Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 07 - Tubby Meets Katrina (14 page)

“Doing what? We haven’t had a murder here since Katrina, and hardly any other crime, they say.”

“I don’t know—investigating themselves, maybe, or setting up road blocks to keep people out of the Ninth Ward or fixing up their own houses. I can tell you the names of the officers who collared Rivette at the Greyhound station though, if you want to go talk to them yourself. It’s Johnny Vodka and Frank Daneel.”

“Funny names for Irishmen.”

“What? Yeah, funny. If you need any help, you know how to reach me.”

“Sorry I was such a jerk the last time I saw you,” Tubby said.

“I didn’t notice,” Flowers lied.

The Ecstasy’s berth on the Mississippi River wharf downtown had a look of permanence. The ship was almost surrounded on the land side by police and fire department cars and emergency rescue vehicles parked in orderly rows. Trailers functioning as headquarters for FEMA, Homeland Security, firefighters and cops guarded the approaches to the vessel, and electrical, water and sewer lines had been run to these makeshift offices. A companion ship, the
Sensation
, was docked next door. It housed unfortunate municipal employees.

Tubby had to park half a mile away because a debris mountain had appeared on the regular cruise terminal lot. It was full of bedding and garbage and discarded MRE containers and the rest of the stuff scraped out of the nearby Convention Center after they got all the refugees out of the way and off to Houston. Tubby had heard reports of murder and rape during the days of chaos in this building. One of the old pool hustlers who hung out at a bar Tubby had begun to frequent claimed to have personally seen a man shot between the eyes and the corpse of a seven-year-old girl. City officials denied that such events had occurred, and Tubby questioned how the shark, who was admittedly a steady drinker, knew the girl was seven, but his own brief experience at the Convention Center led him to believe that any horror was possible there.

He inquired at the police trailer where he might find a Detective Vodka. After he showed his ID and offered some wisecracks to establish that he was a serious man and a lawyer with information about a case, the desk officer, hair slicked back like a young James Brown, picked up the phone and made a call.

“He’s off duty. But they think he’s here. Have a seat.” The policeman indicated a rusty folding chair. Tubby took it and waited. He and the desk officer were not the only people around. A lady cop was doing her nails, sitting in front of a little table that had an automatic coffee pot on it. If there had been any conversation in the room, the lawyer’s arrival had stopped it. The hands on the electric clock on the wall, fifteen minutes slow according to Tubby’s cell phone, did not seem to move.

“Pretty busy down here,” he said, trying to liven the place up.

“It’s always busy,” the desk officer said, scratching his ear with a pencil. He didn’t catch the humor.

“I guess you’ll be looking forward to getting back to your headquarters.”

“Yeah, but they don’t say when. The old building is full of mold. It’s got some issues.”

“Do you like it down here?” Tubby asked.

“I don’t stay on the ship,” the man said. “I got an apartment across the river in Westwego. You like it here, Trylene?”

“It’s okay,” she said, filing her pinkie. “But the cabins are too small for my style.”

The door to the tin can opened.

“Johnny, this man says he has some information for you,” the desk officer said, making the introduction.

Tubby stood up. He was a head taller than Vodka, but the smaller man gave him a good crunch when they shook hands.

“Come on outside. Let’s talk,” Vodka instructed. He was wearing jeans, running shoes and a red sweatshirt. He had long blond hair, a mustache like a toothbrush, big ears that might have invited ridicule when he was a kid, and he worked out. At least that’s what Tubby figured, judging from the bulges under the cop’s sweatshirt.

The policeman led them down the steps to someone’s car. He sat on the hood. “Whatcha got?” he asked.

“The day before the hurricane you arrested a man at the Greyhound station named Bonner Rivette.”

“That’s right, I sure did. Me and my partner. He was wanted on escape from Point Croupee Parish.”

“You put him in jail?”

“That’s it. No telling where he is now. They bused those prisoners all over the state. The whole parish prison flooded, you know.”

“They didn’t bus him anywhere. He escaped again.”

“No shit?” Vodka exclaimed. “I can’t believe how dumb they are down at that crazy jail. They couldn’t keep a corpse in a meat locker. It’s disgusting. How’d he get out?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t tell you anything about it?”

