5 Crime Czar

by Tony Dunbar

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who any of Dan’s friends are. He hasn’t lived here for, oh, twenty years or more. He was a good boy in some ways, in that he called me up on my birthday. He sometimes seemed to know when I needed cheering up, and he’d just call. But he hardly ever visited.” She frowned. “Since his father died, Dan never seemed to like it much around here. His mother ran off when he was born, I guess you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. Maybe the killer was somebody Dan knew as a kid, Mrs. Haywood. Somebody named Roux?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said, concentrating. “I do have some of his high school albums, if you think that might help.”

  “Sure.” This was the exciting part of detective work.

  The tiny woman made her way to the back of the house and soon came back with three dusty yearbooks from Harvey High, home of the Harlequins.

  She placed them on Flowers’s lap and opened the purple one on top to a page with the corner bent over.

  “That’s Dan,” she said, pointing a crooked finger to a large, fierce-looking face, surrounded by a mane of black hair, straining against a tie and a collar that were too tight for his bulging neck. A little tear fell on the page.

  “He was a handsome boy,” Flowers said.

  Mrs. Haywood backed away and sat again in her chair. Flowers kept his eyes down and started flipping pages.

  There was no one with the name of “Roux,” so he started at the beginning of the alphabet. A clock on the wall whirred.

  Suddenly a name jumped off the page. Willard LaRue. There they were, the big protruding ears. The LaRue boy had a crew cut. There was a cockeyed smile on his lips, but his eyes told a different story. They said, “Get out of my face.”

  “Do you know this boy?” Flowers leaned over to hand the book to Mrs. Haywood.

  “That’s Tex. Yes, I know him. He was always into trouble. We called him Tex because he wore a Roy Rogers hat, but I remember now his last name was LaRue. That poor boy was in a pickup truck one day and it rolled over his daddy and killed him. Can you imagine? They lived in a house on Almonaster Street. I remember it had a big tree in the front yard that they tied Dan to one time— just being boys, I guess. I don’t know what happened to Tex and his mother. Her name was Mamie.”

  Flowers nodded. He stood up and stacked the albums on the desk behind Mrs. Haywood.

  “Thanks a lot for the Coke,” he said. “I’m real sorry about your boy. Can you tell me where Almonaster Street is?”

  “I’m going there right now,” Flowers told Tubby on his cellular phone. “I knew you’d want to hear about it right away.”

  “Willard LaRue,” Tubby repeated. He was sitting in his office downtown. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m turning onto Almonaster Street as we speak. We’re right by the Harvey Canal. Half the houses are boarded up. And here’s one with a really big tree in the front yard. I’ll call you when… now wait a minute.”

  Flowers watched as a slight man wearing a cowboy hat emerged from 6039 Almonaster Street and turned to lock the door.

  “Tubby, I think Mr. ‘Roux’ is coming out the door right now. I’m passing the house and pulling over. We’ll see what he does.”

  “Follow him!” Tubby’s voice broke up in static, it was so loud.

  “You got that right,” Flowers said softly and clicked the phone off.

  He parked in front of a bread truck, beside an open ditch sprouting orange flags where some sewer repair project had been halted— maybe for lunch, maybe for the year. LaRue got into a sea blue Ford Taurus that could have been a rental and crunched away from the curb. He passed Flowers without a sideways glance and turned right at the next corner. Slowly, Flowers set off in pursuit.

  In tandem, they got onto the West Bank Expressway and immediately got off at Manhattan Boulevard. Flowers followed his quarry past a series of gutted shopping centers and low-rise apartment complexes and saw LaRue hit his blinker once and enter the parking lot of a one-story, windowless institution.

  The detective drove past. The sign out front said SWEET MADONNA MANOR.

  Looking at his mother was like looking at a trapped rabbit, LaRue always thought. Same frightened, dumb expression. Even before she had started to lose it and gone to the home, he had thought of her like that. His old lady had never been someone to inspire confidence.

  Visiting her was no picnic, that’s for sure. He didn’t know why he did it. Except she had been good to him— as good as anybody could be with a psycho like LeRocca LaRue for a husband.

