by Tony Dunbar
“Good morning, counselor,” Tubby said cautiously.
“Good morning, Tubby. How’s the legal game?” They exchanged pleasantries and agreed that the day had been hot.
“The reason I’m calling,” Banks finally said, “is that Frank Mulé asked me to. I help him with some of his business interests— though he’s got a lot I don’t know about…”— Banks chuckled— “and he has asked me to arrange a meeting with you to discuss a particularly fascinating proposal that, I understand, involves beautiful female prizefighters.” Banks laughed out loud at that.
“Frank told me his lawyer would call.” Tubby put his feet up on his desk and looked out the window. “I just didn’t know who the lawyer would be.”
“Fine, then I’m sure you have a good picture of what’s going on. Better than I have, probably. Frank doesn’t always fill me in on a lot of details. But he would like us to get together and jawbone as soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“You and me?”
“You, me, and Frank, actually.”
“Would you like to come to my office?”
“Truthfully, Frank would like to meet at his.”
“At the jail?”
“I’m afraid so. That’s where a lawman feels most secure, I guess.” Ha, ha.
“I’m bringing my principal.”
“Your what?”
“My principal investor. My client.”
“Ah, and who might that be?”
“Mulé has met her. You will soon.”
Banks didn’t like it, but he took it. They settled upon ten o’clock the next morning as the optimum time.
* * *
It was a long night for Tubby. The reality of what he was getting into was beginning to penetrate. Touching Sheriff Mulé had burned braver men than this lawyer, he was sure. He could almost feel the dark waters of the Mississippi River closing over his head. It’s something I’ve got to do, he told himself. Beside the flickering lamp at his bedside, he composed a letter to his daughters. Sensing his mood, Marguerite left him alone.
It was also a long night for Benny Bloom. He had seen a poll showing that he was trailing Al Hughes by five points. Even worse, a certain judge to whom he had offered a certain envelope had handed it back, saying things were “too sensitive”— meaning he was worried about his skin. The prospect of losing this election did not really bother him. The prospect of losing a big money case, on the other hand, did.
Tubby arrived with Marguerite at the jail a few minutes ahead of schedule.
“What if he locks us in?” she whispered as they trudged up the concrete steps. She was enjoying this.
“Don’t joke. He might do it,” Tubby replied.
The automatic doors slid open.
Usually, Tubby found whatever guard confronted him at the main desk to be surly and uncooperative, but today was different.
“Right this way,” the beefy black-uniformed deputy said as soon as they introduced themselves. “You can go up in the sheriff’s elevator.”
They were shown to the private car, which had only one button, for the fifth floor. The elevator itself was as dingy as the rest of the place. The surprise was that it opened onto a sumptuous suite of offices— superior, in fact, to Tubby’s own.
An attractive woman, blond hair in striking contrast to her jet black uniform and polished boots, greeted them suspiciously. She would let the sheriff know they were there.
Tubby sat on a leather-covered armchair while Marguerite paced around examining the odd oil paintings of jungle animals devouring one another. An enormous tiger clawing a terrified gazelle seemed particularly to engage her attention. She turned to ask Tubby a question, but just then the deputy’s intercom buzzed and they were told to walk right in to the sheriff’s private den.
Mulé’s office was approximately the size of a basketball court and his handsome desk the size of a billiard table. Sitting behind it, the sheriff seemed more like a paperweight than the master of the manse, until he opened his mouth and started giving orders.
“Take yourself a seat right next to my lawyer,” he barked. Banks, tall, with graying temples and a pocket handkerchief, stood to greet them.
Tubby introduced Ms. Patino to the men and held her chair while she got situated. The stuffed head of an ibex glared down at them from the wall.
“Let’s get right to the point,” Mulé shouted. “Dubonnet here says he has the exclusive on a franchise for women’s boxing in New Orleans, and he wants me to invest. I’m interested, and I’ve got my lawyer here to see that everything’s on the up and up. Now how does Ms. Patino fit into things?” He fixed his beady eyes on the only woman in the room.
