by Tony Dunbar
“Don’t ask me any questions yet. I’m still figuring things out,” Tubby yelled. “Daisy, don’t say a thing until I tell you to.” He need not have issued that order. But for rocking with the motion of the car, Daisy was sitting very still and staring out the window with a slight smile on her lips.
“Goddamn, you plugged him,” Tubby said, twisting the wheel and shooting up Poydras Street. “Don’t say anything,” he repeated.
Marguerite realized that neither Tubby nor Daisy had seen the three gunmen.
“I could get disbarred for this,” Tubby said out loud.
A car cut them off at Baronne Street.
“Watch where you’re going,” Tubby yelled, careening across two lanes and then continuing on. He was quite agitated.
“Jesus, I wonder how many people in that hall can identify you?” Tubby said excitedly. “Or me! How many can identify me driving you away?”
“I didn’t see what happened,” Marguerite said, perversely intrigued by Tubby’s agitation. “Did this woman shoot the sheriff?”
“No, no. You didn’t see anything? Of course not. I didn’t actually see it myself. Not exactly. There was a lot of commotion. It was hard to see what was going on.” He was speeding past the Superdome. The lights stretched green all the way to Broad.
“Got the son of a bitch,” Daisy said proudly. She was beginning to shake.
“I told you not to talk yet,” Tubby shouted. “You’re overwhelmed and overcome. We’ll all go someplace quiet. Where it’s safe. Of course, if an arrest warrant is issued for you, I’ll have to advise you to turn yourself in. As a lawyer to a client, of course.” The Model Rules of Ethics were flashing through his mind, and he mentally slashed whole sections away searching for slender principles that might excuse his actions.
“None of us are witnesses, after all,” he said more calmly. The Le Baron was approaching Fountainbleau, where the trees were thicker and the houses bigger. Daisy laid her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. She was well pleased.
“The important thing is to find a safe place.”
Tubby had concluded his internal dialogue, and he softened the pressure of his toe on the accelerator.
He pulled to the curb beside a towering palmetto and cut the engine.
“Whatever the woman may have done,” he explained to Marguerite, “is entirely justified in my mind. Her greatest peril, however, is not the police or the law, but a legion of psychotic killers like LaRue who undoubtedly are at this moment searching for her. She has to get out of town, for her own safety. Any ideas?”
“Sure,” Marguerite said. “I could take her on a trip. I’m thinking Santa Fe.”
Tubby nodded. “It could just be a short trip. Then you could come back.”
“Or you could come for me. You need a vacation.” She smiled.
“Yeah. Well, I’ll be working on that. I should probably take you straight to the airport.”
“I’m not going anywhere without Charlie’s belt buckle,” Daisy interrupted from the backseat.
“What are you talking about?” Tubby demanded.
“Charlie. His father gave me Charlie’s silver Harley-Davidson belt buckle because he knew how he cared for me. It’s in my room, and I ain’t going anywhere without it.”
“Where’s your room?”
“On Airline Highway. It’s called the Tomcat Inn.”
“Okay. I know where that is. It’s on the way.” He turned the key and the motor purred.
“You know where that is?” Marguerite asked sweetly.
CHAPTER XXX
LaRue saw Tubby drive the two women away. His own car was in the public garage, and he had no realistic hope of following. Instead he worked his way back into the hall to ascertain the condition of his employer.
He watched as a doctor, apparently a guest of the party, attended to Mulé, while Alphonse D’Amica shooed the curious away. There was a wet pool of blood round the sheriff’s head. A strange man was pointing at the sheriff’s limp wrist. “That’s my bracelet,” he kept insisting. A squad of paramedics came running across the emptying floor, pulling a stretcher and lugging some equipment. After a short parlay they bundled Mulé up, strapped him to the gurney, and stuck an oxygen mask on his face.
“ ’Fraid he’s dead,” the doctor said to the EMT before they wheeled the sheriff away.
The rest of the politicians had exited or returned to the bars, where fairly large numbers of voters still were congregated.
