Текст книги "Night Watchman"

Автор книги: Tony Dunbar

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Elizabeth’s Restaurant was a very happening place, once you found it. Tubby went the slow route, not on purpose, but that’s the way it turned out. He piloted his newest car, a black 1978 Camaro with the spoiler on the back, which got nine miles to the gallon, all the way through the French Quarter and its throng of tourists– hurrying along to Café du Monde for their beignets and café au lait. It was still an early hour, but this was when sugary days began. The visitors were serenaded by ships’ horns, trolley bells and clanking train cars, none of which they had at eight a.m. in Chevy Chase.

As usual Tubby got lost as soon as he crossed Esplanade Avenue into the Faubourg Marigny. All of a sudden the streets angled off in crazy directions. No big deal to the local man. It was still only seven-forty-five. However, he was challenged and blocked. On Chartres Street, a Rock Star Waste Disposal truck idled in his path. The workers slammed gigantic plastic garbage cans over the curbs and gave each other commands in an unintelligible tongue. When he finally burst free, he found himself in a neighborhood he knew virtually nothing about.

But it wasn’t hostile. Little girls wearing school uniforms were carrying their backpacks to class. Delivery trucks were dropping off bread and vegetables at the corner stores. There were lots of quaint restaurants and special shops, all closed at this hour but emitting people who rented the apartments upstairs and at this hour had to hustle to work. Such cool people, Tubby thought. Mostly young and looking healthy. Jeans and sneakers and flowery cotton prints and layers were the style. And here he was, still stuck in a suit and tie.

The scene took him back to his own street-people period. All 72 hours of it. These kids had energy, like he once had, and were undoubtedly more clear-headed than his youthful friends had been. They looked like they were headed somewhere to apply themselves and pick up a paycheck. He found a place to park in front of the abandoned Toledo Iron Works.

Opening the door of the café he almost got run over by a tall woman wearing a spotless white polo shirt and black slacks, both of which hugged her trim figure. She looked like a prep school gym teacher and had a phone pressed against her short brown hair. Tubby got an apologetic smile as she brushed past. She had no obvious lipstick. Her black eyes were spaced far apart.

The restaurant was full, and it was lucky that the police officer was already seated and noticed him, which wasn’t hard. He was the big lawyer wearing a tie. The cop waved Tubby over. The décor was striking, walls covered with cryptic sayings like, “Don’t Tread on Me,” written in splashes of color, Dr. Bob’s version of folk art in wooden frames outlined in bottle caps.

“Ireanous?” he inquired.

“Close enough,” the cop said. His blue uniform shirt was crisply pressed, and his badge shone brightly on his broad chest. His skin, exposed above the neck, was nearly black. He wore a heavy mustache, but his head was shaved smooth. “Have a seat,” he directed.

Tubby did. “Thanks for meeting me, Officer. I hope I can buy you some breakfast.”

“Already ate, but I’ll join you for another cup of coffee if you like. The Redneck Eggs are good.”

Tubby shot him a glance to see if he meant something, but the ebony-toned policeman stared impassively back. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Dubonnet.”

“Rhymes with ‘Make my day’?”

“That’s it.”

A waitress appeared, a dainty girl in a pink frock. Tubby pointed to the first special on the menu.

“So what’s up?” Ireanous asked. “Your man Flowers didn’t say much. ’Course I hardly know him.”

“There’s really not a whole lot to it. I represent the lady who owns the Monkey Business club over on St. Claude, and apparently she’s run afoul of some local ordinances.”

“Yeah? I know where that place is. They get some big crowds on weekends. But I’ve never heard about any trouble there.” Ireanous paused to check his phone. “Of course, I haven’t been in this precinct but a couple of weeks.”

The waitress brought them both coffee and a plate of Eggs Elizabeth for Tubby. They appeared as a pair of perfect little poached eggs on French bread rounds, each with its dollop of golden creamy hollandaise, garnished with parsley and resting on a pea-green sheen of tarragon sauce, with yellow cheese grits on the side.

