Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 07 - Tubby Meets Katrina (3 page)

“I still don’t have one,” Tubby said.

“No? You ought to. Take mine till the hurricane’s over.” He handed Tubby the compact stainless steel contraption.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” Tubby turned the little machine over in his palm.

“You’ll figure it out. I’ll write the number down for you. I’ve got another one in my pocket and that’s what my men call me on. It’s unsafe for you to be out here without any communications.”

The rusty metal door at the top of the staircase groaned open, and Manuel was there.

“Nice wheels,” he said, admiring the helicopter.

“It gets you there in a hurry,” Flowers said. “Mr. Dubonnet wants to see his office.”

“The building is closed, but I will let you in. Please make your visit quick though because I am soon setting all of the alarms.”

“Are you leaving?”

“No, I will be here. My family is gone back to Texas. But I’m staying here in the building. Maybe we can open back up for business tomorrow or Tuesday.”

He led them down one flight of stairs to an elevator, which he summoned with his key and a plastic card. He pushed the button for the forty-third floor.

“You remembered,” Tubby said happily.

“Sure, I know where your office is, Mr. Dubonnet. You been gone?”

“Yeah, five months almost, down to South America.”

“Really, what country?”

“Bolivia.”

“I have never been there. My family is from Nicaragua. We have only been north, never south. I have seen your secretary Cherrylynn many times. She comes to work while you are gone?”

“Oh, yes. That’s quite all right. Cherrylynn has the run of the place.” Thank goodness. Cherrylynn was the only one who knew what was going on most of the time. She was a single woman, a refugee from some relationship in the Great Northwest, and she was determined to carve out a life for herself without male assistance in New Orleans. She did, however, accept the assistance of a job with Tubby, and he knew that he received more from her than he paid for. She had also always had a crush on Flowers. Tubby had last spoken with her a week ago. He expected that Cherrylynn had taken herself off to somewhere safe. That girl could take care of herself.

The elevator doors opened, and there were the big glass doors with dubonnet & associates printed in gold. There were not really any associates, since Tubby’s last partner, Reggie Turntide, had met an unfortunate death years before, but it sounded better to have associates.

Tubby found that he was glad to see it all again. He had a key card for the doors.

“You guys can make yourselves at home,” the attorney said as he walked through his reception area and into the corridor behind. The detective and security man shrugged. There wasn’t much to do in a lawyer’s office. Manuel took his leave. He told Flowers that the elevator would be open for him. They could get back to the roof the same way they came down.

“Just don’t try to go to no other floors,” he cautioned.

“No problema,”
Flowers replied. He plopped himself down in Tubby’s easy chair and opened a six-month-old
New Orleans CitiBusiness
.

Tubby walked to his office at the back. His desk was just as he had left it. The same files were on top. Even one marked Cowappatack Tribal Casino. He shuddered. That one was better shredded. But he didn’t shred it or anything else. Instead he walked to his window with the panoramic view of the French Quarter and the majestic bend of the Mississippi River. The black clouds coming across the horizon from the direction of the Gulf of Mexico made the scene quite dramatic. His city looked just about the same as he remembered it, though. A towboat was pushing a string of barges slowly upriver. In the French Quarter, street lights were flickering on. It was a great city. He had missed it. Nowhere was life so sweet as in New Orleans. Nowhere could you find a better and more tolerant population. It had its problems, sure. New Orleans had its Bolivia-like absurdity and inefficiency. But people here contributed to life much more than they took away. Once this storm passed, he planned to spend some quality time rediscovering his city.

All of a sudden the idea of evacuating it now didn’t seem to make much sense.

“Let’s go,” he told Flowers.

“That’s it?” The detective uncurled from his chair and stretched.

“Yep. It’s pretty much the way I left it, I’m happy to say.”

They went into the outside hall, and Tubby locked up. “What did you say my cell phone number is?” he asked Flowers.

Flowers told him again, and Tubby scribbled it on one of his cards, which he stuck in the crack of the door.

“Just for Cherrylynn,” he said. “In case she shows up.”

They took the elevator back to the roof.

