Fat Man Blues: A Hard-Boiled and Humorous Mystery (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 9) (4 page)

“How did you hear about all that?”

“Academics talk. It’s an area of special interest for me, since I’ve been writing a book about our underground war against the Cuban revolution. And, of course, I talk to Cherrylynn and read the papers.”

“I have no idea who committed that burglary,” Tubby said, trying to cut off further discussion on the topic.

“Do you think it was the Cuban group you were pursuing?” the professor asked.

“Now hold on. I was pursuing a murderer, not anybody’s ‘political group’.”

“Or do you think it might have been the CIA?” Prima persisted.

“Honestly, I haven’t a clue. Is that why you came here? To ask me what the police have already asked?”

“I suppose.” The teacher sat up straighter in his chair and spoke loudly. “It was just such a terrible loss of a collection that might have had immense significance.”

“That may well be true,” Tubby said, “but that particular case is completely over as far as I am concerned.”

“Perhaps I and some of my colleagues might retain you to be more forthcoming about what you do know.”

Now that put a different light on it, but he sought clarification.

“Retain? In what way?” Tubby asked.

“Oh, I didn’t mean money.” The professor laughed. “I should have said ‘engaged.’ It really could be a fascinating mystery.”

Tubby put a stop to that foolishness. “I make my living being a lawyer,” he said unequivocally, “and what could I do that all the university researchers you probably have at your disposal couldn’t do better?”

There was more chit-chat after that, but no deal. Professor Prima said he might ask Tubby about it again in the future, and Tubby said he would keep an open mind. With a handshake and a departing salute to Cherrylynn, the visitor left.

When the glass door closed, Cherrylynn turned to follow Tubby back to his office.

“Are we going to take the case?” she asked.

“And search for the JFK papers? No.”

“I may not have mentioned this,” she said, lowering her eyes, “but I have been out on a couple of dates-– just coffee — nothing serious— with Mr. Prima.”

“Ah.” Tubby murmured encouragingly and smiled at her.

“Yes, and he is quite interested, consumed I guess, about locating those files. He is writing a book about New Orleans Latinos, and the Bay of Pigs, and all that anti-Communism stuff.” She opened her arms to indicate how broad the topic was.

“Cherrylynn,” he said firmly, “I am not a JFK assassination buff, and I have had enough dealings with that crazy band of geriatric lunatics to last a lifetime. They are an extremely deadly bunch of people, and I don’t need ’em.”

“I understand,” she said, but she was wickedly disappointed. She had been heavily invested in the “Night Watchman” case that had led to unearthing the remnants of the anti-Castro group, and she did not want to let the pursuit go. “I’ll tell Mr. Prima that you haven’t got any interest,” she said with resignation.

“Please do.”

“Okay. Then that’s it.” She set her jaw and marched out of the room.

“JFK,” Tubby muttered to himself. “Hell, I was hardly born.” Still, those papers might be worth a lot. The last time they had been in his hands he had quickly donated them to Tulane. If he should chance to find them again, perhaps he ought to consider an entirely different approach.

* * *

Angelo had met E.J. Chaisson at the “all organic” supermarket on Press Street while he had been stacking a few dozen bottles of his artisanal water on a cooler shelf. E.J. had been intently studying the contents of natural energy drinks, looking for a pick-me-up, but his eyes were drawn to this “New Orleans Water.” The two men got to talking, and before long Chaisson connived an invitation to come see the well.

Looking around the cluttered yard the next afternoon, his verdict was, “You’ve got to fix up this place.” And then he offered to bankroll the process in exchange for a good return and certain “intangibles,” and to be a hands-off partner.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he told Angelo. “You’re the boss.”

With E.J.’s money, Angelo built a new shed and installed a pump to pipe the water to it. He hired some guys from the neighborhood who dramatically spruced up the grounds and hauled the junk out the gate and around the corner to someone else’s abandoned lot. E.J. also oversaw the production of a slick brochure promoting “Angelo’s Elixir” which had an impressionistic drawing of the tonic’s medieval-looking source. E.J even had some scientists come to take samples. They concluded that it was just plain water, with a lot of mineral additives and some particulates derived from sediment and mud, but not especially dangerous to consume.