“I don’t think the sheriff even knows what he had for breakfast this morning, much less where the prisoners are. If we go to arrest somebody today we got no place to take them. Might as well shoot them. We either got to let them go or shoot them, simple as that. No jail, capiche? You tell me where Rivette is, I’ll go shoot him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t know where he is. But the day after the storm he broke into my office. Then he got hold of my daughter and beat her up. He could have killed her.”

“Is she okay? You’re lucky. That guy is a bad actor.”

“I understand that. And then he gets me on the phone to come down there, which is at the Place Palais, and…” Tubby told the whole story.

“So the last time he was seen was when he jumped out of the helicopter?”

“That’s right.”

“That was in Jefferson Parish,” Vodka said thoughtfully.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Lots. It’s out of my jurisdiction.”

“What if he’s not still there?”

“He could be anywhere, right?’

“Sure, but can’t you send out a bulletin or something so they’ll at least be looking for him?”

“That’s no problem,” Vodka said.

“And he could very easily be in New Orleans.”

“Pal, anybody in creation could be here. We got people here from Texas, Ohio, the Carolinas. We got Mexicans and Canadians and Guatemalans and God knows what all. More of ’em come here every day. You been out to City Park?”

Tubby said no.

“You ought to see this. They got that neutral ground on Orleans Avenue full of trucks and tents and guys sleeping in cars. They’re clean-up crews and tree-cutters from everyplace you never heard of. They got a whole tent city out there by the stadium, They got campfires, cooking right there in the trees. It’s like the Boy Scouts or something.”

“Aren’t the police checking who these people are?”

Vodka scoffed. “No. Nobody’s checking nobody. Anyway, it’s FEMA driving this bus. Not us.”

“So there’s nothing you can do?”

“I can put him on the list. Look, I’d like to see this Rivette guy fry. I got kids myself.”

“And that’s one reason I think he may be around here.”

Vodka lifted his eyebrows.

“My daughter. I think he may come back for her.”

Vodka lifted his eyebrows. “Has he tried to make contact?”

“Not to my knowledge, but I saw the guy up close, and just from a few things Christine has told me it’s like he wanted to form some kind of mental bond with her.”

“Where is your daughter now?” Vodka asked.

“She’s safe in Mississippi, but she’s got to come back sometime. She’s in college here. They’re talking about opening up Tulane University in a month or two, and she’ll come back for that. Besides, if it’s not my daughter, he may find someone else’s.”

“Sure, I see your point. I’d like to get the guy myself. Just cause I already caught him once, he should stay caught. Like I say, tell me where he is, I’ll be glad to put him out of his misery.”

“Simple as that,” Tubby said.

“Right,” the policeman agreed.

Bonner thought it was all pretty cool. Not only did they give him a job, but they gave him a white jumpsuit made out of some kind of stretchable paper, and a white cap with an elastic band, little white booties to put over his shoes, white gloves, and a high-quality face mask. It wasn’t one of those flimsy disposable kind, like his last boss had supplied, but one made of metal and rubber with two circular protuberances filled with cans of crystals that made him look like a beetle when he put it on. In short, he was covered from head to toe, except for his eyes. Nobody would have the slightest idea who he was.

The man at the application center, a table set up outside a high school on Carrollton Avenue, had asked for identification, of course.

“We have to make sure you are a citizen, sir,” the man said.

Bonner laughed. “I ain’t no Mexican,” he said. “Here. This is all I got. The rest was lost in the storm. My house got flooded.”

He handed the man a card stating that he was an honorary Orleans Parish deputy sheriff.

“Is that all you have?” the man asked.

“No, I also have this,” Bonner handed him a library card.

“Okay, well I guess that will suffice, Mr. Dubonnet. Am I pronouncing that right?”

“That’s close enough. You can call me Tubby.”

“Okay. But I’m not going to be seeing you anymore. I’m going home to Pennsylvania this afternoon. If you’ll just wait over there with those other guys, you’ll receive your protective attire and get your instructions for the day.”

“What’s the pay?”

“Fifteen dollars an hour.”

