Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8) (7 page)

The hard part of this research was getting distracted by all the vintage cars, the fantastically cheap prices, and the underdressed models in the department store ads. They wore bell bottoms or miniskirts. Cherrylynn stared at the drawings of their pencil-thin legs with fascination. And look at that ad for the red Corvette! Was that phallic or what? “Phallic” was a word her art history teacher threw into almost every other paragraph of her lectures.

She found the right day of the month. The headline was, “Secretary of State Speaks at the World Trade Center.” There were other big stories that day, but nothing in the front section about an anti-war demonstration or a shooting. She tried Metro. Nothing there, either. Maybe the evening paper. Nope, nothing there.

To be thorough, she scrolled ahead to the next day. “Governor Edwards Appoints Wife to U.S. Senate.” Not relevant. Nothing in the front section. Then, in Metro, under “Police Reports,” she saw, “An unidentified shooting victim was brought to Charity Hospital. Anyone with any information contact Detective P. Kronke at 555-2174.”

“Bingo!” She snapped her finger. “I am one sharp cookie!”

She took a picture of the screen when she was sure the librarian wasn’t looking.

* * *

Officer Ireanous Babineaux showed up at Dubonnet & Associates as scheduled, in uniform and carrying his hat under his arm. Cherrylynn showed him in, trying to put him at ease, but he sat down in Tubby’s big visitor’s armchair as upright as a porch column.

“Any trouble parking?” Tubby asked, to warm things up.

“Nope. Parked in front of your building on St. Charles Avenue with my flashers on.”

“You evidently don’t have to worry about getting tickets.”

“Never,” Ireanous said flatly.

“Very good. Tell me what’s going on.”

“How confidential is this?”

“Technically speaking, not very, at least not yet. But I take a bit of a different view. Nothing you tell me leaves this room, unless you’re about to commit a crime.”

The policeman gave a hearty laugh. Tubby smiled back.

“Okay, this guy, Archie Alonzo, the head of our policeman’s association, has never liked me. I beat his ass once in high school over a girl, his sister in fact, and he has never gotten over it. So they reorganized our department last spring, you may have read about it, and suddenly nobody can work a private detail without going through a so-called central system. Which actually doesn’t work, and they don’t care who your existing clients are, but they might be people you’ve worked with for years.”

“A private detail? You mean like guarding a bar?”

“They don’t let you work bars anymore— not in uniform. That’s supposed to put cops in close proximity to bad guys, which is a no-no. So now, we have to guess who the bad guys are. But we work everything else. Parties, weddings, funerals, festivals. The easiest job is being a crossing guard for a private school. Working details is the only way you can make any money in our line of work. Do you know what the pay scale is for cops?”

“Not much, I bet.”

“You got that right. They changed the rules for who can take what private job, but there’s been a lot of confusion lately. So I kept on doing the same private jobs I’ve always done, and some dweeb turned me in. I filed a grievance and Alonzo, our union president, told me to my face that I’m fucked. He says he won’t lift a finger. And in his day he stole thousands of dollars on private details. One thing led to another and I smacked him.”

“You broke his jaw?”

Ireanous laughed, even deeper this time. “One punch and down he went. The guy always has been soft.”

“Who swung first?”

There was a pause.

“Well, he made a threatening gesture.”

“Like what?”

“He jabbed me in the chest with his finger.”

“That’s good. What’s your current status in the department?”

“I’m just biding my time, waiting for my hearing, living the good life in the Ninth Ward.”

“Where were you before?”

“Uptown at Magazine and Napoleon.”

“That was better?”

“Much.”

“Less crime?”

“Sure, and lots better criminals.”

“When’s your hearing?”

“Who the hell knows. Whenever Internal Affairs feels like burning me.”

“All this just for working an unauthorized private detail? What was it?”

“I was, uh, bodyguard for Trey Caponata?”

Tubby knew that name. “The old man’s son?”

“Yeah.”

“The mob boss’s son?”

“That was just a rumor,” Babineaux said. “The mob is history anyway.”

Tubby shook his head. “Nuts. I met the old guy just one time and there was no question that I was breathing only because it pleased him to see me sweat.”

