Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 02 - City of Beads (22 page)

Jake said he didn’t want to talk on the phone. He asked if Tubby could meet him for a drink a little later at Le Meridian. Tubby said fine. He conducted so much of his business in bars and restaurants he wondered why he even kept an office.

He scanned his front yard carefully through a slit in the curtains before he eased out the door to his car.

They settled down with midday martinis and a big bowl of macadamias and Brazil nuts at a candlelit table away from the piano. It was way too early for a crowd, and one of the few other customers was idly tinkering with “St. James Infirmary” on the Yamaha keyboard. Jake looked worried and tired, much as Tubby did.

“He’s pretty good,” Tubby said, making conversation.

“Yeah. I wish I had some talent,” Jake said. “Then I could quit playing this game.”

“I thought you liked public relations,” Tubby said. Apparently Jake hadn’t heard anything about the events of last night. Tubby did not enlighten him.

“I do occasionally. It fits my personality. It’s all such a joke, though. Don’t you think so?”

“Public relations?”

“All this stuff.” Jake’s sweeping gesture enclosed the known universe. “Some kid will shoot you on the street just to see what’s in your wallet. You can get AIDS from a blow job. Don’t you think it’s a joke?”

“Ha. Ha. Are we feeling a little cynical today?” Tubby certainly was.

“What, a cynical ad man? I went to an interesting party this week.”

Tubby nodded to show he was keeping up. He fished for his olive with the plastic sword.

“You know who Joe Caponata is?”

“I’ve heard of him.” Mr. Caponata used to be called the Mafia don, if there was such a thing, of New Orleans. He was semi-retired.

“I got invited to a wine and cheese at the lovely Caponata home a couple of days ago. Very nice. Mr. Caspar took me. In fact, Mr. Caspar told me I ought to go.”

“And what happened?” Tubby prodded.

“Not a lot. Leo paid his respects. It seems he is kind of the adopted son of Mr. Caponata.”

“What do you mean, adopted son?”

“Actually, I don’t think he really is adopted. Not legally. But Caspar calls him Poppa Joe. And Joe seems to be very fond of Leo. They hug. They talk. Old Mr. Joe puts his arm around Leo.”

“Leo wanted you to see this?”

“Evidently so, kiddo. Leo is letting me take a peek at what his hole cards are.”

“You think this is something the State Gaming Commission might like to hear about?”

“It’s not exactly part of my job description to communicate bad publicity to the commission, Tubby. To tell you the truth, I’m thinking about me right now. I’m looking around for a new job, but I’ve got to be kind of, uh, careful about how I go about it. I don’t want anybody to be, you know, worried about me, you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Tubby said.

“So, old buddy, this conversation is real confidential, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Now it’s show-and-tell time. What has Leo asked you to do for us?”

“Look at your alcohol permits for the sidewalk café. Nothing very controversial in that, is there?”

Jake looked puzzled.

“No, I can’t see anything odd in that, except I thought we had permits out the kazoo.”

“It sure looks that way to me.”

“The thing that seems strangest about it, though, is that it was Mr. Caspar who told me to use you as a lawyer.”

That was a surprise.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jake said. “It seemed like a good idea to me. I’ve known you for a long time, Tubby, but it’s not my position to decide what law firm to use, so nobody asked my opinion. And I don’t know why Leo wanted you.”

“Neither do I,” Tubby said.

“I bring it up because I’m trying to get the lay of the land here.”

“You’ve got me real curious, too.”

“There’s another thing. Maybe I ought not to tell you this, but I really think you should know.”

“So what is it?” Tubby asked.

“It’s what I needed to check out when we talked yesterday. This is also confidential. The company wants to float a riverboat. They’re looking at several locations to build the dock. All hush-hush, of course.”

“They want to get the property before word gets out and prices skyrocket, right?”

“Exactly. But I’m going to tell you because you’re our lawyer. One possible spot is St. Ann Street.”

“Good location. Right in the French Quarter.”

“Sure, but that area on the river is subject to about sixteen different leases that will take at least two centuries or an unbelievable amount of payoffs to unwind. And it’s in the domain of the Vieux Carré Commission—not exactly the gambler’s friend. The second is the Tuscany Street wharf.”

“Up by the ferry landing?”