Bonner smiled.

“And you’ll earn it.”

The job was cleaning out the public library on Harrison Avenue. All the guys wore the same white suits. There were some Koreans and Chinese, and an old black man without teeth, and two more Mexicans. Bonner was the only white guy.

All they had to do was carry wet books to the dumpster, and there were tons of wet books. It was easy work, except that it was difficult to breathe through the masks, so they all took them off. Except when they went outside. The boss said they couldn’t be seen outside without their masks on.

Lunch was on the Salvation Army, from Rochester, New York, which set up a mobile kitchen outside in the street. They got ravioli and white bread, a candy bar, and as many packs of chips as they wanted. The Army also gave away two-pound sacks of peanuts. They had a box of stuffed animals, and some of the workers took those and stashed them with their little piles of free goodies outside on the brown lawn. For drinks there were ice chests full of water and Mountain Dews and other donated brands from around America that Bonner had never seen before.

He pulled out non-fiction all day. The numbers on the shelves were 400.1 to 700.5. It all went to the dumpster.

The company was called America’s Clearest Environment. They even provided tents for everybody in City Park, but you had to pay five dollars to take a shower.

This last fact got Bonner into another altercation. He wasn’t aware of the rule. When he decided to bathe after a couple of days on the job, he just blew off the demand for payment made by the attendant. The guy was a licensed electrician (he said) who actually made more money running the showers, keeping everybody’s laundry straight, and being in charge of the toilet paper than he ever had wiring factories. He had even invested in a Port-O-Vac from Wal-Mart at $19.99, which he used to clean up the workers’ tents. Guys tipped him ten or twenty dollars. His name was Anthony, but everybody called him “Wire Nut.” He even sold cigarettes and cold Coca-Colas out of his tent.

When Bonner walked into the shower trailer and didn’t settle up in advance, the attendant didn’t worry. He would just collect on the way out, or set up a line of credit in his spiral notebook where he logged what everybody owed him. He sat on the dryer, keeping an eye on one of his customer’s clothes tossing around while neatly folding another man’s work shirts and underwear.

When Bonner turned off the shower and opened the curtain to towel off, Wire Nut made his presence known.

“I got that floor cleaned up just before you got here,” he said proudly. “It was all muddy. Nobody wants to take a shower on a muddy floor.”

Bonner didn’t bother to reply. He pulled on a new pair of white pants he had brought with him to the trailer.

Wire Nut whistled a Beatles tune and kept folding clothes.

Bonner finished getting dressed. He collected his soiled outfit, his wet towel and his soap, and he proceeded to leave.

“Uh, pardner, showers cost five dollars,” Wire Nut said.

“For what?” Rivette asked, brushing past.

“The shower costs five bucks. That’s what it costs.” Wire Nut put a gentle hand on Bonner’s shoulder.

The criminal knocked it away. “I ain’t payin’ five dollars for a shower,” he said flatly.

“You can do it on time and settle up when you get paid,” Wire Nut suggested.

Bonner jabbed his fingers in Wire Nut’s chest and pushed him away so firmly that the attendant tripped backwards over a bench and fell down into his plastic bags of dirty laundry.

“Stay away from me, dude,” he warned and marched outside into the dark tree-covered night.

Wire Nut got to his feet sputtering. “Don’t try coming back here!” he yelled out the door. “Bathe in the lake, see how you like it.” He was referring to the bayou aesthetically arranged around the barricaded New Orleans Museum of Art. Lacking any maintenance since the storm, the stream was now topped with foamy green algae in which empty milk cartons floated.

Bonner didn’t worry about the shower incident. He just went back to his tent and played chess with one of the Mexicans until he got tired and went to sleep.

But Wire Nut didn’t forget about it. You couldn’t run a business and let people get away with not paying. To be certain of his footing, he checked again with his employer at America’s Clearest Environment to be sure that everyone agreed he could refuse service to workers who didn’t pay.

“That place is yours to run,” the boss told him. “As long as you keep it clean and the boys don’t suds up each other’s backs, five dollars is okay. Why, are the men complaining?”

“No, just this one guy,” Wire Nut said grimly.

