Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8) (11 page)

“I make substantial contributions every year. Leave me alone.” Boaz was defending himself.

Pancera held up both palms to stop such nonsense. “You’ve drifted away from us.”

“I don’t remember Cuba,” Jason whined. “I have never met a Communist. I have other concerns that are far more important to me.”

“Like what? Global warming?”

“Actually, yes. Coastal subsidence is another one. Did you know that the Louisiana coastline is disappearing at the rate of a football field an hour…?”

“Oh, shut up!” Pancera thundered. “Your family’s home, your inheritance, was stolen by a filthy maniac who is still a dictator and the champion of world-wide socialism. His cancerous ideas are still taking root every day right here in the United States.”

“But there are other threats today, my friend Pancera. Disease. Radical Islam. Overpopulation. Rising seas.”

“You are starting to sound like a fucking socialist yourself. That could always lead to a sudden death. The future of freedom, capitalism, and family values is ours to shape, to take. You must come back to us and do your share.”

“I am doing my share,” Jason protested, shaken by the reference to a sudden death. “I have given the benevolent society and the veterans of the Brigade almost a hundred thousand dollars over the years.”

“
No puede haber paz sin justicia
. Do you remember what happened to ‘Second-in-Command’?”

Jason was confused. “I remember hearing he drowned in Katrina.”

“Yeah, but he had some help. Don’t you know that the Night Watchman got him?”

“No!” Jason was shocked. “All that rough stuff was supposed to be over years ago.”

Pancera stared at him with black eyes that didn’t blink.

“What was his offense?” Jason asked.

“He tried to destroy ‘the papers.’ ”

Jason dimly recalled mentions of ‘the papers’ decades before, but he denied it now. “I don’t know anything about any papers,” he said. “I just want peace. What are you asking me to do?”

“Get this lawyer Dubonnet off my case.
Dejar morir muertos en paz
.”

“How can I let the dead lie in peace, tell me?”

“You will find a way. You have always been a very smart fellow, Jason. There are many others involved in this, as you know. They do not want their lives to be disturbed by ancient events. They move very fast when they are threatened. Make this go away. You got it?” His fingers did little dances like snowflakes falling. “Just make it go away. Or else we will act as we must.”

* * *

“Mr. Boaz is on the phone,” Cherrylynn called from the other room.

“Hi, Jason. What’s up?”

“All the stuff we talked about, I can’t talk about, but I want to say, you know, we’re friends.”

“Okay,” Tubby said encouragingly.

“And I’ve finished my little decibel invention. I think it will suit your purposes admirably.”

“Great. Great. You didn’t have to. Like you said, I can probably buy one at the store. But, of course, I’d like to have yours.”

“You absolutely should. Mine’s better. You can field-test it for me and see how well it works.”

“Gladly.”

“I can drop it off at your home tonight.”

“That works. I’m leaving here soon. I have to stop at the grocery store and pick up some stuff, but I should be home by six.”

“No problem. I’ll see you then.”

After hanging up Tubby stared for a minute at the life of his city beyond his office window. Far off in the east there was a plume of smoke, maybe a house on fire. He could see a traffic jam building up on the I-10. Sounds of a brass band rose up from Bourbon Street, forty-three stories below. There was a very large bird circling over the panorama, flying even higher than Tubby’s office. Likely it was a bald eagle whose nest was at Bayou Sauvage, coming back from its daily feast in the Gulf of Mexico. Burning buildings, snags on the Interstate, vast distances, meant nothing to that extraordinary creature.

Maybe, he thought, when I solve the Parker murder, when Collette finishes school, when I find the right woman, I can be free like that.

Nah! A fantasy. He collected his briefcase and headed out the door.

* * *

Tubby was steering his handsome Camaro uptown on Magazine Street when Raisin caught up with him on the mobile.

“Want to go out tonight? Janie’s bar?”

“That’s what you say every night, but I can’t. No point in it till I get my noise meter. Jason is bringing it over in an hour. Let’s go tomorrow.”

“Does all of this noise pollution crap sound like nannyville to you?” Raisin wanted to know. “Didn’t we use to stand right next to the speakers at Grateful Dead, the Band, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Janice Joplin? Didn’t the whole floor vibrate?”