  Looking at ol’ Mom in her bed always brought it back— the endless afternoons spent practicing how to tie a lariat, how to lasso a fence post, how to be a quick draw with a chrome six-shooter. In Harvey, Louisiana, for chrissakes. Just some fantasy his old man had. But he couldn’t let it alone.

  He’d beat the shit out of Willard at the drop of a hat. And beat the shit out of Mom if she got in the way. He probably wasn’t too happy when Willie popped the pickup into reverse and flattened the asshole like a pancake on the cement driveway, but with his skull cracked he wasn’t in any condition to complain.

  Despite himself, LaRue chuckled. His mother, wig askew and all gums, just looked at him like he was the wolf who had come to dinner.

  “You don’t have a clue, Mom,” he told her. Fact was, she didn’t.

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Hughes Campaign was rolling, and the phone in Tubby’s office was beeping nonstop.

  “We appreciate your support. Al certainly won’t forget it. Lemme give your name to his campaign manager,” were becoming his main lines.

  Joey Pureloin, the Assessor in the Seventeenth Ward, called to get the word out that he was also up for reelection and expected to be on the mayor’s ticket. He wanted to assure Al Hughes of his “unquantified support.”

  Sam Aruba, who said he was a constable in Marrero, asked what he could do. “Tell your New Orleans friends to vote for Al,” Tubby suggested.

  “I got lots of ’em. You know Bernie Fawn?” Tubby did not.

  “Really? Oh, well. We’ve got a fundraiser out here at the American Legion Hall,” Aruba continued. “The judge can come if he wants to.”

  “Thanks, but what’s the point? That’s not in his district.”

  “It’s a blast, man. Free beer and chili. Where else you gonna get on the TV news for kissing a nutria? It’s free exposure.”

  “Makes sense to me. I’ll give your name to Al’s campaign manager. And thank you for your support.”

  A spokesperson for Louisianians Opposed to Offenders Now called to invite Judge Hughes to a forum on crime.

  “Yeah, but you know he’s a civil court judge. He doesn’t sentence people to jail,” Tubby explained.

  “Then I should report to our committee that Judge Hughes refuses to come?” the spokesperson asked indignantly.

  “Not at all.” Tubby backpedaled swiftly. “Let me give your name and number to his campaign manager.”

  “I think you’re going to have to screen my calls,” he told Cherrylynn, but a minute later she beeped him to say that Judge Carlo Trapani was on the line.

  “I see on this letter I just got that you are chairman of the Hughes reelection campaign.” Trapani announced in his trademark voice, loud as a fish peddler’s.

  “Cochairman, actually,” Tubby said.

  “Anyway, I’m calling you because I want the judge’s support in my election. I am prepared to give him mine. Under the table, of course, since we judges aren’t allowed to endorse candidates. Stupid rule, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Tubby said.

  “Even though I’m on the criminal bench I think incumbent judges should stick together for the good of the profession.”

  “I’m sure Al will be happy to hear that, Judge. Have you tried to talk to him directly?”

  “I’ve called Al twice and left messages.” Judge Trapani’s tone was sour. “He has not yet returned my calls.”

  “I know he has been very busy,” Tubby bega
n. Hell, he was thinking, now I’m Al’s damn secretary.

  “So am I,” Trapani yelled.

  “Yes, well I will certainly see that he gets your message.”

  And he would, because he had learned that one of the matters on Judge Trapani’s docket was the prosecution of Tubby’s friend, Cesar Pitillero, for the distribution of cocaine.

  On a lighter note, Adrian Duplessis, beloved by the populace of New Orleans as Monster Mudbug, called with a most unexpected bit of news.

  Tubby took the call with trepidation because the Monster generally was calling from jail where he frequently landed for municipal offenses like parading without a permit. By trade a humble tow-truck driver, Adrian’s claim to fame was riding the streets of the city dressed as a giant, boiled crawfish, surrounded by mermaids, in his rolling cookpot known as the Monster Mobile.