“She’s my main organizer…” Tubby began.
“I’m the one who has possession of the, uh, riches,” Marguerite said, holding Mulé’s stare.
“All right then,” the sheriff announced. “Now we got the players straight. Who’s the franchise from?”
“The WWB,” Tubby said. “Worldwide Women’s Boxing. They sanction the fights at the Coconut Casino, the Hot Slot, all the boats. Now they’re expanding, backed by television contracts. They’re planning to build twenty-five arenas around the country over the next two years. New Orleans is ours for the asking.”
“Now how much money did you say this could earn?”
Tubby faithfully repeated the projections he had made up at the restaurant.
“I assume you’ve got all of this laid out on paper?” Banks asked.
“Of course.” Tubby pulled a stack of documents from his briefcase. He and Marguerite had spent most of the previous day manufacturing a fake prospectus, with help from Cherrylynn and her word processor.
“Give all that to Banks,” Mulé directed. “He can look at all of it later. Let’s talk about the money you want.”
“You’ve seen what we have,” Tubby said. “I’m ready to put it up just as soon as you do the same.”
“Who’s gonna hold it?” Mulé wanted to know.
“We would open a joint bank account,” Banks interjected.
“That won’t work, at least not right away,” Tubby said. “Our investment isn’t entirely liquid.”
Mulé nodded understandingly.
“However,” Tubby told Banks, “if the sheriff puts up cash I see no reason why you couldn’t hold his money as well as our loot, I mean investment, as an escrow agent, so to speak. At least until Frank can convert our investment into dollars. I would accept your word, Counselor, that you would hold the stakes of both parties in trust and keep everything safe.”
“Why, of course I would,” Banks murmured, eyes closed.
The sheriff smiled just like he did in his Mardi Gras ad.
“And,” Tubby continued, “we can create a company. It won’t take me or Clifford long. Let’s say we call it, ‘Mission Enterprises’.”
Banks nodded his assent.
“So, where’s the dough?” Mulé asked.
“I’ll bring it to Mr. Banks’s office myself,” Marguerite said, “since Tubby trusts him so implicitly.” She patted her lawyer’s knee. “Where’s your dough, Sheriff?”
Mulé pulled open the top drawer of his desk and brought out a yellow check. He looked at it lovingly for a moment before displaying it for the others to see. It was a certified check for five hundred thousand dollars, made payable to cash.
“That certainly looks negotiable,” Tubby said appreciatively.
“I wouldn’t normally use a check like this,” Mulé said, “but I know it will be safe with Clifford.” He eyed his lawyer carefully.
“Ahem, why certainly, Sheriff.” Banks reached for the check and slipped it inside his coat. “Perfectly safe,” he added.
“Don’t lose it,” Tubby said.
“Because it’s the same as cash,” the sheriff added.
“My law firm is quite safe,” Banks told them.
“Enough said. My partner and I will come by your office tomorrow morning,” Tubby said, “and bring you our c
ontribution. I’d say this afternoon, but I’ve got an ‘Al Hughes for Judge’ crawfish boil going on in my backyard.”
“Oh, yeah? I might come to that,” Mulé said. “It’s always good to press the flesh.”
CHAPTER XVII
Rolling Sam had the nicest table at the Empress of Saigon Restaurant, right beside the fish tank. And he had the most glamorous company— two sisters, Song and Wran, who sat on either side of him and laughed at his jokes.
Sam always went first-class, especially at Bin Minny’s restaurant, where he could run a tab.
So tonight they were enjoying bun tom, laque duck, and shrimp on sugarcane.
The bun tom had just been served when a shadow fell across the table. Rolling Sam looked up to see Bin Minny looming over the diners.
“Good evening, Sam,” Bin Minny said politely. “I am pleased that you and your beautiful companions have selected my restaurant for your enjoyable meal.”
“Hi, Mr. Minh. The food is truly wonderful tonight. This is Song and this is Wran.”
