Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 02 - City of Beads (9 page)

“It doesn’t say. We had him here in June, but it doesn’t show where he is now.”

“What’s he charged with?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that either. There’s some problem here.”

“How about a file, like a folder? Isn’t there some other record but what’s in that computer?”

“Yes, but my supervisor would have to get that for you. Only he’s in training all week and won’t be here.”

Tubby shook his head. What else could he do? He left and reported back to the praline lady.

“That’s just what I was afraid of,” she said. “They done lost my boy.

“I’ll see what I can do to find him,” Tubby promised. More than anything else, he was curious. “What is your name, ma’am?”

“Pyrene,” she said. “Miss Pyrene,”

“If I find something out about Jerome, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay. I pray you do. God bless you.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Bye-bye.” Tubby walked off, eating his retainer.

Tubby drove downtown to his office building. He worked in the Place Palais on the forty-third floor. After navigating the spiral ramp of the vast parking garage and taking a series of elevators and making a couple of right turns he reached the door marked, in large but tasteful golden letters, DUBONNET & ASSOCIATES. It had once been TURNTIDE & DUBONNET, but Tubby’s former partner seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth after getting too deeply involved in some of his clients’ affairs.

Now Tubby worked alone, assisted by his secretary, Cherrylynn. The “Associates” in the title was just there in case he ever decided to hire some young lawyer to help him.

Tubby had only been to the office a couple of times in the week since he had returned from Florida. He was definitely resisting getting back into the swing of lawyering, and Cherrylynn had shown great dexterity in the art of getting continuances, postponing meetings, and generally handling his clients’ business. She was getting to be so good he was thinking of calling her a paralegal and billing her time by the hour.

“Howdy, stranger,” she greeted him when he walked in. Cherrylynn was about five foot-two, 110 pounds, had brownish-blond hair, and she could look like a knockout when she dolled up. She cooked roasted peppers and shrimp, and had freckles that moved around when she grinned. When she saw Tubby the freckles moved.

“How’s business?” he asked her, glumly grabbing a handful of accumulated phone messages.

“We’ve got more bills than we’ve got income, Mr. Dubonnet. It looks to me like it’s time for you to get back to work.”

“Thoughtful of you to share that with me, Cherrylynn. You may not realize it but I’m always working. Even when I sleep I’m dreaming about my clients.”

“Some of them may be thinking you were a dream,” she chirped.

“Okay. Let me get situated for a few minutes. Then bring me some files to look at. We’ll go over the list and see what needs doing.”

“I’ve already got everything organized for your review.”

“I knew you would,” he sighed. “Give me ten minutes or whenever you see I’m off the phone, then come on back and we’ll spread stuff out.”

“Right, boss.”

His office was just behind the reception area. It was large and had a panoramic view of the city to the east—the French Quarter, the river’s hairpin turn, and, in the far distance, the battlefield where Andy Jackson beat the bloody British in a town called New Orleans. One of Tubby’s main relaxations was staring at the view he leased. Most striking to him were the weather patterns that developed before his eyes, mostly in the summer months. Frightening, massive, dark clouds would rise up over the Industrial Canal, like smoke billowing from a warehouse fire, except that these clouds dumped rain like Niagara Falls. With sun streaming in through his window, Tubby could watch these billowing thunderheads bear down upon Canal Street, scattering pedestrians like chickens, and then blot out all daylight and smash with a great rush of water into his building. His window glass would quiver and resonate like a drum. It was quite awesome and entertaining.

Tubby became aware that he was staring unproductively out his window, still holding his batch of phone messages. He was back at work. Rats.

He sat in his familiar leather chair behind the handsome cypress desk that had come from the office of a now abandoned cotton compress in Avoyelles Parish. Idly he checked who had called him.

Jynx Margolis, whose divorce case would never end. Dr. Feingold, an old friend. Several calls from lawyers. A “Mr. Bubba Pender,” whom he had never heard of, had called about a “potato patent,” and Twink Beekman from Save Our River. On that slip Cherrylynn had written: “Wants you to meet him uptown to discuss lawsuit and suggests London Coffee House.” That took kahunas. Ask your free lawyer to make house calls. Cherrylynn buzzed to ask if he was ready, and he told her to come on in.

