by Tony Dunbar
“My insurance rates will skyrocket.” Now it looked like the doctor was close to tears. He was even forgetting to eat.
“It’s just the price of doing business,” Tubby consoled him. “You’ll just raise your fees, right?”
The thought seemed to comfort Dr. Feingold. He picked up an almond slice with his fingers and nibbled it. “I suppose that’s true,” he said.
Tubby pressed ahead. “There will always be tummies to tuck.” A waiter passing with a fudge-drenched piece of chocolate cake caught his attention. “Hey, would you look at that dessert.”
“Help yourself.”
“No, I’ve got too much work to do this afternoon. I think that would put me out of commission for at least a couple of hours.”
“Then I’ll get the check.”
“No. This one is on me, Marty. You sent me a good client.”
“I have this feeling I’m going to end up paying for it.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Hmmm.”
* * *
Tubby and Marty Feingold strolled together across Lafayette Square in the direction of Tubby’s office and Marty’s car. A crew of gardeners, mostly Asian women wearing pointed hats, squatted around a fountain, pulling weeds from a bed of vividly colored pansies. A family of pigeons, like toy soldiers, waddled over to them hopefully, then fluttered excitedly out of the way.
“They’re doing a great job keeping the place up,” Dr. Feingold said, nodding at the industrious laborers and the neatly trimmed border around the concrete fountain.
“Yes, they are. Most of them don’t speak any English, you know. It’s hard to imagine going to a strange country halfway around the world and ending up tending flowers in the parks of a city where you don’t even speak the language. They sure can understand the flowers, though, can’t they?”
“In ten years they’ll own this town.”
“Everybody else has taken a turn at running New Orleans, why not them?”
“They couldn’t do much worse than we’ve done, could they?”
“Wake up, Marty. We’re not in charge here anymore.”
“We’re just allowed to show up for work, right?”
“Work and play,” said Tubby. “And that’s not too shabby.”
They shook hands and parted underneath the Whitney Bank clock on the street corner. A delivery kid, riding a bicycle the wrong way down the street, almost collided with Dr. Feingold in the crosswalk.
“Sorry,” the kid shouted, laughing, and kept on pedaling, a carefree two-wheeled traveler through a land of over-heated cars stuck waiting for the light and burning plenty of gas.
One of the gardeners straightened up to wipe the sweat from her forehead with the loose sleeve of her jacket. She looked at the line of cars, and in a red one not far away she saw a man that she knew. Quickly, she put her head down and buried her hands deeply in the soft dirt.
Casey pressed the horn and held it.
“What’s the problem?” he yelled out the window to nobody in particular.
Freddie leaned out his side to look.
“I think they’re letting cars out of the garage. I don’t see no accident.”
“What do women expect you to think when they go around exposed like that?” Casey muttered, looking over a pair of sharply dressed secretaries strolling along the sidewalk on their lunch break. He spied the gardener and chuckled when she ducked.
“It’s indecent,” Freddie agreed.
“You see that skinny gook over there? The one squatting by that bush?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“They call her Panda. Her brother got locked up, breaking and entering, car theft, something like that. Her family makes the right connections, and it comes around to me that they wanted him treated okay in jail. You know, where nobody bothers him, and he gets to have his cigarettes and his little personal items without any hassle. No big thing. I’m dealing with Bin Minny on this, you know who I mean?”
“I seen him around. I think I seen him talking to you.”
“Yeah, well he’s the king gook out in New Orleans East, where they all live. You know, you don’t see no dogs running loose out there.”
Freddie laughed.
Casey gunned the motor, keeping an eye on the temperature gauge. The traffic seemed permanently stalled.
“This little girl, Panda, comes to see me at the office,” Casey continued. By “office” Freddie understood him to mean BB Bail Bonds—across from the Criminal Courts building, where Casey had a desk and phone and generally hung out most of the time—not Casey’s official office at the jail. He rarely went there, but he allowed Freddie to use it if he needed a private place to take a nap or eat a pizza that he didn’t want to share.