Minh bowed slightly. “So nice to meet you,” he said. “Now I must have a word with Rolling Sam, and I reluctantly ask the ladies to excuse us for a few minutes.”
Song and Wran smiled and looked blankly at each other.
“Go to the powder room, girls,” Rolling Sam explained.
The two did as instructed, and Bin Minny took a chair next to Sam’s.
“Tell me what you have found out,” he said.
“The ‘short man’ is not such an easy target,” Rolling Sam reported. “There is a bodyguard who travels with him and who lives with him at his home.”
“The ‘short man’ is not married?” Bin Minny inquired?
“No, sir, he is not. But the house presents problems. It is on a private street, very exclusive, and there is a guard house where all cars must stop. His bodyguard drives him to and from work.”
“How about at the jail?”
“We have people in the jail,” Rolling Sam whispered, “but unfortunately they do not have access to his office. The sheriff avoids going into the cellblocks.”
“He is campaigning for reelection. A political event where he appears in public might provide you with the best opportunity.”
“Well, sure, but there are naturally going to be a lot of people around. It might almost require a suicide attack to reach him.”
“Absolutely not,” Bin Minny hissed. “We are not Japanese. Whoever accomplishes this hit will be rewarded, but he will be rewarded even more if he escapes.” And the sooner the better, Bin Minny thought. He was beginning to have nighttime visions of corpses lined up, screaming for peace. Their visits had frightened him more than any of his living enemies ever had. This unfinished business must be attended to.
Rolling Sam bowed his head.
“I think we can get him soon,” he said softly.
“That is what I want,” Bin Minny said. “Now I’ll go back to work, and your lady friends can come back and enjoy their meal. Please don’t get up.”
The boss went away to greet his customers and count his money.
The sky was blue, the afternoon breezy, and the aroma of boiling crawfish filled Tubby’s backyard and made his guests’ eyes water. Two huge aluminum pots, heated by jets of propane, were being tended at the same time by Raisin Partlow, whom Tubby had forgiven for his insulting attitude at the bar.
The host himself was clad in Banana Republic shorts and a luau shirt and was passing out beer while his two younger daughters, Christine and Colette, circulated with trays of steamed mushrooms, garlic potatoes, chips, and dips. Two picnic tables had been pulled together and covered with newspapers to hold the mounds of hot, spicy crawfish that would soon be ready.
The turnout was respectable— for a fundraising party. Many noteworthies of the local Bar had come to show their support for Judge Hughes and to get a free meal. Jacob Solomon was there, spinning yarns about the tarpon fishing at Grand Isle. Ponder Fitzpugh was giving a lecture on the Saints defensive line. Carmelite Mirabelle was laughing about the federal judge who told her at a sidebar conference to loosen her jockstrap.
Judge Hughes was at the center of things, shaking hands with one and all. Marguerite was by Tubby’s side, accepting compliments, and all was right with the world.
“Would you like some cheese and crackers?” Christine asked Marguerite. Tubby drifted away.
“Why thank you. Now let’s see. You’re Tubby’s middle child, is that right?”
“Uh huh,” Christine nodded. “You’re from Chicago, and you met my father last Mardi Gras when it flooded, right?”
“That’s what happened,” Marguerite said, stuffing a cracker into her mouth.
“I bet you don’t like New Orleans.”
“Why do you say that? I like it very much.”
“I just think we’re so undisciplined here, the way people party all the time.”
“Well, I don’t think you party all the time, do you? But this is certainly a lot of fun.”
“I guess it is, if you’ve never done it before. Have you ever eaten crawfish?”
“No, and I’m a little afraid to try.”
“There’s a little trick to it. I’ll be glad to show you when they’re ready.”
“Would you? Thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll be back.” Christine was gone with her tray.
“Are you doing okay?” Tubby asked over his shoulder.
“I think I passed the first test,” Marguerite said.
“It’s a nice party,” a voice behind them said.
Tubby turned to find Clifford Banks.
