares and he has a thousand. You say you both have a thousand shares, even-Steven. Or maybe that you even have a hundred shares more than Uncle Roger.”

  “Right.”

  “Where’s your dad’s other certificate, the one for the extra hundred shares?”

  “I have that, too. Do you want to see it?”

  “Yes. I’d like to see all the documents you have. Corporate record books, whatever.”

  “Does that mean you’ll take the case?”

  “I’d be glad to. How did you leave things with your uncle?”

  “We’re not talking to each other. When you meet him you’ll find out why. He’s real overbearing. He can be quite obnoxious. He also has a lawyer. Do you know George Guyoz?”

  “Yes,” Tubby said shortly. George Guyoz was also overbearing and obnoxious. He and Tubby had tangled in the past on the Sandy Shandell case.

  “I guess you should talk to him.” Denise hesitated.

  “How much do you cost?” she asked.

  “I generally charge by the hour. It’s hard to estimate right now how complicated this might get. Usually for something like this I would take a substantial retainer, but because of the recommendation you came with I won’t need that. What do you say I take this on a contingency?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ll take a percentage of whatever I get for you above twenty thousand. Your uncle has already offered you twenty. I at least have to beat that. The usual percentage is one third. I’d take twenty-five percent. That way you don’t have to pay by the hour, and if you don’t win something, neither do I.”

  “What if you have to sue Uncle Roger?”

  “I still get twenty-five percent, even if I have to go to the Supreme Court.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  “But listen, I still get twenty-five percent even if I can settle this with a phone call.”

  “I see – so it’s a gamble.”

  “Yeah. For both of us. Why don’t you go home and think about it. Talk to another lawyer if you like.”

  She considered that for a second.

  “No. It sounds all right to me.”

  “Great.” Tubby reached over the desk and shook her hand. Her grip made him wince. “So what do you do for a living?” he asked.

  “I teach third grade at Audubon Elementary. And I also box.”

  “Did you say box?” Tubby asked in surprise.

  “Yes, women’s boxing. There are about six girls here in New Orleans doing it. And others who do it recreationally.”

  “You mean you fight in the ring?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve had two bouts at Coconut Casino in Bay St. Louis.”

  Tubby’s mind was stretching. “That’s quite unusual,” he said finally. “Do you win?”

  “I usually do. My professional record is four and oh.”

  “Wow! Professional record, huh. Where can I see you box?”

  “My next match is tomorrow night at the American Legion Hall in Marrero. I work out every day at Swan’s Gym off Simon Bolivar.”

  “Maybe I can get there. I’ve got an emergency matter that is taking up most of my time for the next ten days or so, though.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, immediately contrite. “I know I shouldn’t have just dropped in. I was in the building using the bank machine downstairs, and I decided to see if you could talk to me,”

  “No, that’s fine,” he reassured her. “I’m glad you did.”

  She got up and offered her hand again. He was more attentive to her biceps now, and yes, she certainly had some pretty good muscles. He walked with her to the door and watched her behind as she walked lightly down the hall to the elevators. She had balance and agility, but couldn’t a woman hurt her bosoms or something in a boxing match? Couldn’t she get her nose broken? Tubby wasn’t able to quite sort it out in his mind. He’d really have to see this for himself.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tubby presented himself to the fat deputy at the counter, which was protected by a chain-link screen that reached the ceiling. The fact that the guard was a woman didn’t make it any less intimidating.

  “Hello!” he called, to get her attention.

  It took the deputy a minute to tear herself away from the Sports Illustrated she was reading and, with irritation, acknowledge Tubby.

  “I’m here to see Cletus Busters. I’m his lawyer.”

  “Sign in,” the jailer directed. Slowly and deliberately she looked up Busters in her roll book.

  “They’re at exercise,” she reported. “It will take a few minutes to get him down. Have a seat.”

  There were a couple of plastic chairs along the far wall, and the floor was littered with gum wrappers. Gum wads clung to the legs of the chairs. The wall was covered with rules, hand-lettered in blue and red on a white-painted piece of plywood:

  NO EMBRACING ALLOWED

  VISITORS TO BE LIMITED TO

  FORTY (40) MINUTES

  NO PROFANITY OR LOUD TALKING

  NO KISSING

  And, of course:

  NO CAMERAS, RECORDING DEVICES,

  VIDEO, CONTRABAND, WEAPONS, GUNS,

  KNIVES, NONPRESCRIPTION DRUGS, FOOD

  ITEMS, COSMETICS, GIFTS

  Is Vaseline okay? Tubby asked himself. How about condoms? Jails made him think bitter thoughts.