It took her about half an hour to bring him up to date on the status of everything currently going on in his office. She had also made him a list of things to do, organized by the priorities she had assigned to them.

“I want you to open a new file,” he told her as they were finishing up. “Casino Mall Grande, General Advice. Bills go to Jake LaBreau at the casino.”

“What rate?” she asked.

“My top rate,” he said with a broad satisfied smile. Even if he was bored with the law, he loved his top rate.

“This is your first casino client, boss.”

“So?” He had the feeling she was going to try to ruin the moment.

“So nothing, I guess. I mean I just don’t suppose I approve of it.”

“Really? I didn’t know you had an opinion about gambling, for or against.” He was truly surprised. Cherrylynn had a rather checkered past. A wild youth, so to speak, with at least one loser ex-husband who came sniffing around every so often. There were lots of details Tubby didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. In the three years she had worked for him Cherrylynn had grown dramatically from sheepish, girlish receptionist to belligerent, irreplaceable, total manager. Still, for all her efficiency, she would mysteriously fail to report to work once or twice a year, and when she did show up after a day or two she was never on full power. Other than throwing a few sarcastic barbs her way, he didn’t give her a hard time, even though these unexpected absences sometimes were quite inconvenient. Mental Health days, he figured. Sometimes he took those himself.

“Personally I think it’s a massive rip-off, and all run by the Mafia,” she said.

“Nobody forces people to go inside,” Tubby said. “And in my opinion, heavier hitters than the mob are running casino gambling. It’s a legitimate business now, and there aren’t any tougher s.o.b.’s than legitimate businessmen. Anyway, all I’m doing is regular lawyer work — contract review, things like that.”

“Well, it’s not my place to say anything. I just have my opinion.”

Tubby didn’t reply.

“As long as I’ve started, I’ll say one more thing, Mr. Dubonnet.”

“Go ahead,” Tubby said.

“I hope you won’t hang out in that place too much. All that alcohol. It’s an unhealthy atmosphere.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He was touched.

She gathered up her papers to go back to her desk.

“It’s just that I worry about you, boss. Spending too much time around all that booze leads to nothing but trouble. I know that from experience.”

“Yes, dear,” Tubby said with a smile, and Cherrylynn left. He didn’t dare tell her he was seriously considering buying Mike’s Bar.

He could take care of one problem right away. Having a jailer say he could not locate Tubby’s client and that it would be a week before the supervisor would look into the matter had given Tubby serious heartburn.

“Application for writ of habeas corpus,” he scratched on a yellow pad. It had certainly been a while since he had filed one of these, but he thought he remembered the words.

TO THE HONORABLE Michael J. Shistrunk, Judge of the Criminal District Court of the Parish of Orleans, State of Louisiana: The petition of Jerome Rasheed Cook, applying for writ of habeas corpus, with respect represents:

1. Jerome Rasheed Cook is presently in the custody of the Criminal Sheriff of Orleans Parish, Louisiana, and has been so detained for approximately six months,

2. Jerome Rasheed Cook is being held in custody without an order of Court. He was taken into custody by the New Orleans Police Department on or about the date aforesaid and thereafter placed in the custody of the Criminal Sheriff.

3. Petitioner was never charged with an offense by the State of Louisiana.

4. Petitioner has never been indicted upon any charge by the State of Louisiana.

5. No legal basis whatsoever has been shown for Petitioner’s detention in custody.

6. The time limitations for instituting a prosecution against Petitioner have long passed.

WHEREFORE, PETITIONER PRAYS THAT:

Tubby paused. His church background, sketchy though it may have been, always urged him to rebel at praying to the State of Louisiana. But what could you do? Just a form, right? Petitioner prays, he continued, that:

1. A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS ISSUE HEREIN TO THE CRIMINAL SHERIFF OF THE PARISH OF ORLEANS, STATE OF LOUISIANA, to produce in open court, at such time and on a date to be fixed by this Honorable Court, the Petitioner herein, the person who is unlawfully confined, and then and there a true and correct return make of the reason and cause of the detention of Petitioner.