  “I ain’t in jail, Mr. Tubby,” were his first words. “You’ll never guess what.”

  “Marcia Ball is going to ride on your float at the Mandeville Seafood Festival.”

  “Not quite that good,” the Monster laughed. “She only does that for the Moss Man.” The Moss Man was Adrian’s idol. “But I’m working on it. I just qualified to run for sheriff.”

  “What?” Tubby exclaimed.

  “Yeah. I just got back from City Hall. I paid my money and everything. I’m running for sheriff.”

  Tubby closed his eyes and asked him why.

  “Just for publicity. You know, to get on television. And I learned that, if I don’t win, I get to keep all the money people give me.”

  “Who would give you money, Adrian?”

  “Nobody, probably, but don’t you think it’s a terrific stunt?”

  “I don’t know about that.” The sitting sheriff, Frank Mulé, was one of the most powerful politicians in the city, had about a thousand deputies on his payroll, and was not known to have the slightest touch of any sense of humor.

  “My slogan is ‘A Crawfish Pot in Every Cell’.” There was a click on the line. “Excuse me,” Adrian said, and the lawyer was about to slam down the phone when Adrian came back on. “I gotta go, Mr. Tubby. Channel Six is on my other line, and they want to interview me.”

  Tubby got up and strolled to his outer office to impart this little vignette to Cherrylynn. She thought it was a great idea.

  “They need to do something to liven up these elections. With Monster Mudbug in it, at least we’ll get some good parades.”

  The phone on her desk buzzed, and she answered it, looked surprised, and pushed the hold button.

  “Sheriff Frank Mulé wants to talk to Mr. Tubby Dubonnet,” she said.

  Tubby’s smile disappeared. He went back to his office. Closing the door behind him, he sat down and cleared his throat. Then he picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Sheriff.”

  “Counselor, I see you’re in politics now.”

  “Just helping out where I can.”

  “Good, ’cause Al Hughes is going to need all the help he can get if he wants to be reelected. I’m tilting his way, but I need to know if he’s going to line up behind me. Is he for me or against me?”

  “Are you expecting any opposition?” Tubby asked, being cagey.

  “No. I just found out that that nutcake Monster Mudbug has qualified, but he’s just a joke. I don’t think anyone else is stupid enough to run against me. But I’m not sitting on my hands. I want one hundred percent support from every elected official in the parish.”

  “I’ll sure let the judge know that.”

  “I’m calling you because every time I see your name there’s some kind of a fuckup.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Sheriff?”

  “You know you’ve been messing with me. You defended that drug pusher Darryl Alvarez. You dropped that habeas corpus on me that time I got some drug-dealing asshole locked up in Mississippi. I keep score. I know you’ve been a pain in my butt. I’m calling you now to be sure everything is lined up. I got nothing against Al Hughes. But if him, or any of his people, are gonna fuck with me, I’m gonna push back hard, no crap.”

  “Cool down, Sheriff,” Tubby said. “I don’t have a problem with you. I’ll give the judge your message.”

  “You do that,” Sheriff Mulé said and hung up.

  He’s a whacko, Tubby said to himself, and he took a deep breath to try to calm down. A scary whacko.

  * * *

  Daisy didn’t remember the part where they pumped out her stomach. She woke up, drowsy from drugs, in a room without windows, and it took her a couple of days to convince the shrinks and the social worker that she could walk down a public sidewalk without jumping in front of the first truck that passed. The cops were understanding. The same ones who had come to the parking lot when Charlie Autin had been shot came to visit her in the hospital. Both were big guys, and they acted like they felt guilty, maybe, for just letting her go home after they took her statement and she cleaned the blood off her face the night of Charlie’s death. She could have used a social worker then.

  Daisy could remember drifting along the streets and crying. If she had encountered somebody selling crack on the corner, she would have copped it in a minute, wiping out a year of getting straight. That’s how sick she felt. But all she found was cheap whiskey.