Business took off. Angelo hired hip street people to deliver his product on bicycles towing cute little “Elixir” carts behind. The newly designed bottles were decorated with a bold “Angelo’s Elixir” logo and a smiling caricature of the proprietor himself. Sister Soulace wasn’t jealous of the competition. Angelo was working a different market, and he wasn’t offering anyone psychic advice. She even dropped in to see the well and was so impressed that she blessed the place. Angelo let her put up a small shrine to some little known Asian deity on a tool shelf, and she began coming over by cab on a regular basis to spread her positive spiritual vibes.

One day a man came to see Angelo, wanting to buy the company. Angelo was singing along to Link Davis on his ear buds, loud enough to rock the yard, and he didn’t hear the intruder come into the shed.

“I got sixteen chicks, sitting in a tree,” he belted out.

“Hey, hey little chick, tell me what’s on your mind,

You got me walkin’ and a talkin’ and laughing just to keep from crying.

I knew some day that the tide would turn,

We all got a lesson that we got to learn,

Hey, hey, little chick, tell me…”

“Don’t we all learn a lesson from those chicks,” the man joked to get Angelo’s attention.

The music lover was none too pleased about having his groove time interrupted. His delivery boys all knew not to bother him when he was into the mood.

“Are you making fun of my Swamp Pop music?” Angelo asked in the menacing tone that came naturally when addressing anybody other than Sister Soulace and Aimee.

“Not at all,” the man assured him. “I don’t even know what Swamp Pop music is.”

“Ever heard of Clint West? How about Bill Matte? Rod Bernard?”

The visitor looked blank.

That was even worse as far as Angelo was concerned. Trying to regain control of the conversation, the man quickly let it be known that he was there with an offer to buy Angelo’s Holy Water business.

Angelo told him to get lost, and pronto, which the man did. But he tossed his card on the pump on his way out the door.

The water innovator went back to his music and quickly broke into “This is How We Trawl.”

“This is how we trawl,” he sang.

“For white shrimp or brown

And when we reach the end we just spin the boat around

Yeah you know we’re gonna go

Each and every night,

And if you go with me,

You know we’re gonna do it right.”

“La Pair O De,” Angelo screamed.

Nordie soon made his connection through Tommy Riego, a guy who owned the Golden Flapper, a “gentlemen’s club” on Decatur Street where they had met before. Nordie was hoping that Riego had need for some no-nonsense muscle, but Riego wasn’t hiring at the moment.

“Lately business is slow and everything is pretty tame,” Riego told Nordie. “I wish I had a place for a man like you, with talent, but right now I just don’t.”

Riego was drinking Grey Goose and watching two naked girls slide down poles that glowed a gentle purple from lights hidden within. “I did hear of a guy, though.”

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

“You ever run into Frenchy Dufour?”

No, but his reputation had preceded him. Dufour was infamous for building an armored panel van with gun slits cut into the sides. He said he’d built it for kicks, but the sheriff saw it otherwise.

“What the hell was that about?” Nordie wondered.

“Whatever,” Riego said. “Anyway the police confiscated that thing. Dufour’s into investing now,” he told Nordie. “He could use some help.”

“Yeah? What kind of help would that be?”

“He could tell you better than me,” Riego said ducking the question, and he downed his glass. “You got a card or something? Or a number where he can reach you?”

“Sure, got a pen?”

Riego had a gold-plated Parker and he was careful to get it back.

* * *

At that moment Frenchy Dufour was happily counting out $100,000 in cash he had just picked up from a special investor he had met by chance. They had encountered each other at the Pachyderm start-up incubator on Elysian Fields. The bright work space was overrun with young people with high hopes and apps to perfect, one of whom was Cisco Bananza. Frenchy, who had no skills other than a compulsion to make money, had felt extremely out of place until he got into a conversation with the eager Latino. All Cisco had to do was to suggest that he had money and was looking for a place to invest it, and Frenchy Dufour was all over him.

Dufour laid out a business plan he had previously been storing in the back of his mind and, in a flash, not the same day but soon, Cisco handed over a package full of hundred dollar bills to invest. What Frenchy had no way of knowing was that Cisco had borrowed the dough from something called the Rosary Box.

“You’d better not lose it,” Cisco had told him.