Ireanous shrugged.

“So that’s it?” Tubby asked.

“No,” the cop said. “Not quite. I also run, I should say ran, the organization that assigned the private details to the other cops.”

“You mean you were in charge of who got the jobs?”

“Pretty much. Other people kept track of the schedules and the books.”

“Running such an organization must have taken up a lot of your time.”

The potential client nodded.

“Did you have any left over for police work?”

The scowl, the growl and the slap on the desk erupted all at the same time.

“I was and am a damn good cop!” Babineaux thundered.

There was a light tap, tap, tapping on the door.

“Come in,” Tubby said softly.

Cherrylynn’s face appeared, radiating concern. “Anyone need any coffee?” she asked.

“No, we’re fine,” Tubby said. She backed out and closed the door quickly.

“Are you married?” he asked the policeman.

“Divorced.”

“Any kids?”

“I’ve got a daughter. She’s in college, but when she’s home she lives with me.”

“Where is she in school?”

“Florida State. She wants to be a doctor.”

Tubby sighed. “Okay. I will represent you. Here’s a contract to look over.” On the document was a blank space where Tubby could write in his hourly fee. He filled that in with a high number and slid the paper over the desk. “Take it home and read it if you like.”

“I can read it here.”

And he did. It was just two pages long, but it took about ten minutes, while Tubby stared out the window at the French Quarter far below. A long string of barges filled with Kentucky coal was being guided downstream around the hairpin turn in the Mississippi River by a red tugboat. Ultimate destination, Spain.

“You get a retainer?” the cop asked.

“I do.”

“What the hell,” his new client said. “I’ll sign.”

“Excellent,” Tubby said. He took back the executed contract and signed it himself. “You can take care of the retainer with Cherrylynn. Now, what kind of paperwork do you have about your assault. I mean, altercation? A write-up? A copy of your grievance? Anything official?”

Ireanous had an envelope in his pocket and handed it over.

“Did I hear you say that Rick Sandoval over in the Police Records office was somehow connected to this?”

“He was in charge of collecting money for the details from the customers and paying it over to the cops.”

“I guess you guys took a cut.”

“Absolutely. We ran a legitimate business.”

* * *

As soon as his new client left, Tubby called Flowers.

“Tell me anything you can about Trey Caponata.”

“Hello to you.” Flowers’ voice was smooth, almost a like song, with a hint of a Spanish accent. “Caponata is a small time gangster as far as I know. A Mafia-wannabe. His father ran the mob through reputation and fear, but I don’t think the son has ever filled those shoes. I expect he pimps some girls and fences stolen goods, but nothing big-time. Why?”

“My new client, Ireanous Babineaux, was his bodyguard.”

Flowers whistled. “That I didn’t know. Babineaux has not actually been a close friend of mine or anything. He has, however, been a source of valuable information for me over the years.”

“You paid him?”

“That’s an unusual question coming from you, Tubby, but, yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your business. Why would Caponata need a bodyguard?”

“My guess is just for show. Want me to check him out more thoroughly?”

“Yes, I do. And also see what background you can get for me on the head of the police union. Archie, maybe Archibald, I don’t know, Alonzo.”

“Right. I can tell you right away that Alonzo is politically connected. He may have dirtier hands than the young Caponata. But I’ll pull together some details for you.”

“Good. As soon as possible, please.”

“You got it. I’m glad to get back on a case with you.”

Tubby was glad, too. The only problem was that Flowers was expensive. He had better bill this client regularly.

* * *

“Mister Boaz is on the line,” Cherrylynn told him. Tubby picked up.

“Good morning, Jason.”

“It’s noon. I just won three thousand dollars at the off-track. I’m about to walk into Galatoire’s 33 and buy a steak. You want to be my guest?”

Tubby certainly did.

“Out to lunch,” he shouted to Cherrylynn as he bolted out the door.

* * *

She had been waiting to tell him about her trip to the library. It was so frustrating to be in the middle of some real detective work and have to sit on your hands. Mister Dubonnet might not be back for hours. She was tapping her foot impatiently when the phone rang.