  She had no explanation for how she got way out to the Lake, but she remembered jumping in. The sensation, when the warm water closed over her head, was of ultimate pain relief. They told her that a woman named Monique Alvarez pulled her out. Now that Daisy was starting to get her mind sorted out again, she planned to make her amends.

  After a long bus ride from Canal Street, she got off on Robert E. Lee and asked directions to Champs Bar. The air conditioning, when she pushed open the door, felt harsh to her. It was midafternoon, and the place was not crowded. A hippie bartender pointed out a slender brunette sitting at a table in the corner by a window full of sunlight, bending over a notebook.

  Daisy walked up and cleared her throat.

  Monique started. “Yes?” she inquired.

  “Are you the one who pulled me out of the water?”

  Monique’s eyes rounded. “I sure am, honey. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Okay,” Daisy said, pulling out a chair. “I came by to apologize for causing you so much trouble.”

  “Oh, no,” Monique said. She reached out to pat Daisy’s hand, but her visitor jerked it back. “That’s such a strange thing to say. It wasn’t any trouble, really. I’m just glad I was there to see you when you jumped in. You did jump, didn’t you?”

  Daisy nodded. “I wasn’t in my right mind exactly. You see, my boyfriend got killed that day.”

  “How horrible,” Monique said slowly. “Can you talk about it?”

  “I don’t want to burden you with my troubles.”

  “Honey, your accent is getting to me. Where are you from?”

  “Loxley, Alabama, if that means anything to you.”

  “This is totally odd,” Monique said. “I’m from Brewton. Did you go to high school in Epps?”

  “Sure.”

  “What year did you graduate?”

  The two women covered that territory, finally coming up with the name of a guy they both vaguely knew, and Monique got Jimmy to bring them both glasses of Perrier and lemon.

  “I was glad to get the hell out of Alabama,” Monique said, playing with the water droplets on the table’s smooth surface.

  “With me, it was more of a case of had-to-go,” Daisy said.

  “Have you been in New Orleans long?”

  “Just a couple of months. I was thinking about moving on when I met Charlie.” She sniffled.

  “So what happened?”

  “Two men shot him in front of my motel, right in the head. I was sitting right beside him in his truck. He didn’t do nothing. He was just standing up for me.”

  Monique started shaking, though so quietly it was hard to notice.

  “That’s horrible. I know what you must be feeling.”


  “How could you?” Daisy demanded angrily.

  “My fiancé was killed right behind you at that bar,” Monique said. “His name was Darryl Alvarez. I was upstairs when it happened.”

  “Damn. Did you see who did it?”

  “Yes. I think I know who it was. One of them got killed in the French Quarter. The other one is probably still around. It takes a long time to get over it.”

  “Have you?”

  “I still think about Darryl. I didn’t know him that long, but he was good to me. He left me this bar.”

  “I didn’t know Charlie but two weeks.” Daisy began to sob softly. “And he didn’t have nothin’ to leave.”

  “There, there.” Monique patted her shoulder.

  Later, after they had talked some more, Monique told Daisy that there was a lawyer named Tubby Dubonnet who might help her. He had helped Monique get her affairs straightened out. Perhaps he could kick the police in the butt until they brought Charlie’s killers to justice.

  “I ain’t interested in no lawyer,” Daisy said.

  “He’s actually more like a friend.”

  Daisy shook her head.

  “I got my own plans,” she said. “Lying in that hospital bed, I had a chance to think. What I came up with is I’m gonna get the son of a bitch that pulled the trigger myself. That’s what made me get up and get out.”

  “Just how are you going to do that?”

  “I don’t exactly know yet, but I will.”

  Monique told her if she needed any help, just pick up the phone.

  CHAPTER XV

  “I lost him. That’s all there is to it,” Flowers told Tubby. His face registered his discomfort. “He passed a truck, and for a split second I couldn’t see him. So I passed the truck, and he wasn’t there. Obviously, he turned right when I was out of sight. Juvenile mistake on my part.” Flowers was troubled. “Fucking diablo,” he muttered.

  “What?” Tubby asked.

  Flowers shook his head.

  “It could happen to anybody,” the lawyer consoled him.