LaRue grabbed a handful of mushroom caps stuffed with Parmesan cheese from a plate left on a now-empty table and pondered his next move.
He had seen what Tubby had pulled from his pocket, and it looked very much like a five hundred thousand dollar check payable to cash. One of the fugitives, he figured, might also be forced to hand over a fortune in jewels.
LaRue and set off in pursuit of the three conspirators.
All three of them— the tourist, the assassin, and the attorney— cruised at high speed down the dark straight highway pointed west. They had been delayed briefly by Marguerite’s insistence that she be permitted to gather a few of her personal belongings for the trip, which meant a detour to Tubby’s house. True to her word, she had packed and gotten out the door in less than ten minutes, but it was precious time lost.
Tubby barely braked as he approached the gap-toothed neon sign advertising THE TOMCAT INN— THE BEST RATES ON AIRLINE. He swerved into the driveway. The Le Baron bounced hard over the speed bumps and ran to the curb.
“I’ll be right back,” Daisy promised and scampered out of the car.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Marguerite called after her, and Daisy yelled no. Tubby left the motor running, ready for a quick getaway.
“There’s a ten o’clock flight to Houston. From there you can get to just about anyplace.”
“We haven’t had much time together, but I’ll have to admit it hasn’t been dull.”
“It’s been, uh, nice having you here,” Tubby admitted.
Marguerite took his hand. Tubby was such a sweet man. Some day she would have to straighten him out. They didn’t notice a blue Ford enter the parking lot and cut its lights. It halted by the office, fifty feet away.
“Are you going to miss me?” she asked.
“You know, Marguerite…” he didn’t get to finish.
The door of Daisy’s room swung open and she came out, clutching a small bag. When she spotted LaRue trotting across the parking lot she brought the bag to her breast and screamed.
Tubby saw his enemy, gun in hand, in his rear view mirror and reacted automatically. He crammed the shifter into reverse and mashed the gas pedal. Tires squealing, the Le Baron accelerated backwards.
The bumper caught La Rue right below the belt and bowled him over. With hardly a murmur, the big car rolled over the surprised man and crashed into the side of LaRue’s car. The Chrysler’s trunk lid flew open.
Tubby screamed at Daisy, and she ran for the car to jump in.
Tubby put the car into gear and drove over the man again. This time, both of the tires thumped.
He mashed the gas pedal and peeled out of the parking lot. A forgotten plastic box in the trunk had been knocked open by the collision, and as the car accelerated a cloud of ashes blew from the back. Spinning in the air, the dust formed fairy faces, had anyone been there to see them. Some were recognizable, some were a mystery. They drifted around the parking lot and settled over LaRue’s crumpled body. In Tubby’s mind a row of corpses appeared and just as quickly vanished.
Neither the driver nor his passengers had anything to say to each other until they were almost to Moisant Field.
“Now I finally know what they mean by justice,” Daisy said at last, almost to herself.
“I wonder if any judge would agree with you,” Tubby replied. His mind had entered a new zone.
“I don’t really care what any of your judges would say. Last one I met was too busy trying to get his pecker out of his pants to care a
bout who’s breaking the law.”
“You can’t justify what you did and I did that easily,” Tubby said.
“Candy-ass Trapani,” she muttered, watching the flicker of the approaching runway lights.
Tubby shot her a quick look.
“Who?” he said finally.
“Candy-ass Trapani. He was my date at Benny Bloom’s hotel room.”
Tubby drove in silence.
“Talk about a distinguishing characteristic,” Daisy said.
“What was it?” Marguerite asked, turning around.
“I can’t believe this crap,” Tubby said.
He followed the signs to departing flights.
“Why don’t you just whisper it in my ear,” he suggested.
She did, right before the car reached the curb.
Later, heading home, the thought crossed the lawyer’s mind that Cesar Pitillero’s chances for early release had dramatically improved.