“Way past, but that’s right. Better politics—the main thing you got to deal with is the Levee Board, and they’re in the bag but it’s incredibly dangerous. It’s like a magnet. Ships hit that wharf all the time. The Corps of Engineers have even studied it to figure out why. It’s some freak thing with the current. Imagine the work for lawyers when an oil tanker spears a convention full of three thousand gambling orthopedic surgeons and dumps them all into the river.”

“Yes, indeed,” Tubby said, and smiled.

“So, Mr. Caspar explains to me after the party is over, he thinks the company should reject those two. There’s a third site he wants me to help him promote. It’s one that some local investors have an interest in—like Joe Caponata, like Sheriff Mulé. You get the picture?”

“Not yet, but that’s a mighty bad combination.”

“Now you’re seeing the joke. This is the little secret Leo is letting me in on. If the company picks the third site, I’ll make out like a bandit. If we don’t, I’ll be in the shitter.”

“Who makes the decision?”

“Ultimately? The board of directors in New York. But they don’t know beignets from bagels. They just read consulting reports, and we hire the consultants. I’m surprised Mr. Caspar hasn’t hired you, for example.”

“Well, he hasn’t. What’s the third site?”

“It’s at the end of Napoleon Avenue, right near the big wharf. It’s got great parking, and the leases are under control.”

Tubby put his drink down and leaned over the table. The picture was becoming clearer. “Where exactly on the riverfront is this, Jake?”

“I got a map. You want to see it?”

“Oh yes,” Tubby said.

Jake took his briefcase from the chair beside him and unsnapped it. He extracted a file and a snap, which he unfolded on the tabletop so that Tubby could look.

The area was the Napoleon Avenue wharf. As best as he could tell, the “Big Easy Promenade,” as the boat dock was called on the schematic, was right about where the Export Products shed was now located, and the “Acres of Free Parking” were what used to be the Bayou Disposal truck yard.

“I noticed the curious connection when you mentioned Bayou Disposal to me,” Jake said.

“Why is Leo involved with Bayou Disposal?”

“I don’t know. But I’d say if he is, Joe Caponata is, too.”

“Look, I’ll see you, Jake. Be careful.”

“I’m the most careful man alive. Next to you, of course.”

“Right,” Tubby said.

It was almost like a mist, the way the world looked through Leo Caspar’s eyes. Coming through the mist were brown faces with square jaws and dark creases for eyes. They drifted in and out, and he had the sensation of being carried and dropped, more than once, but without pain.

One face stood out. The nose was almost flat. The mouth was very small and the lips were cracked, guarding a little city of rotten and jagged teeth. But Caspar felt no fear. Even when the man stepped back and showed Caspar a hand without fingers, and he recognized it as his own. Even when the man held up an arm and tossed it off to one side, out of the picture, Leo only experienced a twinge of sadness at losing it, but the man was showing him a foot now, and Leo started to feel a little regret.

Dawn was just breaking. The clouds in the east were glowing a faint pink, and a blue heron stood silently, one-legged, in the shallow pond. The peacefulness of the scene was enhanced by the two fishermen near the far bank quietly baiting their traps. The putt-putt of the trawling motor on their flat-bottomed boat could barely be heard. A smoky mist was rising off the water. The men didn’t speak. With stubs of burning cigarettes stuck in their chapped lips, they carefully went about their work—which was taking the raw chunks of meat and bone, cut up neatly by a band saw, out of a broken ice chest and putting the pieces, one at a time, into the crawfish traps.

Some of the pieces were juicy. Others looked oddly like fragments of a skull and had hardly any meat on them at all. The men worked slowly down one row and back up the next. Then the ice chest was empty, except for a gory slime on the bottom that would wash away with a hose, and they puttered off toward the dock. The sun was just breaking the horizon. Happy, happy crawfish.

Nick Nicarro, the Newsman, called Tubby and said he wanted to see him right away. Tubby couldn’t remember Nick ever saying that. Trying to keep his paranoia in check he took himself to the French Quarter and stood in front of Nick’s Royal Street shop.

Nick waved him in and climbed off his stool behind the counter. He motioned Tubby to follow him back to the corner where all the porno magazines were displayed in plastic wrap so the two could have a private talk, though the only other person in the store was a black gentleman wearing a blue pin-striped suit who was reading the day’s Racing Form.

“You been in some kind of trouble, or what?” Nick demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“What do you mean?” Tubby whispered back.