  “You can go in and wait,” the guard announced. “They’re bringing him down.”

  She pushed a switch that unlocked a steel-cased door with a heavy thunk, and Tubby pulled it open with effort.

  “Back there,” the guard instructed.

  It was a room, small enough to be cramped by the table and two plastic chairs inside. There was a mayonnaise jar top for an ashtray. The brick walls were painted brown and were unadorned, except by painted-over cracks and pits that could have been dug by fingernails.

  This was the nice room, for use by attorneys and their clients. Regular visitors, like wives, saw prisoners through a metal mesh within earshot of uniformed guards.

  He heard Busters approaching before he saw him. What alerted him was the sequence of passwords and clanking doors as the dungeon gave up its prisoner. Then the slim, pinched-faced man, curly jet-black hair cut close, was brought into the room by a gangling Mexican boy with a mustache and a baggy black uniform.

  “Call when you’re ready,” the deputy told Tubby, locking him in with the prisoner.

  Busters was a skinny man. He wore the orange jumpsuit the jail provided, and it hung on him like a napkin on a knife. He checked his seat before he sat down, maybe inspecting it for gum. He took out a pack of Camels.

  “Have you got a light?” he asked Tubby.

  “No, sorry,” Tubby said, patting his pockets.

  “How’m I gonna light this?”

  “I don’t know. I guess you can’t.”

  “Maybe you could get a match from the corporal,” Busters suggested.

  “Forget the cigarette for a minute,” Tubby said testily. “My name is Tubby Dubonnet. Mickey O’Rourke has asked me to help represent you. Next time I come I’ll bring matches. Right now we need to talk fast.”

  “What’s wrong with Mr. O’Rourke?”

  “To tell the truth, he’s drinking too much to defend you properly.”

  “Sure enough? I thought something was wrong with him. The way he talked, seemed like he had no confidence. I haven’t seen him but the one time.”

  “Yeah, well, he has a problem.”

  “Man, I’m the one with the problem.”

  “You got that right.”

  “What you gonna do for me?”

  “Look, Mr. Busters, I’m like an emergency repairman. I’m go
ing to try to get your trial postponed. If I can’t do that, we’re in deep shit. Right now, I’m assuming the worst. I have to find out a lot from you in a hurry.”

  “I need a good lawyer, man. I ain’t never heard of you.”

  “What?” Tubby demanded incredulously. “You can have the best lawyer you can afford. Have you got any money, Cletus?” There was no air in this place.

  “I’m a janitor. What kind of money you think I make?”

  “Maybe you got some money hidden away from selling pharmaceuticals.”

  “What you mean, pharmaceuticals? What’s that shit? I don’t do none of that.”

  “Then correct me if I’m misunderstanding you, Cletus. You have no money and, unlike O.J., you cannot afford the dream team of your choice. To me that means you’re stuck with what you got – a pro bono lawyer.”

  “What’s pro bono?”

  “Nobody pays me.”

  “This ain’t fair,” Cletus argued sullenly.

  “Bingo. But here’s the good news. I am a pretty good lawyer. At least when I’m motivated. So you just got lucky, ’cause right now I’m motivated.”

  “I’ve never had any luck in this whole world.”

  Cletus glared at his hands. Looking around at the drab cracked walls, the naked light bulbs inside protective wire fixtures, the dirty ceiling, Tubby had to agree with Cletus.

  “Let’s see if we can make some luck,” he said. “I can’t deny you’re in a bad place, Cletus, but you’re not convicted yet. What do you say?”

  “I say it sucks real bad. They’re gonna fry me.”

  “Negative thinking, man, gets you nowhere. To start off, tell me something about yourself. Like where you grew up. Are you from New Orleans?”

  “Yeah. Ninth Ward. Right on St. Claude Avenue.”

  “Did you go to high school?”

  “McDonough Number 82. I graduated.”

  “That’s good. Any college?”

  “No. I’ve been hustling or working since I was seventeen.”

  “Okay. When did you start working at New Orleans Medical Center?”

  “Three years ago. I’m a janitor.”

  “Right. What did you do before that?”

  “Same thing. Marriott Hotel. Out at the airport. I’ve had some good jobs. I always worked.”