“I can’t hear you.”

“But really, hasn’t the music always been loud? Remember Benny’s on Camp?”

“Oh, man, yes. At two in the morning you could hear it all the way down to Napoleon Avenue.”

“And nobody thought there was anything wrong with that.”

“Well, maybe the neighbors did.”

“I doubt it. The neighbors then were a lot younger and hipper. Everybody thought local music was cool. That was the sound of New Orleans! I mean the Nevilles lived two blocks away. Everything in those days was less uptight, less high class.”

“Well, Raisin, we can still see the Wild Tchoupitoulas and the Buzzards on Valence Street,” Tubby said.

“Less and less often.”

“You think?”

“Take the Bywater,” his friend said. “It used to be just trains, working people and lead paint. When did they start caring about how loud the music was?”

“I don’t really know. Neighborhoods change.”

“I’m going to the bar by myself. I want some action.”

“Why not knock on a few of the neighbors’ doors while you’re over there and see if anyone is really bothered by the noise?”

“I might just do that. What the F-bomb.”

“Is that what we’ve come to? And you are a guy who knows what a real bomb is.”

“The times are way too mellow now, Tubby.”

* * *

With his feet up on the glass coffee table in his living room, Tubby Dubonnet was reading a history of Andrew Jackson’s Indian wars and sipping a toddy. The doorbell rang. Reluctantly, he got up and let Jason in.

“How about a drink,” he offered.

“No,” Jason said. He seemed very agitated. He was carrying a rectangular black briefcase with brass clasps. “Let’s just sit down.”

They did, in the living room, on two chairs separated by the coffee table. Tubby had furnished his place slowly over the years. It was still sparse and simple, featuring lighter woods like cypress and pine, despite advice from his daughters and various girlfriends who seemed to prefer things solid and dark.

Jason opened his briefcase on the table and extracted a 9mm automatic pistol, also black, which he pointed in the area of Tubby’s knee.

“I am supposed to threaten you with this to make you stop asking questions about things that happened when we were young. And I’m supposed to shoot you if I fail.”

Tubby’s eyes didn’t leave the gun.

“But you know me.” Jason waved the pistol in the air as Tubby’s gaze followed it. “That’s not my nature. So, no. I can’t do it!” He re-stowed the weapon very neatly in his briefcase.

“Here is what I prefer to do. I want to give you a legal fee of fifty thousand dollars, and you will represent me until I die or go crazy, and you will stop all these inquiries.”

Tubby shook his head to clear it and took a deep breath.

“Are you offering me a fifty-thousand-dollar bribe?” he asked.

“To me it is a legal fee,” Boaz said. “Believe me, I have the money.”

“I don’t know if I believe you or not, but what makes you think…”

“Tubby,” Jason pressed his hands together as if in prayer. His bearded chin bobbed up and down and his black glasses jiggled, “that shows how important this is to me. It may be a matter of my life or death.” He touched his heart. “And I know you could use the money. Who couldn’t? And it would solve everything. I’m desperate.”

“No.” Tubby stood up. He was looking for an opportunity to snatch the briefcase, but Jason hastily drew it into his lap and popped the clasps open.

Tubby had a gun of his own in the house, but unfortunately it was upstairs in the nightstand by his bed.

“I was afraid you would say that, my friend, and you might as well have signed a death warrant. But, hell, Tubby. That’s just the way you are, right? You never were a crooked man.” His tone changed back to friendly. “I suppose we must just let the chips fall where they may.
A pesar de las consecuencias
, as they say in the old country. It may all work out. This is the twenty-first century after all, not the 1970s. I’ll give you my special device anyway. Come sit by me.” He indicated the sofa, where Tubby’s book still lay, spread open to the page he had been enjoying.

“I’ll stand, thank you,” Tubby said warily.

“Okay, but my invention is not so big.” Boaz pulled a mobile phone from his case. “The screen will be hard for you to see.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tubby said.

“This is a new Samsung I just bought, and I programed it with this very ingenious app I invented. Here’s what you can do.” He clicked it on. “Now, speak loudly.”

“You are an extremely bad client!” Tubby said with considerable volume, while Jason aimed the phone at him.