“Impressive,” Babineaux commented.

“Absolutely,” Tubby agreed, thinking that maybe the dish wasn’t very macho looking. But it was tasty.

“I heard you just got transferred in,” he said to the policeman.

“That’s right,” Ireanous said without expression. He didn’t offer the details. His large eyes, starkly white against his skin, studied the lawyer carefully.

“You like it here?” Tubby asked.

“What the fuck is there to like about it?” the cop asked. “Drugs, guns, and kids who will shoot you just to prove their manhood. Every single person on the street has been to Parish Prison.”

This was in stark contrast to Tubby’s impression. “It doesn’t look that bad to me, just driving around,” he said, “but you make it sound pretty dismal.”

Ireanous shrugged. “Whole city is like that,” he added and took a sip from his coffee. “Take another tour after dark. Believe me, I grew up around here.”

“Anyway,” Tubby continued, “my friend Janie Caragliano runs the Monkey Business tavern and is getting grief for staging live music at night. Apparently there’s a problem with the quality of life officer in this district.”

“Right.”

“Do you know that particular cop and, you know, what my approach should be?”

“As for approach, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Babineaux said. “But I do know the cop. You passed her when you came in. Tall? White shirt?”

“Oh, yeah. So that’s what a quality of life officer looks like. What’s her name?”

“Officer Smith.”

“First name?”

“Jane, possibly. Nothing you’d remember.”

“How would I get in touch with her?”

“Just call the station and leave a message.”

Tubby thought he had gotten about as much help as a cup of coffee would buy. But as long as he was here…

“Here’s another question,” he persisted, though Ireanous checked his watch. “Where would I go to find records about a crime, a murder actually, that happened a long time ago?”

“How long?”

“About forty years ago.”

“You’re going to have trouble with that, buddy. But the place to start would be at Central Records at Tulane and Broad.”

“Do you know anybody there who could help me?”

Officer Babineaux laughed. “It happens that I do. Rick Sandoval. He’s also being punished for being too good of a cop. Central records is police Hell.”

“Sandoval? Listen, I really appreciate this.”

“Hope it helps.” Ireanous must have seen something about Tubby that he liked because he suddenly became more friendly. “What kind of lawyer are you?” he asked.

“I do all sorts of things. Civil and criminal,” Tubby said vaguely. “My clients always seem to have multiple problems.” It was true.

“Well, here’s one you’ll like. What do you think about a cop who breaks a guy’s jaw with just one punch? It’s in the line of duty, you might say. You think that’s an assault?”

“Sure, it’s an assault. But you’re a cop. If the punch was justified, that’s what we pay you for.”

“I was definitely justified. But now my ass is in a crack about it.”

“Don’t you have a union? I thought they would defend you against anything.”

“Not in my case. It’s technically an association, not a union, and here’s the thing, the guy I popped is the president.”

“Oh, that’s bad.”

“Tell me about it. I’m possibly facing criminal charges.”

“Have you talked to a lawyer about this?”

Ireanous ran his palm over his smooth scalp. “I am right now.”

“Hang on,” Tubby said. “There’s more to it than that. You haven’t asked me to represent you, and I haven’t agreed to do it either.”

“Flowers said you’re a winner, but that you don’t work for free.”

Tubby nodded his head. No argument there.

“What’s your fee?” the policeman asked, stroking the holstered gun on his belt for comfort.

“It varies a great deal,” Tubby said. “It all depends on what I have to do.”

“What would you charge for, what do you lawyers say, an initial consultation?”

Tubby made up a number.

“I can do that,” Ireanous said.

Tubby wished he had gone higher. “Can you come to my office?” he asked.

“I guess so. Where is it? I have to go to work now.”

Tubby gave the directions and they shook hands.

“I can give you Jane Smith’s cell phone number,” Ireanous said gruffly as they walked out to the street together.

Outside there was an orange parking ticket on Tubby’s windshield. The cop laughed and waved goodbye.

