4 Shelter From The Storm
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Authors: Tony Dunbar
Shelter from the Storm
:
“By far the best of a very good collection.”
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Book Page
“Slick prose, upbeat characters, and the particular wonders of the French Quarter will commend this to any Skip Langdon or David Robicheaux fan.”
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Library Journal
“By showing the damage that several days of hard rain could cause to the city’s fragile ecosystem, Dunbar makes the reader really care about its fate. He does the same for Tubby, a lazy, corner-cutting, slightly shabby, occasionally reckless but totally decent man.”
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Chicago Tribune
“Nothing… will have prepared you for Dunbar’s uniquely laid-back approach to natural disaster… Just enough nefarious plotting to punch up the drolly understated tableaux till you can’t help laughing, and just enough menace to make you feel you aren’t really missing anything by picking Tubby over the special-effects spectaculars at the local flick.”
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Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
Shelter from the Storm
A Tubby Dubonnet Mystery
By Tony Dunbar
booksBnimble Publishing
New Orleans, La.
Shelter from the Storm
Copyright © 1997 by Tony Dunbar
Cover by Roy Migabon
ISBN: 9781625172099
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First booksBnimble Publishing electronic publication: July 2013
eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for
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CHAPTER I
“They had this place tore up the last time I was here,” Monk griped to Big Top as he drove under the rectangular green sign that said New Orleans International Airport. “And they still got it tore up. No telling which way we’re supposed to go.” A cement truck rumbled past them on the right, raining gravel on the windshield of their Chevy Astro minivan.
Big Top jerked his freckled elbow inside for protection, concerned about the cars madly crisscrossing lanes around them. Riding in the high-up front seat made all the other cars look much closer.
He saw some instructions ahead.
“Arriving Flights,” Big Top said helpfully, pointing. An old Chrysler with dented tail fins narrowly missed the front bumper and swerved into the next lane.
“Jesus of Nazareth!” Monk hollered and banged his fist on the horn.
The Chrysler careened off into Short-Term Parking. A skinny white arm came over the roof and shot them the bird.
Monk gunned the van’s engine malevolently and rolled down into the dark bowels of the lower-level baggage claim area.
A big cop in a rumpled blue uniform screamed, “SLOW IT DOWN!” in Monk’s face, and he obediently hit the brakes. Big Top had to grab the dashboard to keep from going through the glass. He and Monk exhaled in unison as the van crawled through the snarl of cabs, limousines, and cars meeting passengers.
“See him?” Big Top asked. “I ain’t never met Rue.”
“No, I don’t” Monk said, fighting for a spot at the curb. He had met Rue and was afraid of him. “He’s a little guy though,” Monk said, “and mean as a snake,” as if you could spot the meanness in somebody.
Willie LaRue, or “Rue,” as he liked to be called, walked a straight path from Delta’s Gate 31 on Concourse A all the way through the maelstrom of congested humanity to the main terminal. Though his eyes darted constantly from side to side, his head barely seemed to move, and he avoided collisions with the people hurrying toward the restrooms and parents herding children mainly by suddenly slowing down or speeding up his pace. He wore a brown straw cowboy hat, brim turned down, with a green headband, and he had pink ears that stuck straight out like wings on a chicken. He had on a tan leisure suit, with dark brown trim, and looked like lots of other Texas tourists getting off the Southwest Airlines flight.
LaRue carried a dull burgundy overnight bag in his left hand. That was all the luggage he needed. Everything else was supposed to be in the van, unless Monk or his hillbilly partner from Mississippi had forgotten to bring it.
New Orleans music seeped out of the intercom. At the moment it was Fats Domino singing “I am the sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me.” The chipper melody did not add any bounce to Rue’s steps. His was a rigid composure that wouldn’t crack. A kid on a leash dashed out in front of the tall man, lollipop embedded in wet purple lips. LaRue snarled and stepped over him.
His flight from Houston had been on time. He was right on schedule. Now, if the turnips from the boonies were where they were supposed to be, everything would be fine.
Marguerite Patino checked her straw-colored hair carefully in the noisy ladies room on Concourse B. She finished by giving herself a big wink with her long black eyelashes and stepped briskly into the bright corridor teaming with people. Trailing a red plastic suitcase that rolled erratically on its tiny wheels, she promenaded toward the terminal, demurely deflecting the glances of all sorts of guys headed toward the planes.
She looked sharp. Her hair was permed into a reckless swirl of ringlets that Don, before he socked her for sixty dollars, had told her were just the thing for “down South.” Her coral-pink suit came with the shortest skirt she owned and hung tightly on a body trimmed of most of its excess fat by three miserable weeks of fasting and aerobic agony. She was ready to get on with her first real vacation since a high-octane trip to Cancun two years ago with her ex-boyfriend Romney.
Her only regret was that her soul mate, Rondelle, was not along. Rondelle had come up with the idea of going to Mardi Gras in the first place. “Just the girls,” she said, and she had even made the reservations. Then Rondelle had chickened out. They had had a big argument. Marguerite’s lips turned down in a pout when she thought about it. Rondelle just could not seem to take the big leap. So she was stuck back in Chicago scraping ice off her Geo and Marguerite was here in New Orleans, ready to party down on Bourbon Street at the Mardi Gras. Only thing was, she had had to lie to her mother about traveling alone.