“I don’t know how she knew who I was, but she comes in, ‘Missa Casey,’ she says. She can hardly talk English. But she tells me that Bin Minny is raising the price for looking after her brother and she can’t pay it. So he offers to let her work it out as one of his girls, and she can make lots of money that way. She don’t like that, so she comes to see me.”
“What’d you tell her?” Freddie asked.
“I told her to get the hell out of my office. Like I’m gonna mess up my friendly relations with Bin Minny ‘cause this little girl, who has an asshole for a brother, can’t get along. She leaves like she don’t understand how ‘Big Missa Sheriff Casey’ can say that, but she gets the message. Right away I call Bin Minny to tell him one of his people is off the reservation and, real cool, he asks me, as a favor, to wise up the brother. I pass the word, and two of the guys at the jail work the brother over a little bit. That was right before you got here, Freddie. If you’d been on my team then, it would have been a good job for you.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” Freddie said.
“And what do you know, the next week the payments are being made again, the brother gets over his scrapes and bruises, and Bin Minny owes me a favor. My only regret is I probably should have poked her while I had the chance, but I don’t like gooks.”
“It’s all pink on the inside,” Freddie offered.
“That’s a very humorous observation, Freddie,” Casey said. “Speaking of which, I just remembered we’re supposed to pass by the Starburst Lounge today and pick up our present.”
“I could do that this afternoon, if you’re busy,” Freddie suggested.
“You’d like to go by yourself, wouldn’t you, Freddie? That way you collect a little extra, right?”
“No, nothing like that, Casey. I was just saying I’d go. Then I’d bring it over to your office—if you got something else to do.”
“I appreciate your volunteer spirit. Some initiative is a good thing. But not too much.”
Sitting around in traffic was putting Casey in a dangerous mood, and Freddie wanted to change the subject.
“When are we going to do that job you were talking about—with the drug runner?” he asked.
“It isn’t something you need to worry about yet. The money is out there as we speak. I haven’t quite got a fix on it yet, but I will. Then I’ll let you know it’s time to answer the bell.”
“I’ll be ready, whenever.”
“Let’s move it,” Casey shouted out the window. The block-long line of cars didn’t budge.
“Let’s try out the light and see if we can get through this,” Casey said.
Freddie put the blue flasher on top of the dashboard and flipped the switch. Casey blew the horn, bounced two wheels up on the curb, and started squeezing through. This was one of the times he wished he was a city cop. He would love to have a loudspeaker he could use to make these fools get out of the way. Only thing, there wasn’t any money in being a cop.
THREE
People often asked Tubby what his day was like—how it was being a lawyer in a city like New Orleans. He knew there was no way to describe it, all the sad and comic touches. He just knew he wasn’t often bored.
He parked his red Thunderbird convertibl
e by the abandoned, boarded-up Falstaff brewery off Broad Street and scrambled across four busy lanes to the plaza in front of Traffic Court. Inside the masses were gathering for afternoon services, reduced to the common denominator of having to explain away yellow lights that turned red, school-zone signs hidden behind crepe myrtle trees, and Breathalyzer machines that gave out faulty readings.
Courtroom C was filled with at least a hundred people, each waiting for his name to be called by the clerk up front, a balding man with a lumpy nose and a wrinkled tie named Moses Seamster, who had mastered an attitude of total indifference to everything. His foghorn voice summoned a few more offenders every few minutes to come forward and plead with him about their cases. He disposed of the vast majority in ten seconds and fewer words, accepting their plea, fixing their fine, and sending them off to pay. The judge was nowhere to be seen. A handful of bored-looking lawyers hung out on the front row and around a door leading to the back room where an assistant city attorney considered more grievous offenses and dealt with citizens who refused to plead guilty. Tubby was acquainted with a bunch of the regulars, and he walked up to join them.
“Hiya, Walter, whatcha got today?” he asked an older attorney he knew, a tall gentleman wearing a shiny gray suit and holding his briefcase across his narrow chest like it might stop a bullet.
