Crooked Man: A Hard-Boiled but Humorous New Orleans Mystery (Tubby Dubonnet Series #1) (The Tubby Dubonnet Series) (10 page)

A peppered fillet, covered with sliced almonds, appeared before Tubby. He pricked it gently with his fork, and a puff of steam escaped, with it a light smell of daybreak and high tide at the beach. E.J. inspected his skewered oysters and bacon and inhaled with pleasure.

“Ah, this looks perfect,” he crooned. “So you think that would be legal?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Let me give it some thought. And I’ll discuss it with Nyop. As you said, every immigrant likes to own a company.”

“Like your grandfather.”

“Actually, my great-grandfather,” E.J. said, referring to the old Frenchman who had managed to acquire so much Vieux Carré real estate that it had taken his descendants four generations to work it down to the several blocks they now owned and leased at handsome rates. Unlike Tubby, who was originally from a hamlet called Bunkie, surrounded by sugarcane and rice plantations, and who had only landed in New Orleans because his father had gotten him into Tulane, E.J. was a pillar of New Orleans society. Never mind that several of his ancestors had been hung as outlaws by the Spaniards or the Yankees, E.J. paraded with the Krewe of Proteus, when it rode, and had flattered Tubby by inviting him to join. Tubby had declined because, at the time, he was privately too hard up for cash to pay the dues.

“How’s your drug-smuggling case coming?”

“Okay. How did you hear about that?”

“I saw your name in the newspaper – the story about the bail hearing.”

Tubby finished chewing a bite of fish, and stabbed a crisp slice of tomato. “There’s not much for me to do. He got caught with the goods.”

“Did they have a tip?”

“Oh, yes, but nobody is telling where it came from. The DEA field office down there was well prepared though they’re still having to explain why all they caught was Darryl Alvarez.”

“I’ve always thought it a little distressing how criminals turn each other in all the time. Where’s the honor? Wouldn’t it be terrible if professionals did that to each other?”

“We’re slightly more reliable, I guess, but that’s changing, too.”

“A toast to the reticent nature of officers of the court everywhere. What do you think Alvarez was planning to do with the pot?”

“Sell it, of course,” Tubby said. “For all I know he sells it out of the back room at Champs. Do you know Darryl?”

“Sure, I’ve eaten and imbibed a few at Champs. But it’s a total surprise to me that he’s in that league. So much pot must cost a lot of money.”

“The police say its street value was in the millions. They didn’t catch him with any cash, though. It probably left with the boat.”

“Have you been over to Champs since his arrest?”

“No, but Darryl comes to see me. He was by yesterday.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“He’ll probably go to prison for a while, unless he points the finger at someone else.”

“Just what I was saying. Everyone feels this need to turn someone else in. They pass around guilt like a bottle of wine.”

“Not Darryl. So far he’s not talking, though he’s sweating a little. I guess he’s more like one of your professionals.”

“Well, I have always appreciated discretion.”

“You ain’t never been in jail, cher.”

“And I’m the second generation of my family with that distinction,” Chaisson said with obvious pride.

It wasn’t long before Daryl opened up a little more to Monique about the money. She was behind the bar, mixing an old-fashioned for the nice old man who pumped gas at the marina, when this skinny kid with long blond hair, good-looking but vacant and needy somehow, sat down. He waved until she paid him some attention.

“Is Darryl Alvarez here?” he asked. He had a look of desperation.

“I don’t know. If he’s here, he’s busy. What will you have?”

“Oh, not really anything to drink. But I need to speak to Mr. Alvarez. It’s important.”

“What’s important about it?”

“I’ve got to tell him in person.”

“Sorry,” she said and started to move away.

“Wait a second,” he pleaded. “Do you know who Tubby Dubonnet is?”

Monique recognized the name of Darryl’s lawyer.

“Yeah, I do.”

That brightened up the young man’s face. He was making contact.

“He’s my brother-in-law. And he’s sent me with a message. I’ve got to give it personally to Darryl Alvarez.”

“Okay, we’ll see. What’s your name?”

“Harold,” said Harold.

She rang the office on the house phone. Darryl answered “Yes” the way he always did.