Tubby tossed the ticket into his glove compartment and pulled out his phone. Jane Smith didn't pick up, but Tubby left his number and asked her to call. Driving slowly , he looked in the recessed doorways of Chartres Street for the mystery meter maid, but she was well hidden.

Next stop was Tulane and Broad, a destination Tubby knew well. He found a parking spot in a pay-lot full of Lincolns and BMWs, dented pick-ups and old Impalas, representing the spectrum of who came to this place. There were those here voluntarily– hustling lawyers– and those who were here against their will– sad and poor defendants. Tubby took a deep breath to ready himself for this world: city blocks packed with jail buildings, sketchy bail bondsmen, the towering criminal courthouse with its bold stone relief of what appeared to be an African-American cannoneer turning away in shame from an armed Caucasian civilian and a Louisiana statesman, the municipal and traffic courts dedicated to delivering justice to the proletariat, the Police Department, the District Attorney, and the loud city buses belching clouds of exhaust.

He ran across busy Broad Street together with a cluster of women and little children all evidently headed to the fortress-like gates of Orleans Parish Prison for visiting day. Separating from his crowd he made his way through a concrete plaza, baking hot and filled with memorials to slain officers, to police headquarters and presented himself inside at the information desk.

There he was informed that the office he was looking for was called the Records and Identification Division, first floor to your right. Through wide glass doors there was a long tin-topped counter. It was staffed by a receptionist who sat behind a computer with a cash register immediately beside her. She peered at him, her only victim, over her reading glasses.

“I’m looking for some old police records,” Tubby said. “Am I in the right place?”

“Yes, sir,” the receptionist said tonelessly. “You might want to review this brochure first, and then I’ll be happy to explain the process further.”

She plucked a blue and silver pamphlet from a stack and handed it to her customer with a tight smile. It took Tubby only a few seconds to figure out that he had to put in a “public records request,” that it would take some unspecified period of time before the Custodian of Records determined which of the records he sought were public and which were protected by a Constitutional right of individual privacy, or were “police work product,” and most importantly, what the appropriate fee was. Helpfully, there was a comprehensive and not inexpensive schedule of fees for procuring copies of everything.

“I guess you don’t give out much for free,” he said.

“I’m sorry? What did you say?”

Tubby pocketed the brochure. “I meant to say, is Officer Rick Sandoval here?”

“Yes, he is,” she said, with misgivings she wanted him to know about. “Your name, sir?”

He told her and stared absently at the walls of file cabinets while she made a call.

A few minutes passed before a brown-haired policeman with straight shoulders, the chest of a weight lifter, and a crisp blue uniform, came out of the stacks. He took his sweet time walking up to the desk.

“How can I help you?” he asked, as if he didn’t think he could. He was erect and good-looking, but not young.

“I got your name from Ireanous…”

Sandoval coughed loudly. “Come on, over here.” He moved further down the counter out of the receptionist’s earshot. “Let’s not block Missus Mogilles’ desk.”

They shifted fifteen feet away. Sandoval leaned in with his elbows on the dented counter-top.

“Let’s try that again,” he said.

Tubby also bent over, a co-conspirator. Their foreheads almost touched.

“Ireanous Babineaux. I asked him how I could locate some old police records, and he gave me your name.”

“What’s he to you?”

“I’m a lawyer. He might or might not end up being a client of mine. But this has nothing to do with his situation. This inquiry is personal.”

“By situation, you mean him busting up that crud Alonzo’s pretty smile?” Sandoval’s voice came out of lips that were barely parted and a whiskery square jaw that didn’t move.

Tubby shrugged.

“How old is the case? I mean, if it’s historical a lot of those records are online at the Public Library.”

“Nineteen seventies.”

“That ain’t old. That’s when I was a kid.”

Tubby gave him a smile. “I’m about the same age as you, and it’s still a long time ago to me. I saw a kid get shot. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t. I’ve always wanted to know what really happened.”

“What was it? Some kind of a robbery?”

“An anti-war protest.”

Sandoval grunted. “I did my part in Grenada on Operation Urgent Fury.”