“There are some guys asking about you. Word’s out you’re gonna get hurt.”

“What guys?”

“Fuck if I now. I didn’t see ’em. Mob guys.”

Tubby looked worried. He was worried.

“You’ve helped me out of some jams, Tubby, is why I called you. Did you do something to cross Sheriff Mulé?”

“Huh?”

“First you ask me about this guy Charlie Van Dyne, who was the sheriff’s boy until he got bumped off. Now people are asking about you.”

“I thought you said the mob, like Joe Caponata.”

“In my book, Tubby, Frank Mulé and Joe Caponata are like this.” He clenched his fists together and shook them in front of Tubby’s nose. “You gotta watch ’em both. They’re snakes.”

“What should I do, Nick?”

The Newsman’s red-and-green eyes widened in distress. “You’re the lawyer,” he said, as if that meant powerful medicine. “Man, if you don’t have some bright idea, you’d better leave town.”

“Okay, well, thanks for the tip, Nick.”

“Yeah, see you,” Nick whispered, and it seemed like he was now anxious for Tubby to leave the store.

On the sidewalk outside, Tubby’s fair city seemed scary, just like the Newsman always said it was.

Tubby retired to make a plan. He stayed at home for two more days and tried to keep from jumping every time a car passed or a tree limb tapped against the window while he considered the problem. His best move was that he talked Debbie into attending a conference on wilderness preservation in Austin and gave her his credit card number to pay for the trip. Marcos was traveling with her. Tubby studied the newspapers, but there was nothing in them about the events at The Hard Rider. That didn’t mean the wheels weren’t turning. He was afraid for his life. He was afraid for Debbie’s safety. Sitting around was giving him chest pains.

On Wednesday morning he cut himself shaving, and his frustration got the better of him. He threw his razor down and forced his mind to engage. It boiled down to two choices. With Leo missing, either he could confront the arrogant, bristling sheriff who had already kicked him out of his office, or he could try to make peace with the evil Mafia boss whom he knew only from the newspapers.

The idea of calling Detective Kronke and placing the whole mess in the hands of the police crossed his mind fleetingly, but, he asked himself, what cop was going to lay a hand on Mulé? They don’t have the push, he told the face in the mirror. Squaring his jaw and summoning an angry glare to reassure himself, he chose Caponata.

Mr. Mike said he knew where Caponata lived, but he asked questions that Tubby didn’t want to answer. He possibly could have set up a meeting, but it would have looked all wrong. Caponata would think he was doing a big favor, and he would remember Mike for all the wrong things when he heard what Tubby had to say. Tubby didn’t want to tarnish Mr. Mike’s golden years with a pissed-off Joe Caponata.

So he called Jake again. His friend’s voice on the phone had a quiver to it that was new. The ad man’s glowing hello was missing a few kilowatts.

The sands were shifting rapidly, Jake said. The hounds were after fresh meat, know what I mean? The butt slicer was working overtime.

“Heard anything from Mr. Caspar?” Tubby asked innocently.

“Not a peepster. He’s gone, slick as grease, sight unseen, transferred out west, they say. No farewell party, his desk is cleaned out, new man’s coming in tomorrow. It’s party time here, Tub.”

“And Nicole?”

“Nicole had a car accident, busted her nose, slight concussion, her face is all blue. She’ll be out awhile. And me, Tubby, ol’ Jake is doing fine. It’s the white-knuckle express at the old casino.”

“Sorry to hear that, Jake.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you into my happy family, Tubby. Nobody’s been too happy lately.”

“Not to worry. I would have had to meet the family anyway, sometime.”

“Well, if anything strange should happen to me, I give you my pool, my wife, my mortgage, and my kids. You’ll take care of them, won’t you? See that the kids finish Jesuit? You can call them all Dubonnets.”

“I’ll try to make Beth a good husband. Look, Jake, have you got a phone number for Joe Caponata?”

“Jesus, Tubby, you’re the suicidal one, aren’t you? When did I meet you? Can we pretend we don’t know each other?”

“Hey, man. Stress is fun, remember? That’s what you used to tell me. You got a number?”

He did. And Tubby called it. Caponata wouldn’t come to the phone, but after Tubby uttered some fairly direct passwords to the woman who answered, the old man invited Tubby to drop by the house that afternoon, say three o’clock.