“You can bunk down in Kenner with me,” Flowers said when they reached the open air. “We’ve got a whole warehouse to call home. There’s always room for one more.”

“You know, I think I’ll stay at my house. This may sound crazy, but I’d like to be there if our storm turns into something big. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a lot of stuff to look after.”

“You already packed your bag.” Flowers sounded disappointed and concerned.

“Yeah, but I changed my mind. I’ve been away so long, I just think I might stay to see what happens here. One night in my own bed just wasn’t enough.”

“Well, hell, boss, I’ve got to get this baby back to base. This wind is getting bad. I’m supposed to guard the plant. Otherwise I’d join you.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m not worried about this hurricane. In fact, while I’ve still got a little daylight, I’d kind of like to walk around. Do you suppose you could put me back on the street?” He was thinking, if I’m going to rediscover my city, why not do it now?

“On the street? We’ll see.”

They climbed aboard and Flowers started the big prop. With the flapping of a hundred mad condors, the Airodream lifted off.

“How far do you want to walk?” Flowers yelled.

“Just put me down the first place you see!” Tubby shouted back.

“How about right there?” Flowers pointed to the parking lot beside the Amtrak station. It was virtually empty.

Tubby made the okay sign with his fingers, and the big bird descended to asphalt. When they thumped down Tubby grabbed his green bag and jumped out.

“Don’t forget you’ve got a phone,” Flowers called through cupped hands. “Call me if you need anything. I don’t know if I can take this up anymore in the wind, but we’ve got some big trucks that will just about go anywhere.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Tubby mouthed. The helicopter lifted away. Why should anyone worry? I can take care of myself. I’ve got three intelligent daughters, and all of them have moved away to safety. Raisin Partlow, Tubby’s running buddy, was still in Bolivia, as safe and sound as one could be in a country paralyzed by strikes. There’s nobody else I’m responsible for, he thought. Let’s enjoy a stroll, get back to the house, curl up with a fifth, and see if the Astros or Braves are on TV.

He hefted up his green bag, took a gulp of steamy air, paused for a brief cool breeze coming from somewhere, and set off for St. Charles Avenue.

It was kind of nice. Very few cars around, so he could jaywalk across Lee Circle. There were, however, a few family groups on the march, bearing plastic supermarket bags full of their stuff, pulling children along, all headed in the opposite direction toward downtown. Tubby stopped to help a lady lift her baby carriage over the curb.

“Where are y’all going?” he asked.

“The Superdome. We all be all right when we get there. Mr. Benson’s got the hot dogs cooking.”

“Sounds nutritious,” Tubby said. He could use a hot dog himself right about now.

He saw a red streetcar clattering Uptown on St. Charles with a “Not in Service” sign on the front. He knew it was going to the Carrollton barn. The old green Perley-Thomas streetcars must already have been put away. It was always prudent to protect the antiques. A hot wind picked up as he proceeded. The Please-U cafe had a “Gone” sign. So did the St. Charles Tavern. That was a bad omen because the $8.95 steaks-and-full-bar tavern never closed. Tubby had hoped to buy a belt there. Maybe walking was a bad idea. His stomach growled.

But Igors, “Free Red Beans on Mondays,” was open. Only it was Sunday.

He saddled up to the bar and dropped his green bag on the floor. The clunk reminded him he was carrying precious ounces of whiskey and a .45. Igors was a dark and smoky place, but a little less in each category because the double-wide French doors were open to the street.

A seedy-looking guy—Tubby thought he might be a former federal prosecutor—was nursing a Budweiser.

“How’s it going?” Tubby inquired politely, looking for the barmaid.

“Magnificent,” the man burped. “Absolutely magnificent.”

Further inside he could see some fellows playing pool. There was also a washing machine flopping clothes around behind a sudsy window. Beyond that the bar became too obscure to see what was going on.

Bonner Rivette rode into New Orleans on a Greyhound from Port Allen with a short stop in Baton Rouge. When he boarded the bus, the driver mentioned that this would be the last trip of the day. Everything else into New Orleans was cancelled for the duration of Hurricane Katrina. That was fine with Bonner. Just so long as he got there.