“I’ve got a guy down here named Harold who says he’s Tubby Dubonnet’s brother-in-law. Do you want to talk to him? He says he’s got a message, and it’s important, et cetera.” She was watching Harold empty the peanut bowl on the bar.

“Send him up,” Darryl said.

Monique told one of the girls to show Harold the way. He said thanks a lot very sincerely and pocketed a handful of matches.

Not much later she saw him come back down the stairs and go out the front door toward the street. After work, she asked Darryl what it was about. He must have had a little toot because he really started talking.

“That little fruitcake tried to score,” he said. “He said he wanted some crack for Tubby. I don’t know him from Adam. I would have thrown him out right then, but I heard what he had to say in case, you know, it might be for real. I didn’t know if he was trying to set me up or what. Finally I told the asshole I’d have to call Tubby to check him out, and he started talking a mile a minute, trying to run a con on me. He gave me all these reasons why I couldn’t call Tubby. It was just bullshit. Finally I had enough and told him to get the fuck out of here.”

“Is he really related to your lawyer?”

“I seriously doubt it. This guy is a real putz.”

“Do you think Mr. Dubonnet is into drugs?”

“I’d have to doubt that, too. I don’t think that would be his type of action. Horses, maybe. Not drugs.”

“Why? You got the idea lawyers don’t do cocaine?”

“I wouldn’t make that mistake. Lawyers are the worst. Hey, my biggest headaches come from lawyers. Lawyers and cops.

“Cops like Casey?” she asked. It slipped out.

“How do you know his name?”

“He told me the night, you know, that you introduced me to him.” She was freaking, but he didn’t see it.

“Casey’s no cop,” he said. “He’s some kind of investigator for Sheriff Mulé. He’s just a hood, really. He runs little scams down at the jail and does whatever the sheriff tells him to do. He wasn’t involved in this deal. I wonder more about the guy who was with Casey, the one who actually brought me the money.” Darryl didn’t tell her the man’s name.

“Are you thinking he set you up?”

“Maybe, but I don’t see how. He didn’t know the when or the where. I made the arrangements myself, with people I’ve done business with in the past. The guy you saw introduced me to the major player, the son of a bitch who financed this fucking disaster here. This guy’s very rich. He’s got a big house in the Garden District, with the slave quarters and everything. I’ve been down by it. I’ve never been inside, of course. He wouldn’t want the little lady to see me. He acts like a Greek god or something. He knows people who want to put up some money. High risk. High yield. All cash. Can I provide the product? Will I pick it up and distribute it? Of course I will. Then everybody makes lots of money. Their investment pays off well. He’s the guy I felt I could trust, ‘cause he’s so rich. But I don’t know. He’s just not my type. That may be where I got in trouble. Maybe I misread him.”

Monique didn’t say anything.

“That’s why I had you hold the money, Monique. Just because I wasn’t sure.”

“What’s he going to do now?”

“I know he wants to talk to me real bad, just like I want to talk to him. We need to straighten out what happened. I need to find out what he’s going to do for me. Right now I’d guess he’s pretty anxious to get his money back. I just haven’t thought of a safe way for us to get together yet.”

“Do you think he can get you out of this?”

“I think he can. He knows the right strings to pull. The question is will he pull them. I’ll say this. If he doesn’t get me out of this jam, he’s going to be short one big pile of money.”

Darryl didn’t tell Monique what Tubby had said about the eight years. After he wound down a little bit, they made gentle love on the upholstered chair in the office, with the television blaring and the wall monitors flashing live scenes from the barroom below. Later, Darryl sat in front of the TV, flipping channels. Monique curled up on the chair for a little nap, and before she fell asleep she prayed that Darryl would never find out what she had done.

On Mondays, Champs was closed until late in the afternoon to permit a crew to come in and clean the place and give it some air. They usually finished at around noon, and the doors opened to the public at four o’clock. Darryl was there all day. Monique did some laundry in the morning and then came over on her bicycle to keep him company.

They were sitting at the empty bar, listening to a Neville Brothers tape on the sound system while they talked about this and that and watched the boats out on the lake. Darryl asked her to go upstairs and get the cash register keys. She was in the office when she heard a loud crash. Her eyes jumped to the console that monitored the downstairs area, and she saw two men, one tall and one short and broad, advancing through the front door they had just smashed open. They had some kind of guns in their hands. Her eyes went to the other monitor. Darryl had noticed something. He was standing up and reaching under the counter.