CHAPTER XXXI
On Saturday morning, election day, campaign signs sprouted like poppies on the neutral grounds of Orleans Parish, and Tubby slept late. When he finally roused himself and cleared his head sufficiently to retrieve the newspaper from the front sidewalk, the headline told him that Sheriff Frank Mulé was dead.
He had been struck by bullets from three different guns in what was being termed a gangland-type slaying. This did not make much sense. The deceased had been wearing a bracelet that a witness at the scene identified as having come from a robbery at First Alluvial Bank.
Tubby was sipping a shot of coffee and chicory when he got a phone call from Clifford Banks.
“We’ve got a few problems to work out,” Banks said.
“Like what?” Tubby asked. He was afraid Banks might be ready to accuse him of murder.
“Like the theft of an item from my office.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Tubby said with relief.
“I insist that we meet.”
Though tempted to hang up the phone, he acquiesced.
They picked a time early in the afternoon. Neither lawyer favored an office visit, and they settled upon a walk in Audubon Park, along the Mississippi River.
Banks was sitting on a bench watching the oil tankers battle the current when Tubby arrived. The bond attorney, wearing a tie and cradling a leather briefcase, was easy to spot by the sole practitioner in baggy khaki trousers.
“You didn’t need to dress up,” Tubby said.
“It’s my standard uniform,” Banks said. “I’m used to it, you know.”
Tubby sat down on the bench.
“I am making the assumption that you have our five hundred thousand dollar check,” Banks said.
“If I do, I’d say it’s as much mine as anybody’s.” Tubby stared at the current.
“Why?” Banks asked. “Just because Mulé is gone?”
“That’s right,” Tubby said. “The king is dead. To the victor belongs the spoils.”
“Be real,” Banks said. “Business is business. You think we liquidate just because of an unexpected downsizing?”
“Well sure,” Tubby replied in surprise. “Frank was the boss, wasn’t he, the big cheese, the guy at the top? He was responsible for all the deals.”
“Nonsense,” Banks said. “We will all miss Frank, of course. He was an important person and often handy to have around, if intellect wasn’t required, but the team goes on.”
“The team?” Tubby asked. “Sheriff Mulé was not the crime czar?”
“That’s a very odd term,” Banks said disapprovingly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a business. It’s not dependent on any one man, and certainly not a czar.”
“And you? Are you the chairman of the board?”
Banks smiled thinly. “It would be more accurate to say that I am the attorney for a number of serious businessmen who rely upon me to protect their interests, but no. There is no permanent chairman of the board.”
“Damn.” Tubby watched a seagull peck at a pile of fish heads somebody had deposited on the sidewalk.
“We wish to go ahead with the project,” Banks continued, interrupting Tubby’s reverie.
“My deal was with Frank Mulé,” Tubby said. “I don’t really know you.”
“We’ll get to know each other better,” Banks assured him.
Improvisation is critical to success, a law professor had once taught him.
“If that’s the way you want it,” Tubby said, scratching his head, “you’ll have to act immediately. The funds to pay for the WWB franchise must be delivered to New York by tomorrow at the latest. That’s the deadline I’ve been given. I have other investors lined up ready to move if you’re not,” Tubby lied. “If your team wants in, it’s got to be now.”
“But I haven’t been able to fully investigate Worldwide Women’s Boxing.” Banks hesitated. “There hasn’t been sufficient time.”
“You have all the figures. You’ve got my jewels as collateral. You know the profit potential of the franchise. You’ll have to fish or cut bait. That’s all there is to it. Let’s pretend that the check for five hundred thousand dollars is in my pocket right now. If you’ll endorse the back of it, so I know it’s your money, not Mulé’s, I’ll send it off today. That will hold them until you can convert my stuff into cash.”
“I’m not sure where your jewels are at present,” Banks reflected, almost to himself. “Frank got them and they haven’t been seen since.” He rubbed his smooth chin. “Okay,” he said finally. “I guess you have to trust somebody sometime. Besides, you’d have to be a very naive individual to think you could get way with cheating us.”