He thought the driver looked at him funny, but what the hell. Everybody else on the bus was stranger than he was. The students talking in a foreign language wore black pantaloons and had tattoos on their wrists. The lady with the baby behind him had eyes popping out of her sockets like a smoked mullet. The fat boy across the aisle took surreptitious drinks from a green medicine bottle and wagged his tongue at Bonner after each swallow. Pretty much the same sort of folks he had endured for two months and three days in the Pointe Croupee Parish pigsty jail.

“There’s a hurricane coming to New Orleans, folks,” the driver lectured them from the front of the bus. “For those of you going through to Hattiesburg, Meridian, Birmingham, and points north to Atlanta, our layover will not be the forty minutes as scheduled. Instead of that, we are dropping off our New Orleans passengers and then getting right back on the road. You will have just enough time to use the rest rooms, if you like, and stretch your legs. We’re only gonna be there about ten minutes, max, so stick close to the bus. This will probably be the last bus into or out of New Orleans.”

Bonner got comfortable in his seat. He liked the excitement in the air. The spirits were alive. Here we go, he thought and winked at the passenger across the aisle with the wiggling tongue.

He just stared out the window, watching the trees go by, all the way to New Orleans. The bus got off the Interstate at Gonzales and grabbed Highway 61 south. The driver told them that he was taking the old road because the eastbound lanes of the Interstate were closed by the State Patrol all the way into the city. Everything going toward New Orleans had to take Airline Highway.

The bus made good time, considering the circumstances. It raced past crab shacks, trailer lots, signs for swamp tours and decrepit strip shopping centers, while the oncoming lanes, those heading out of New Orleans, were stalled with too many cars. The bus driver had a radio which he used constantly, speaking into a mike, getting traffic updates. Bonner heard him say that everybody who got on the bus was accounted for.

Once in the city proper, the streets were all virtually empty, and the bus rolled down Tulane Avenue and straight into the terminal. Bonner was in the middle of the crowd getting off. He didn’t have any luggage so he shuffled along with the other pilgrims arriving at the cavernous station built for trains. He stopped for a second, pretending to gaze at the wall murals, while he got his bearings and checked for exits. He ran his eyes over the people waiting on the benches and then focused on two men coming toward him. One got right in his face and held up a badge.

“New Orleans Police! You’re under arrest, dude,” the man said.

His partner crouched, holding a pistol in two hands which he pointed at Bonner’s face. “Hit the floor, sucker!” he commanded.

Bonner licked his lips and spun around. He bolted toward an exit sign, in a direction that put the man with the badge between Bonner and the gun. He might have made it but for an old codger in a wheelchair who was traveling fast across the floor chasing after a wayward toddler. A second’s detour was all it took for Detective Johnny Vodka to make the tackle and officer Daneel to slam his gun into Bonner’s forehead.

“You’re busted, asshole,” Vodka breathed into his ear, twisting Rivette’s arms around and clamping on the cuffs. “Score another one for the good guys.”

While a dribble of blood caked in the cracks above his right eye, Rivette cursed the cops. They on the other hand joked during the whole ride in the squad car to the Parish Prison that it was just like a dumb bum escapee to grab a Greyhound bus, when his description was all over the state. Just like a stupid recidivist to come to New Orleans where he had lived and been arrested twice before.

“Isn’t that right, excrement for brains?” Vodka laughed. “Weren’t you busted here for assault? See you in court in six months. Or maybe I don’t have to go to court for you. Maybe they’ll send you straight back to Angola.” The cops were happy because they had made a collar of an escaped felon, and no one had gotten hurt in the process.

They took Bonner to Central Lockup and turned him over to the Orleans Parish Criminal Sheriff’s Department.

Tubby didn’t stay long at Igors. His longest conversation was with the former prosecutor who insisted he had been good at his job because he looked the other way at minor offenses where the accused could make a contribution to the community or was represented by one of the DA’s trusted friends. “Today, nobody’s got any ‘discretion,’” he said, taking care to get the word past his thick tongue. “Just like robots. No ‘discretion’ at all.”

Tubby discreetly departed. He greeted the dusk with bravado. He was only about twenty-five blocks from home.