2. After due proceedings had, Petitioner be discharged and released from further detention and confinement, and all such orders issue which are necessary and proper in the premises and to which he may be entitled.

 
Tubby Dubonnet,
Attorney for Jerome Rasheed Cook

He followed that up with an order for the judge to sign, and with that off his chest he felt immediately better.

In fact, that was a good note on which to end the day. He gave his draft to Cherrylynn and asked her to call his courier, Joe Boggs, to file the writ the next morning. He got his coat and, while she was not looking, slipped out the door.

It was not a loud noise, more a sort of a click, but it was out of place. Tania’s eyes snapped open. There it was again, a creak somewhere in the front room of her shotgun house. All of the lights were off. She had turned in early, as she had done each night since she had bumped off Charlie Van Dyne. And every night she had slept like a baby. There was a thump against a piece of furniture. Someone was in her house.

She jumped out of bed, trying to be silent but mostly intent on getting her nightrobe on because she had been sleeping without any clothes. She pulled the sash tight while creeping to the open bedroom doorway to listen. The nearest phone was in the kitchen, a few feet away down the hall, separated from the bedroom by a bathroom off to one side. She had known it was a mistake for a single woman in a big city not to have an extension near the bed, but she was so damn frugal. She had made one concession to city living, however, which was to keep a carving knife under her mattress.

When she heard the sound of a footstep in the kitchen she knelt down quietly beside the bed and slid out the knife, holding it tightly in one hand. With the other clutching her robe, she slipped to the doorway again.

There was another footstep.

“Yaah!” she screamed, a crazy sound. “Who’s there?”

Shapes rushed at her through the darkness.

“Yaah!” she screamed hysterically. “Get out of here!”

Hands stretched through the doorway, tugging at her robe. The face that closed in on hers was the man of her nightmares, Hambone eyes, stupid and mean, crooked runny nose. She swept her knife upward. He tried to block her arm, and the sharp blade sliced over his fingers.

“Damn,” he yelped in pain, and stepped back against the other dark figure rushing in behind him.

Her instinct was to throw the knife at them, cover her eyes with her hands, and run the other way. But there was no back way out. No escape but past these men.

“Yaah! Yaah!” Terrible noises that she didn’t hear kept coming from her mouth as she marched into them, swinging and poking with her knife.

The man in front, the one she knew as Hambone in her mind, took the force of her attack. He grunted in surprise and anger when she pushed the knife hard and mad somewhere into his belly region, her fist reaching him and feeling his warmth. Now he was hollering too and was no longer blocking the hallway. The other man had retreated and pulled Hambone with him while she advanced. They backed into the recess where her kitchen sink was, and for a moment the way out was clear.

Tania ran past the men and toward the front of the house, through the dining room and living room. It took two hands to open the dead bolt on the front door so she threw down the knife in her haste and let her robe loose.

“Get the damn bitch,” the wounded man commanded. He slumped against the refrigerator and groaned loudly when his partner let him go to run after Tania.

She was already out on the front stoop, then into the street running. Never had it seemed so quiet and empty. Parked cars lined both curbs but all the houses were dark and could just as well have been abandoned. She yelled at the top of her lungs and ran in the direction of Washington Avenue, her mind telling her to race toward her auntie’s. No lights came on, but some dogs started barking. She heard her screen door bang shut and heavy running footsteps. This was her neighborhood, and she scampered around the corner thinking to lose him. But maybe it was his neighborhood, too. There was a good chance he could keep up and would hurt her auntie, too.

Now she was just running and scared—and feeling vulnerable as well with hardly any clothes on and air blowing around her legs. She heard him round the corner onto Annunciation Street and kick over a trash can in his way. She might be a little faster than he was, but she couldn’t last long. There were no people in the street. No one was coming to rescue her.

Tubby was doing some low-key negotiating with Mr. Mike. The bar was open but might as well have been closed since no one had been in the place but the two of them, and Larry the ghost bartender, for the past forty-five minutes. This was a point not lost on Tubby, and though it helped him laugh off Mr. Mike’s claims about the establishment’s profitability, he secretly saw it as an advantage. Nothing wrong with a quiet place, he was thinking. Off the map, you might say. I could really get away from everything here.