What’s done is done. I’m thirty-one. Whoopee. She passed by the line of people trudging through the metal detector and entered the main terminal. Anticipating bacchanalia, she was immediately disappointed that it looked pretty much like a miniature version of the airport back home. The sight of something called an oyster bar and a tough-looking female concessionaire in fishnet stockings pushing a rolling wagon of whiskey bottles gave her some reassurance.
Past the baggage claim she stepped through the sliding glass doors into the Big Easy and immediately needed oxygen. Hot wet air wrapped around her like the steam of a sauna. Gasping, momentarily dizzy, she reached for a grimy concrete pillar for support.
“Taxi, ma’am? Right here.” The short Lebanese had her elbow and was directing her, with charming courtesy, toward his vast cab labeled, in flowing gold script, the White Cloud. His purple shirt was half untucked from his tight black slacks, and his mustache was ragged. He looked very much like the cabby who had dropped her off at O’Hare about three hours earlier.
Disoriented, Marguerite let herself be led away.
* * *
“That’s our man.” Monk pointed his chin at the tall figure with big ears emerging from the baggage area.
“Guess he knows us,” Big Top mumbled as Willie LaRue, guided by some internal radar, stepped off the curb and pointed himself unerringly at the van.
“Skinny feller,” Big Top said.
“He’s a dangerous little prick. He’s named for some damn cowboy, and he acts like it,” Monk said, but he rolled down his window and called, “Hey brother, join the party.”
LaRue came alongside and lifted his sunglasses to examine the occupants of the van. His eyes were squinty and green and matched the band of his hat.
“You’re Monk,” he said by way of greeting.
“Right. We met before. This here is Big Top.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Big Top said.
LaRue made slits out of his eyes and nodded. Then he pulled the van’s side door open loudly and vaulted himself into the back seat.
“Let’s ride, boys,” he said.
Monk pushed the buttons that rolled up the windows and hit the air.
He steered around a party of locals carrying parkas and lugging their skis into the terminal, anxious to get out of town, and snaked through the traffic in the direction of daylight.
LaRue mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and turned around in his seat to inspect the van’s cargo.
A brand-new turquoise five-horsepower Makita generator took up a lot of space in the rear and a handsome gray steel tool chest with enameled red drawers took up the rest.
“You got everything?” he asked doubtfully.
“The whole shopping list,” Monk said, pointing the van toward the interstate. “You just gotta watch out the darkies don’t steal everything out of it.”
LaRue looked suspiciously at Monk, who was black as a buffalo horn, but he didn’t say anything.
Big Top, who had a wave of unruly red hair over a face filled with freckles, giggled uncontrollably.
LaRue thought they were both idiots. He knew they lived in a house trailer way back in the pine trees somewhere in Mississippi, and he didn’t care for that arrangement. Monk could pass for a college boy singing in a church choir, and he was said to be reliable, but his selection of Big Top, who resembled LaRue’s own inbred cousins, was a major demerit.
“What you got for me?” he asked impatiently.
Big Top bent over to fish around under his seat and came up with a gun in a compact black nylon holster. He handed it butt-first over his shoulder to LaRue, who peeled back the Velcro strap and shook the weapon out for closer inspection.
“Forty-five caliber,” Monk explained.
LaRue did not comment on the obvious but went to work figuring out how to fasten the holster to his belt.
“You don’t worry someone will see that under your coat?” Big Top asked. “I keep mine in my boot.”
“No,” Rue replied. “I’ve been here before. Anyone sees a white man with a pistol on his belt in New Orleans, they figure him for a policeman.”
Monk laughed. Big Top chewed gum.
At Metairie Road Monk flipped on the blinker and cruised off the exit ramp. He turned left into a cloud of black exhaust from a city bus.
“We’d better go by the back roads,” he said as he set off on an erratic route through pot-holed residential streets in the direction of Bayou St. John.
“You worried about a tail?” LaRue was tense.
“No, man,” Monk said. “Damn parades are everywhere. They got ’em all over on Veterans this evening, and one of ’em goes down Canal Street this afternoon. Last week when I came down to look around I got stuck for an hour just trying to get across downtown. I could have locked up the van and parked in the middle of the street, but, you know, I didn’t want to chance getting towed. So…” he swerved down a tree-lined street of two-story shotgun houses, white paint fading behind crooked iron fences, “We stick to the ol’ hoods.”
Some boys playing soccer with a beach ball jumped out of their path.
Abruptly, the narrow street joined a wide boulevard. They careened around a statue of Confederate General P.G.T. Beauregard, whose horse wore a bright bridle of plastic beads, and drove beside a wide sluggish stream of water that had once provided passage to the tribes of Indians who traded with Frenchmen before being exterminated by them. A gentle grassy bank separated the roadway from the edge of the bayou. It being Sunday, solitary fishermen and urban picnickers claimed most of the shady spots along the shoreline. The setting was picturesque, and the people who lived in the expensive homes on the opposite bank had a relaxing view of tides rippling gently in and out, marred only by the occasional drunk or fleeing felon who missed a curve, went airborne, and ended up nose down in the ancient green muck.
“That’s him,” Monk said, pointing ahead to a smoky gray Pontiac parked beneath a spreading oak tree at water’s edge. A tall and extremely thin dark-skinned man was leaning against the passenger door watching them approach. He fumbled around in the pocket of his khaki uniform shirt for a cigarette as the van crawled slowly past him on the jagged asphalt-and-clamshell shoulder and came to a halt in the grass.