“Hey, Tubby. DWI. Drove into the bushes off Wisner into City Park. My issue is no one saw him actually driving the vehicle, and he wasn’t on a public thoroughfare when the cops pulled him out of the shrubbery. So where’s the crime? It’s bullshit, maybe, but we’ll see. What’s yours?”
“My client is Monster Mudbug,” Tubby said.
“What, the guy you see at Mardi Gras?”
“That’s him. Oh no, here he is.”
Monster Mudbug drove a tow truck by trade. He had spotted Tubby and was walking up the aisle dressed in dusty blue jeans, a spray-painted surfer shirt, and blue sunglasses. He paused at the swinging wooden gate and waved, and Tubby went over to collect him.
“Jesus, I told you to clean up, Adrian.”
“Couldn’t, Mr. Tubby. I was working.”
“You must have been working under a car.”
“Yeah, there was a three-car wreck up on the high rise. Two other guys beat me there, so I had to scoop the worst car, which had both its front tires completely mangled. First I had to wait for the ambulance and the rescue guys to get the people out.”
“Were they hurt?”
“Yeah, pretty bad. The guy was some kind of preacher, and these leaflets about a revival or something were blowing out of his car and all over the highway. This pretty lady that was in the car with him got banged on the head. She was walking around in circles saying, ‘Reverend James, Reverend James.’” Adrian tried to imitate her. “She had blood just dripping off her.”
Tubby shook his head in sympathy. “Listen, Adrian…” he began.
“Yeah, I was kind of worried that the old man might be dead. The ambulance driver said he’d pull through, though. But I guess if he’d of died he would have gone straight to heaven. Don’t you think? Baptists believe in heaven, don’t they?”
“Sure they do, Adrian. Did you think it was just a Catholic thing? But now that you’re here, did you bring proof of insurance?”
“Yeah, sixty days.”
“I don’t know if they’ll take that. You need real insurance.”
“It’s hard to get insurance on the Rolling Boiler,” Adrian lamented. He was speaking about a chopped-down Ford Escort chassis he had decorated with papier-mâché and sheet metal to look like a huge crawfish pot. He had girls, pretty ones if he could get them, dress up like crawfish and jump around in the pot. He used it for parties and parades and was trying to get recognized as a local character.
“I’ll bet the Moss Man doesn’t have insurance,” he complained.
“I know the Moss Man, and he does have insurance,” Tubby told him. “Plus he has a brake tag, too.”
“I’d like to know where he gets it. They’d just laugh at me if I pulled into a brake tag station. Can you imagine?”
“Give me your certificate of insurance and I’ll see what I can do.”
Adrian sat on the bench while Tubby squeezed through the crowd to the hallway behind the courtroom where whatever assistant city attorney had the duty that day met with lawyers and regular folks to conduct the real business of the court, which was to hammer out guilty pleas. Today he found Risi Shexnayder, a young lawyer he had seen before over at the law school, sitting behind a little desk, interrogating a fat black teenager while a policeman, lounging on a folding chair in the corner, picked his teeth with a wooden match.
The teenager was telling a story about why he ran a stop sign. The cop interrupted to say he didn’t believe the kid then and he didn’t believe him now, and, in any case, running a stop sign was against the law, so why not cut the crap. The kid finally agreed to pay a fine, but he was mad about it. He collected his papers and strutted out. Shexnayder waved Tubby toward the empty chair. She was in her twenties but was already getting the worn-and-tired appearance that comes from spending too much time cooped up in windowless rooms with petty offenders and cops.
“Hey, Mr. Dubonnet, where y’at? I know it must be a major bust for a big shot like you to be down here.”
“No, this is not a big deal, Risi. Today I represent Monster Mudbug. Grabbed for no insurance, tag, or title on his way to the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade in the Irish Channel.”