“Yeah, right. This is absolutely going to work out. This is an unbeatable angle,” Dufour had assured him.

“Your pecker’s in a crack if anything happens.”

“Don’t talk to me that way,” Dufour had told the younger man. “There’s only so many ways you can launder cash legitimately, and they’ve all got some risk. This one, however, is a dead cinch.”

* * *

Angelo did not immediately take to Aimee’s kid, the little boy named Carter, but he sure did like Aimee. So he took Carter for a walk down to Hansen’s and got them both a snow cone. As they strolled up Bordeaux Street hand-in-hand Carter sang a song about boats and tigers, which Angelo thought was a very good sign— liking music took brains. He taught Carter the words to “Let’s do the Cajun Twist.”

He bragged on Carter when they got back to the apartment, and Aimee warmed up to Angelo even more. It wasn’t long before he spent the night at her place. Not too much happened at first because the kid crawled into bed between them.

They laughed about that in the morning while she made coffee, and then she had to drop Carter off at day care and go to work. Angelo provided the transportation in the Brougham, but as soon as Carter was off to school he detected a sadness coming over Aimee. He made an issue of it, apologizing profusely since he assumed it was because he had slept in her bed and maybe she didn’t like a fat man in skivvies, but she finally told him that the problem was that her boss was a pig. Angelo went into a fury, and it was all she could do to keep him from jumping out of the car when they got to the Subright.

“Just come and pick me up after work,” she suggested. “He’ll be around then, and if he meets you, maybe he’ll get scared and quit messing with me.

* * *

The first time Nordie Magee met Frenchy Dufour he didn’t think much of the businessman. It was at the Davenport Lounge in the Ritz Carlton Hotel. Nordie figured that Dufour probably picked the place, an upscale, hoity-toity lounge, to show off how important he was. Bar brands cost eleven dollars, so maybe this Frenchy had money.

Dufour was sitting at a little table nursing a drink when Nordie walked in and gave the man his stare. It was meant to be intimidating.

“You Nordie?” Dufour asked, unperturbed, a grin filled with pearly-whites. “Have a seat.” Dufour’s hair was long but neatly combed; there was a pink handkerchief in the pocket of his pin-striped jacket, and nothing was amiss.

“That’s me. Nice to meet you.” Nordie sat down. “A friend of mine said you might be looking for some help.”

“That’s true,” Dufour said. “What line are you in, Mister…”

“Nordie. Nordie will do just fine. I’m between assignments right now, but until very recently I’ve been in the corrections business. Ironing out problems at our city jail. Are you from around here?”

Dufour took note of Nordie’s big frame stretching the seams on his brown leather jacket and liked what he saw. He nodded his head. “I been here all my life. Arabi from day one. You?”

“Yeah. Out by the Lake.”

“Oh, you were a rich kid.”

“Not really,” Nordie said, recalling the bamboo. “What’s the job?”

“What kind of problems exactly did you iron out?”

“Well,” Nordie looked at his hands. “There were a lot of problems when I was at the jail.” His eyes met Dufour’s. “I’m a problem-solver, I guess you could say.”

“Very good,” Dufour said smiling. “You might work out.” He had a faint mustache and brushed a forefinger across it. They were given a bowl of mixed nuts and pretzels and ordered drinks. “I’m expanding my concerns here in New Orleans,” he said, “and I sometimes need to show my prospective business partners how to get with the program.”

“Say again? Show them how to do what?”

“Cooperate.”

“I mean, what sort of business are we talking about?”

Another vodka and tonic showed up for Dufour, and a double Scotch and water for Nordie. It must have cost twenty bucks, just like at the Saints games.

“The business is legitimate,” Dufour assured him. “Coffee houses, things like that, you know.”

That was reassuring. At least Frenchy wasn’t trying to cooperate with easily-offended, negative-thinking dope smugglers or anything like that.

“So, they’re not real tough guys?” Nordie asked, just to be sure.

“Not a bit. Not at all,” Dufour said with enthusiasm. “Mostly pushovers, really.”

“Nobody gets hurt?”

“Of course not,” Dufour said with a merry wink and a wiggle of his mustache, which was a little unsettling. “We can work out the details one step at a time. I understand you have a crew.”

“Absolutely,” Nordie assured him, “but you only deal with me. The price is by the job.”