“Excellent,” the inventor said. “Now let’s see what you can replay here.” He did some scrolling around and then held up the screen for Tubby to see.

He beheld himself, a chest and head shot, with his Rodrigue print hanging behind him on the wall, nervously yelling, “You are an extremely bad client.”

Jason demonstrated with his finger that today’s date and time, and a running count of the decibel level, all appeared below the video. Tubby’s voice had measured from 60 to 75 decibels.

“It’s very simple,” Jason said proudly. He gave the device to Tubby.

“That’s the way it works. That’s the only thing it does. Use it in good health.”

The visitor latched his case and stood up.

“I feel quite a relief,” he said. “I have neither shot you nor spent fifty thousand dollars.”

He made his way to the door quickly, with Tubby close behind him.

“If I live through all this,” Boaz continued, “maybe I will make some money from this invention.”

Tubby let him out and promptly double-locked the door.

He tossed the phone on the chair and went directly into his kitchen for something straight and serious.

“Christ,” he said out loud. “This town is completely full of insane people.”

Raisin had put away a few at the bar. Feeling bulletproof, he thought he might just prowl around the neighborhood and be friendly, so he went outside.

Right next door to Janie’s club was a shotgun house with a hand-painted sign outside that said “KEEP OFF STEPS. CLEAN UP DOG MESS.” On the curb in front of the house were a pair of homemade “NO PARKING” signs stuck in paint cans that had been filled with cement. Raisin had noticed these when he arrived and obligingly had parked in front of an adjacent empty lot. Certainly this was a promising house if one were looking for prickly neighbors.

He rapped on the glass pane of the front door. In a moment the door cracked open a few inches, constrained by a safety chain.

“What you want?” The man inside was a stocky African-American in a T-shirt. His round head was bald except for a fringe of white hair.

“No problem,” said Raisin. “I’m asking about the bar next door. I heard there were complaints about the loud music.”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m a friend of the owner,” Raisin said. “I’d like to see what can be done to make the situation better.”

“Y’all can clear out of this neighborhood. That would make the situation a whole lot better.”

“I’m not sure who this ‘y’all’ is, but…”

“All you rich honkies think you can run over people who’ve been here all their lives.”

“Hey, do I look white to you?”

The man tried to see better through the crack. It was dark outside.

“Not too sure,” he admitted.

“I am of French extraction, primarily. Maybe some Creole. But what’s the deal? Half the musicians who play at that bar are black.”

“I don’t care if they are. I don’t care for that music.”

“Tell the truth, I don’t either.”

“It rattles my walls.”

“What do you do at night?”

“What do you do? I try to sleep.”

“You work during the day?”

“I was a longshoreman at the Louisa Street wharf for twenty-four years.”

“But you don’t work now, so you can get up late in the morning if you want to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You can have a belt or two at night if you want to.”

“What’s a belt?”

“A shot. A hit off the bottle. A Jack and Coke.”

“I could if I wanted to.”

“Let’s have a belt.”

“I ain’t got Jack. Maybe some Coke, but I don’t keep whiskey in the house.”

“No worries, babe. I got a bottle right here in my car. What if I bring it in the house and we just sit down and savor?”

“Maybe.” The man was interested.

Raisin’s car, the red Miata, was only a few yards away. He fetched his load from the trunk where it was stored judiciously out of the driver’s compartment.

“Sorry, dude,” he called over his shoulder. “It isn’t Jack Daniel’s. It’s Maker’s Mark.” He displayed the red-capped bottle.

The homeowner opened the door and waved him inside.

“My name’s Raisin.”

“Monk. Ashton Monk. Come on back.”

They went through the man’s living room, full of old furniture and with pictures of Jesus, JFK, Robert, and MLK on the mantle. And through the bedroom and another bedroom, to the kitchen.

“Pardon all this mess. I’m a bachelor. Take a chair. I’ve got some glasses somewhere.”

It was a Code 10-30, a burglary in process.

“This is what we live for,” Ireanous Babineaux said to himself. To the dispatcher he said, “Five-O-Six, on it.”

“Unit Seven-O-One and Four Ten, are you responding?” was the dispatcher’s dry question.

Babineaux killed the radio when he was a block away, and snapped off his lights.