That’s me, naive, Tubby thought as he watched Banks sign his name to the back of the check. Now where would the trail point when the team’s bloodhounds came sniffing? He folded then yellow paper carefully and stuck it in his wallet.
“I’ll see that it gets delivered,” Tubby said.
Banks’s brow was furrowed as he watched his partner drive away. He would have to commence a thorough scrutiny of Worldwide Women’s Boxing right away.
Tubby went directly to his office. He was fully aware that Banks, not being as easily distracted by sweaty muscular females as the sheriff had been, would soon expose his dummy boxing corporation. Tubby pressed his lips to the check and kissed it good-bye. To keep it was to go to jail, and his price for such a dishonor was higher than half a million bucks. Instead, he addressed a plain white envelop to Bureau of Finance, City of New Orleans. He put a yellow sticker on the check and wrote on it, as anonymously as possible, “Here’s my contribution to the City’s general fund. Keep up the good work.”
Based upon his experiences with City Hall, odds were good that whichever lowly-paid employee opened the envelope would either steal the check or would deposit it into the city treasury without further inquiry. In either case, the money might possibly do some good.
And in either case, Banks would have a hell of a time getting it back. Tubby had once overpaid his occupational license fee and it had taken three years to get his ninety-eight-dollar refund. Clifford’s own backers might not be that patient.
Walking away from the mailbox on the corner, Tubby wondered whether he ought not take an extended trip.
Cherrylynn could run the office while he was away.
For finances he had all of Marguerite’s jewels.
For the rest of today, however, he was going home and catch some rest— maybe watch some college football games on television— anything but watch the news.
* * *
Tulane was beating LSU 40 to 3 in the fourth quarter when the real world intruded. Tubby tried to ignore the telephone, but it wouldn’t stop ringing. Finally, thinking it might be a family emergency, he reached for the handset. He regretted it at once.
“Hey, Mr. Tubby, it’s me, Monster Mudbug.”
“Yes, Adrian, what’s the problem now?”
“No problem at all, Mr. Tubby. I just got elected sheriff. It’s because Sher
iff Mulé got shot. I got more than two hundred votes.”
Tubby set the phone down on the couch pillow and started laughing.
“Can you believe that, Mr. Tubby?” he heard the Monster crowing. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do now?”
“Free the captives,” Tubby wheezed into the phone. “That’s what the good book says.”
“I know you’re kidding, Mr. Tubby. Listen, do you know where that girl Daisy went to? We kind of hit it off right after your party, and I’d really like to find her.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Adrian. If I talk to her, I’ll let her know about your interest, but I gotta warn you. She kisses for keeps.”
* * *
On the Southwest flight to Santa Fe, Marguerite and Daisy relaxed with little green bottles of California Chardonnay.
“I’ve never been so far west before,” Daisy said, looking at the sky full of stars outside the plane’s window.
“Could be the beginning of a brand-new life for you,” Marguerite said, smiling faintly.
“Oh, I don’t think so. You have to live your same life anywhere you go. And I won’t have a job or anything right away.”
“I’ll help you get settled in.” Marguerite sipped from her plastic cup. “Then we’ll just have to see what happens.”
“I just want some time off without hassles,” Daisy said. “You know what I mean? And no heavy love affairs. I just lose my grip when I fall in love.”
“It’s hard for a woman to maintain her identity in a man’s world,” Marguerite said.
“Where’s all the so-called men?”
“Everywhere you look.”
“Nowhere I looked, except for Charlie. You don’t like Tubby?”
“I’ll answer that when we get to know each other better.”
“I try to keep my eyes open for the good things in life that are supposed to be free, but there’s always this money thing.”
“Right now money is the least of our worries.” Marguerite patted the lumpy purse that rested heavily in her lap. “And I think your sentiments are just fine. We’re going to get along okay.”
Tubby wanted to get a closer look at his treasure— to experience in solitude the feel of diamonds and gold running through his fingers. He went to the pantry for the coffee can where Marguerite and he had secreted the jewels, but as soon as he lifted it from the shelf, he knew there was a problem. The can was empty but for a note.