“Is Dubonnet there?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s out. Who’s calling?”

“This is Officer Sandoval at Police Records. When will he be back?”

“I’m afraid he’s in court and may be gone for hours.”

“I’ve got something for him.”

“If you tell me what it is, I’ll be sure to let him know when he gets back.”

“It’s a package, and I don’t like keeping it around here.”

“I am Mister Dubonnet’s confidential secretary. If it is important I can pick up the package myself and see that it’s kept in a safe place.”

“I’d say it’s important to him. I’m at police headquarters.”

“I could be there in about twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be outside on the steps taking a cigarette break.”

Cherrylynn wasted no time locking up and grabbing an elevator. There was a cab stand down at the street.

Tubby swung open the gold-handled door at the restaurant on Bourbon Street and was immediately soothed by the elegant décor, the magnificently long bar, and the subdued lights and soft ragtime music. This was an offshoot of the original Galatoire’s next door, which the lawyer regarded as one of the finest establishments on the planet, but not the sort of place you went to on a whim. He saw Jason sitting with his back to the mahogany-paneled wall. He had an ample martini to his lips. He stood up to greet Tubby, showing how tall and thin he was. Though his beard and black hair were neat, the heavy black-framed glasses he wore and his rumpled trousers and jacket made him look like a college professor.

“Gin or vodka?” Tubby asked. He slid into a chair to face his host.

“A Beefeater’s, my friend. What’s your poison?”

“I’ll follow suit.” A waiter appeared. “Whatever the gentleman is having,” Tubby instructed. He laid the proffered menu aside. “You had a good day with the ponies?”

“A very good day. A little filly named Trailer Trash came in to win the third race at Saratoga at thirteen to one. I’ve been following her for weeks, and she’s always coming in fourth or fifth, every single race. I figured the jockeys were holding her back, and I was right. I nailed that one, then, bless my heart, I won the daily double!”

“Very exciting.” Tubby also liked nothing better than a day at the races, but he wasn’t a fan of off-track betting parlors. They were now basically given over to video poker and slot machines. The traditional clientele had disappeared almost entirely. “How often do you wager?” he asked.

“I dabble in something every day. It’s an addiction, I know. I keep two bookies busy. I even gambled online for a while, but then I got hacked. That was a learning experience.”

The waiter came back with a pair of drinks and offered to take their orders.

“A sixteen-ounce strip, garçon.” Jason tossed back his first drink and reached for his fresh one. “Medium rare. And your
potatoes au gratin
and brown butter mushrooms.”

Tubby scanned the menu quickly.

“I’ll try your House Boudin-Stuffed Roasted Quail.”

“With a salad or soup?”

“Why yes, please. I’ll have your turtle soup.”

“What about the horseradish-crusted bone marrow?” Jason asked.

“Sounds fulfilling, doesn’t it, but not today. I’d better stick to my diet.”

“Save some space for the peach cobbler. It’s pretty damn good.”

“Let’s do this every week,” his guest suggested.

Jason laughed and took another gulp. “Now, what did you call me about?”

“An old friend of mine owns a bar and music club.”

“No surprise there.”

“Yeah. Well, she needs to be able to measure the decibel levels outside her bar while a band is playing. I thought you might have an idea about how to do that.”

“You use a sound level meter, which I imagine you can probably buy at Radio Shack. Above ninety decibels, something like that, is bad for you.” Jason turned thoughtful. “But that seems like a very old-school way to go about it. How can you demonstrate what and where you took a reading?”

He pulled out his phone and began thumbing away.

“You know, I don’t see that there’s an app being offered for this.” He started humming.

“What are you talking about?”

“It seems to me that what you’d want, for evidentiary purposes as it were, is an app that lets you take a picture of the bar in real time and display the decibel rating on the screen in a way you could save it. It would record the place, the time and the sound. But I don’t see that such an app is available.”

“Too bad.”

“Not bad at all. I’ll play around with this tonight and see if I can’t create one. Who knows, this could be another big idea.”

“Don’t forget where you got it.”

Jason resurfaced to focus on Tubby. He laughed. “You don’t even know what an app is,” he said.