“It’s your business. Don’t bother me about it,” the boss said.

Wire Nut had a friend named Doug. They had worked together in Texas, Oklahoma, and Florida. Doug was a real electrician and built like a camel. That’s what people said, because he had a humpback, but he was very strong. Wire Nut persuaded Doug that they needed to waylay this upstart hillbilly and teach him respect.

They laid their plans, and the next night Wire Nut loaded up the washing machine and dryer and started them running at the same time.

“How ya doin’, Roberto,” he called to one of the clean-up workers using the shower.

“I’m pulling on it as hard as I can,” Roberto replied.

“Oh, you’re being rude,” Wire Nut said, and slipped out the door.

Doug was waiting outside with some pieces of two-by-four left over from constructing the stairs to the shower trailer.

They trotted off into the darkness.

“He just went to the can,” Doug reported.

That was convenient, since the portable toilets were set behind a tall hedge, keeping them out of sight of the campground. There were six of them, and an extra one, a few feet off, reserved for “senoritas.” There was some problem between America’s Clearest Environment and the company that was supposed to pump out the toilets, and the result was that they were full, and highly fragrant, and no one stayed near them any longer than absolutely necessary.

They had just rounded the bushes, where they were hidden in the shadows, when Bonner came out of one of the yellow boxes, distracted by zipping up his pants and getting his belt fastened while trying to get away as fast as he could.

“Hah!” Doug exclaimed and whacked Bonner with his wooden club. The blow might have done more damage if it had caught Rivette on his skull, but it hit his back instead and had no obvious effect on their quarry. He swung around to face them. Wire Nut charged in, swinging his own two-by-four, and Doug went for the knees.

Rivette reacted swiftly, capturing Wire Nut’s plank as it descended upon him and jerking it out of his assailant’s hands. Wire Nut went spinning away and landed on the ground. Doug took a boot to the nuts and also staggered backwards. Bonner cracked his captured weapon on top of Doug’s forehead, and the camel went down on his knees. Blood flowed out of his ear and down his whiskery chin. Bonner advanced upon him, and Doug crawled away to save his life. He managed to get his legs under him and ran away into the deeper recesses of the park.

Bonner turned on Wire Nut, who was scrambling backwards crawfish-like trying to get into the hedge. The two-by-four descended onto Wire Nut’s ankle, which caused him to jerk up and hug the pain. Bonner gave him two quick pops to the head. Boom, boom. Out goes the light.

Bonner put an ear to Wire Nut’s mouth, checking for respiration. He was dead. Rivette had not intended to kill him, but he was not particularly disturbed by that outcome. Powerful hurricanes couldn’t bother about all the little things. But dead bodies meant police, and police meant flight, and Bonner hadn’t figured out where to fly to yet.

He pulled the so-called electrician’s body out of the evergreens. Slinging the little man over his shoulder, Rivette trotted off, keeping well away from the campers who were walking in the shadows around the perimeter, talking on cell phones or drinking malt liquor.

There was only one street to cross, deserted at night, and after that Rivette was back in the flood zone he liked—empty houses, lost cats, piles of garbage, no street lamps. The fashion of the day in New Orleans was to put refrigerators out on the curb, taped shut with duct tape. Many bore spray-painted slogans condemning FEMA, the President of the United States, or the owner of the Saints football team. Rivette dropped Wire Nut’s body beside a likely looking double-wide ice box. Someone had written, “MMMM Tastes Like Chicken” in red marker on the outside.

Bonner tore off the silver tape and opened the floor. Piles of rotten food cascaded out. Mindless of the blast of decay, he tore away the wire racks, spilling old milk and fuzzy vegetables onto the street. This left a nice-sized space. Just about the right size for a body.

Bonner packed Wire Nut inside, kicking the deceased’s shoe with his own until it disappeared. He closed the door. Leaning against the condemned appliance to keep it shut, he reused the duct tape to seal it back up again. The stick-um held. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, I ought to pass this way and put some more tape around the edges. It wouldn’t do to have Wire Nut fall out.

He wiped his white-gloved hands on his white paper pants and walked calmly back to the camp. He would have himself a nice hot shower, on the house.