It was late afternoon now, about five o’clock if his watch could be believed. He had reset it so many times crossing time zones it wasn’t always right. The wind was blowing steadily now. A big storm was definitely on the way. Anybody could feel that now. Hurricane weather felt good.

He followed the streetcar tracks running down the grassy middle of St. Charles Avenue. The branches of the crape myrtles on the neutral ground and the live oaks on the sidewalk side swung wildly away from each sudden gust. When the tempo slackened again they waved gently to and fro, waltzing to a tune only they could hear.

Other than the trees there wasn’t much action on the street. It was really far too quiet. Tubby noticed that he could hear his own breathing, audible from the exertion of trucking along block after block. There weren’t any cars. He began to hum, and then to sing softly. He saw some young kids, hooded sweatshirts over their heads, running down the block. He felt relieved when they darted down a side street. He passed the K&B—sorry, Rite Aid—at Louisiana Avenue. It was locked down tight. A couple of men were drinking beer in liter bottles hidden by brown paper bags in the parking lot. Tubby gave them a loud “Good evening.” They nodded back.

It was hard to get reacquainted with one’s town when there was no one was around. In fact, New Orleans seemed forlorn and lonesome. Tubby considered slipping a nip from his bag, but a police car, lights atwirl and flashing, came slowly down the Avenue from the direction of the park.

“Mandatory Evacuation!” bleated from the car. Tubby saw a female officer behind the wheel. He smiled and waved as if he understood the rule and knew exactly what he was doing, which he didn’t. “Mandatory Evacuation!” the car repeated. Tubby and the messenger continued in opposite directions.

He had hoped to find Fat Harry’s open, a good place to buy a beer and a burger and maybe pick up another bottle for the house. But the bar was all shuttered up. He could hear music inside, so he beat on the doors. A bearded gentlemen holding a mop cracked open the massive castle-like gates.

“Are you closed?” Tubby knew it was a dumb question.

The man nodded his head and chewed his mustache.

“How about a hamburger? I’ll pay ten bucks.”

The man shook his head.

“How about a bottle of Jack? I’ll pay twenty bucks.”

The man’s eyes crossed. He closed the door. Tubby waited hopefully for a few minutes, then gave it up.

A trash can went rolling down the street. A light rain began to fall, blowing around in swirls. The pedestrian realized it was time to get himself under cover.

Down at Central Lockup, Bonner Rivette was scoping around for an escape plan. That would be the only way he’d ever get out of this joint. They had him again, but they didn’t appreciate what they had.

He asked one of the few guards when he would be arraigned, “You know, booked?” He thought maybe the man with his slick bald head and polyester black uniform might not speak English. Finally the guard looked him over and said, “Screw your arraignment. There ain’t no judges.” That was that.

Bonner was in a cell with eight other men, two whites and six blacks. There were no chairs or benches in the cell, so they sat on the floor or leaned against the wall. Bonner squatted next to one of the white guys, who had long shaggy hair and a face toasted by booze or weather to a radiant shade of purple.

“What’s the deal with food around here?” he asked. “They gonna feed us?”

“Doesn’t look that way,” the man grunted. “Say the kitchen’s closed. They ain’t even got a damn telephone that works.” He gestured to the pay phone bolted to the wall. The steel cable dangled uselessly from the box; there was no handset at the end. “Say there’s nobody around to fix it. Everybody left town. Can’t even call a damn lawyer.”

The man displayed a worn business card in his grimy fingers, Bonner saw the name “Dubonnet & Associates.”

“Is that a good lawyer?” Bonner asked.

“Oh, hell if I know. It’s just something they pass around in here.” He flicked the card onto the concrete floor and closed his eyes. Bonner stretched over to get it. “Tubby Dubonnet,” he read. He noted the address and stuck the card into his shirt pocket.

He heard two guards talking outside the cell and went to the bars to get their attention. “Yo, officer,” he called.

They ignored him.

“Yo, officer,” he repeated, and one came over to the bars.

“Are we gonna, like, get a hearing, or have bail set, or get a lawyer or anything?”

“Beats me, fella,” the guard said. “I’m leaving here in five minutes to go home and protect my family from assholes like you.”