Before the men had even located Darryl, she saw him grab for the Beretta 9 he kept beneath the register. The short man saw him move and opened fire, shattering glass all over the place and catching Darryl right in the chest. He coughed, coughed, and coughed and went down hard on his back. Both men ran over to the bar, and the short one kicked Darryl. The big guy was pissed off. He grabbed the short man and stuck a gun in his face. He said something, then pushed him away in disgust. He looked up at the camera, and Monique recognized Casey. The two men looked at each other, and then moved off camera in the direction of the stairs.

She thought about barricading herself in the office and calling the police, but to her Casey was the police. She got out of there and ran down the hall. She could hear them coming at her up the stairs. She slipped through the lounge as quickly and quietly as she could and opened the French doors to the balcony. She closed them behind her and crouched in a corner by the railing. If they came that way, she planned to jump into the lake.

She heard the sound of wood splintering. That would be the office door. There were more thuds and sounds of things being thrown around. It seemed to go on for a long time, but maybe it was just a few minutes. Then she heard heavy footsteps running down the stairs. Five minutes later, she pushed the doors open slowly and tiptoed across the floor. It was all quiet below, and she slipped downstairs softly. The bar was a mess. The front door was broken open. There was busted glass everywhere. She ran over to Darryl, and there was just lots wrong with him. Blood was pumping out of his chest, and there were large red holes in his shirt and big pieces of flesh hanging off and his eyes were wide open and crossed and his tongue was sticking out of his mouth. He looked horrified. She was horrified. She tried to push his chest back together but it wouldn’t go, and she cried.

A young couple, thinking they might each have a Corona and lime on a pretty afternoon, came in and found them like that. After they got over the surprise, they called the police.

Tubby liked to have a small breakfast at a coffee shop on Maple Street uptown called PJ’S. Back when he was married, Mattie made a big morning meal for the whole family. The divorce had ended that, of course, and for some strange reason it also seemed to have robbed him of his morning appetite. He did enjoy being served, however. He stopped uptown because it was a quiet oasis on his way to the office. One of the nice things about PJ’S was that he hardly ever saw anyone he knew, except the congregation of regulars who were starting to recognize him and would sometimes nod.

The array of blends and flavors was confusing to him. Tubby was not much on variety in his coffee. He tried hazelnut once, and it put him in a bad mood, so he stuck with what they called “French roast with chicory.” Sometimes a muffin, sometimes not.

This morning he was trying a banana pecan muffin while reading the newspaper. He sat on the outdoor patio, which was separated from the street by a low fence. His attention wandered to a black guy wearing jeans and a basketball jersey, leaning against the rail with a quarter stuck in his ear. Tubby wondered if that were functional, like the man was ready to use a pay phone, or purely ornamental. Must be a fad, he decided, better than a penny in the loafers but cheaper than gold stars on the teeth. The breeze from the river nearby blended with the smell of coffee roasting and carried with it the familiar jarring sounds of freight trains coupling by the levee.

He finished the front section of the Times Picayune and picked up the metro news. On the first page, in the bottom right-hand corner, the headline read: TAVERN OWNER SHOT: POLICE SEEK KILLERS. He read the story quickly.

Police are seeking leads to the identity of two men seen leaving the scene of Monday afternoon’s fatal shooting at Champs, a popular lakefront bar.

According to a witness, two white males, both described as being in their late thirties or forties, entered the establishment on Sunset Boulevard before it opened for the evening and shot manager Darryl Alvarez to death. Police report that he was shot four times, three times in the chest and once in the face, after an apparent struggle. The motive, police say, may have been robbery. Two men were seen leaving the restaurant shortly before four o’clock p.m. by a woman arriving for work. According to a man delivering pizza in the area, they reportedly drove away in a dark red or maroon car with Louisiana license plates. Mr. Alvarez was under indictment in Federal Court in New Orleans, stemming from his arrest for marijuana smuggling in July. When arrested near Caillou Lake in Terrebonne Parish he was allegedly loading 15 bales of marijuana, with an estimated street value of $3 million, into a truck. Mr. Alvarez has no known survivors.