“Why hello, Cliff. I didn’t realize that you supported Al Hughes or I would have invited you earlier.”
“Surely I support him. I think he’s done an outstanding job as judge.”
“Help yourself to a beer.”
“Thanks. Frank Mulé may be over in a while.”
“Great. The more the merrier,” was what Tubby said, but lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas was what he was thinking. He looked across the yard and was startled to see Daisy saunter through the gate. That woman turns up everywhere, he thought to himself. Daisy looked relatively demure in pink sneakers, black tights, and a purple sweatshirt that matched her socks. She glanced toward the host, tossed her head in greeting, and melted into the crowd.
Raisin and a hefty neighbor named Parker O’Malley parted the sea of people, lugging between them the first of the steaming pots. With a heave-ho they upended it over the picnic tables, and a huge pile of bright red crawfish poured over the newspaper.
Tubby noted a trio of Asians entering through the gate. They were similarly dressed in loose white shirts and black slacks, and all were hidden behind sunglasses.
Must be Republicans, Tubby thought, dismissing them as yet another beaming barrister pumped his hand.
Above the gentle hubbub of the party, the guests began to notice the loud wail and throbbing musical beat of “Chain, Chain, Chain.”
Some fool with his super-blaster cranked up, cruising for chicks in the neighborhood, was Tubby’s first guess.
Up the block, dogs started to howl.
The music grew in intensity and conversation became difficult.
Raisin looked with some concern at his turkey pot, propane turned up full blast, which was vibrating dangerously on its iron stand.
To the mortification of the host, the image that appeared at the wide-open gate of his yard was a familiar self-propelled Carnival float draped in seaweed and equipped with four generator-driven Bose speakers known as the Monster Mobile. On its hood extremely young ladies dressed as immodest mermaids hopped up and down to the deafening music and lobbed beads as the guests covered their ears with their hands. Above them, stirring a huge fake cook pot, was the world’s largest imitation crustacean, Monster Mudbug himself, outfitted in his trademark shiny red shell.
The vehicle lurched into the yard and joined the fun. Tubby’s guests stepped lively to avoid being run do
wn and crushed beneath the slow-moving carriage which carried a big sign proclaiming MONSTER MUDBUG FOR SHERIFF— TAKE A BITE OUT OF CRIME.
While the candidate’s true face was concealed within a pointy plastic head, there was no mistaking his glee. He waved wildly at Tubby and hurled stacks of cups into the air.
Tubby’s yard, while substantial by neighborhood standards, was not designed for parades. His invitees were stumbling into each other trying to avoid the unstable float, which was attempting a slow circuit of the estate. Between the mermaids’ dancing legs, Tubby got a glimpse of the driver— a kid with mirror-blue sunglasses and a Zephyrs cap on backward— who might have been the Monster’s nephew Roger.
Misjudging the location of his paper-mâché fender, Roger nudged into the table supporting the steaming piles of crawfish.
Crying out in unintelligible protest, Raisin bolted across the yard to grab a corner of the table, saving the entire feast from sliding onto the grass. He screamed for help but could not be heard over the general pandemonium.
Nor, as the unguided elephant upended several recently occupied lawn chairs, did anyone have the presence of mind to kill the fire under the frying turkey. In a flash, the aluminum pot full of roiling peanut oil was engulfed in flames. The pot itself began to melt.
“I’ll be damned,” Raisin said to anyone who cared to listen. “I didn’t know it would do that.”
Daisy, who had taken refuge between the pot and Tubby’s wooden fence, was in danger of being incinerated. She screamed. Noticing her plight, Monster Mudbug reached down with his horny claw and scooped her up into the float.
“You’re crazy!” Daisy shrieked at his mandibles.
“Don’t say that. It’s not my fault,” the Monster pleaded, frantically trying to get his nephew to reverse direction and exit the yard.
Meanwhile the peanut oil fire was threatening to take out Tubby’s fig tree. He could see his neighbor tapping on her window and pointing at the flames flickering up her fence.