“Yeah. I saw him in that parade. He wears this big chef’s hat and was throwing boiled crawfish and potatoes, right? That’s a crazy guy. Is that stuff legal? It must be a health-code violation. So what do you want me to do?”
“Forget the whole thing. No one gets title or tags on something like that. I mean, it’s a float, really. And anyway he’s got insurance.”
The assistant city attorney inspected the insurance certificate Tubby pushed across her desk.
“This is from Blue Streak Insurance Company,” she said. “They’ve been out of business for months. This is no good.”
Tubby looked at it again. “So, you’re right. But that’s not the kid’s fault. See, he paid the premium.”
“I hope he can get his money back. Judge is hard on no insurance, but I guess maybe this counts for something. Monster Mudbug has to have a license tag, though. If it runs on gas and rolls down the street you gotta put a tag on it. We’ll throw everything else out if he pays a hundred and twenty-five dollars plus costs.”
“Okay,” Tubby said. The prosecutor scribbled some notes on the tickets and handed them to Tubby.
“Take these to the clerk, and it’s all taken care of. And say hello to Reggie Turntide for me.” Reggie was Tubby’s partner.
“You know Reggie?” Tubby was surprised because Reggie had probably never ventured into Traffic Court.
“I met him at the fish fry my boss, the City Attorney, has every summer for all of us and the politicians. Reggie was really sweet. He played with my little boy for about two hours.”
“Yeah, Reggie really likes kids.”
“He seemed to. You can tell Monster Mudbug I think his whole, uh, presentation is outasight. People go crazy trying to catch those crawfish. They had a good flavor, too.”
“You ate them?”
“Sure, I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time.”
“I’ll tell him he has an admirer in Traffic Court.” Tubby grabbed the tickets and was out the door. The next lawyer in line stepped forward quickly and sat on the chair. One more man with a story to tell.
Adrian had found some friends in the courtroom, and they were all talking to each other in whispers, out of respect for where they were, but there was still no judge in sight.
“I got her to throw out the no title, no brake tag, and no insurance,” Tubby told him, “but you’ll have to pay a hundred and twenty-five dollars plus costs for no license tag.” Adrian’s friends were impressed.
“That’s good,” Adrian
said. “I brought two hundred dollars with me just in case.”
“What you do is pay your lawyer first. Give me the two hundred dollars.”
“What do I pay the fine with?”
“They’ll give you time. Go to the back and work it out with the lady. Pay me the two hundred dollars. And get some real insurance. The city attorney back there likes you. She caught your show and loved it, but there’s a price for fame. You can’t let down all the people who are getting behind you. Monster Mudbug is the kind of guy who has insurance.”
“I see that, Mr. Tubby. I can’t be getting into legal hassles all the time. I gotta think about my fans. There’s a lot of young people who look up to me.”
“Right, Adrian. You gotta be an example to them.”
“Sure. Thanks for everything, Mr. Tubby.” They said goodbye and parted ways.
How did I ever get into this line of work? Tubby asked himself as he pushed open the glass doors to the world outside. He gave a couple of bucks to the young lad who was watching his car and got a barely perceptible nod in return. He wasn’t sure, but it looked to Tubby as though his wheel covers had been shined.
FOUR
Monique was a small-town girl. She had come to what to her was the big city of New Orleans from Evergreen, Alabama, home of a million slash pine trees and a Holiday Inn. She was running away from home at age twenty-three.
The immediate goal was to get away from Ned, her ex-husband, who liked to punch her about once a week while they were married and periodically came around for similar recreation after they got divorced. She got started on her escape after he almost ran her off the Interstate one night with his four-by-four pickup truck, pushing her onto the shoulder, saved only by an exit ramp which appeared just in time. She swerved up it and took refuge under the dusty vapor lamps of an all-night convenience store, leaving Ned to clip the signpost and navigate his drunken way north. Then she shook and shook, waiting for her mother to get her landlord to come and escort her home. She stared at the pretty faces beckoning from the shiny magazine covers on the rack by the phone and decided that her only hope for a real life lay in flight.