“I was in the Army. Military Police,” Tubby said.

Sandoval thought it over. “Tell you what. Give me what you’ve got on the incident, and I’ll see what I can find. Give me a number where I can reach you.”

“Thanks. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

That got a laugh.

“They already got me working in in a file room where nobody gets any files. I get to take the bus to work. I’ll be passed over for promotion this year. What more can they do to me?”

* * *

After leaving Sandoval, Tubby hung out in the reception area of the police building where it was air-conditioned. He checked his phone. Nothing from Jane Smith, the quality of life officer, so he called her one more time. This time she answered. Her voice was clipped and official. He explained that he represented Janie Caragliano, the owner of the Monkey Business Club.

“You’re an attorney?”

He admitted that he was.

“We don’t usually talk to attorneys.”

“Well, I’m really just a concerned citizen, and Janie is an old friend of mine. I’m only trying to find out what the problem is. We want to get it corrected.”

“She’s only gotten about five notices of violations.”

“Really? She didn’t give any of them to me.”

“They were all properly mailed and posted.”

“I’m sure they were,” Tubby hastily agreed, “but something must have happened to them. Could I come to your office to pick up copies and see what this is all about?”

“Not unless you get here in the next thirty minutes. I have a community meeting to go to at two o’clock.”

“Sure. Fifth District headquarters is where?”

“Thirty-nine hundred North Claiborne.”

“No problem.” Back to the same neighborhood where his day had begun. He checked in with Cherrylynn, told her about his upcoming meeting the next day with Officer Babineaux, and asked her to open a file and prepare a contract for the client to sign. She was pleased to learn that he was working.

“What’s the nature of the representation?” she asked.

“Put down police brutality.”

“Oh, good. We haven’t had one of those for a while.”

“Are you in class tomorrow?”

“No, not till Thursday afternoon,” she said.

“Good. I’d like you to go online, or go over to the New Orleans public library if you have to and look at their microfilm. See what you can find out about a death-by-gunshot that occurred on or about…” He had to check a note in his pocket for the date.

“What’s the name.”

“I never actually knew his full name. He went by ‘Parker.’ ”

She was doubtful of success but agreed to try. Tubby was sure she would succeed. He had great faith in Cherrylynn’s research abilities.

The Fifth District precinct station was a lot easier to locate than the morning’s coffee shop, and any doubts you were in the right place were washed away by the twenty-or-so blue and white cruisers parked outside a functional concrete orange and cream-colored building with windows too small to jump out of.

Jane Smith did in fact have an office, but it was a tiny one with a tiny desk and no windows. There was a blue plastic chair in front of the desk, and the officer waved him into it.

“Here’s the copies you wanted.” She pushed a few papers across the desk along with a brown envelope he could use to carry them in.

“I appreciate your speedy service,” he said. “What’s the gist?”

“Two gists, actually,” she replied drily. “The neighbors have complained about the noise level and have even sent me some of the decibel readings they took. The other gist is that the property isn’t allowed to have live music at all under the new Comprehensive Zoning Ordinance.”

“Wait a second. I thought the whole question about how loud music clubs could be was still being debated. And isn’t the new zoning ordinance still pending final approval?”

“Yes, but no matter which decibel level applies– and you are correct, everybody seems to have an opinion about which level is best– this bar is exceeding it.”

“If you believe the neighbors’ readings. Have you done your own?”

“Our equipment has been broken for a month, but I was out there last Saturday morning at six a.m. and the music drowned out the garbage trucks coming down the street.”

The lawyer stroked his chin, pondering.

“And as far as the zoning plan,” Smith continued, “that side of the block is zoned residential and light commercial and no one gets to sell alcohol or present live entertainment to the public unless they are grandfathered in.”

“Which means, the bar has to have been in continuous operation for a long time?”

“Right, and she’s only been open for a year.”

“Well, it was closed for a while because of Katrina. There’s an exception for that.”

“You are correct again, but before the hurricane that building was a residence.”

“No ma’am, it was a bar.”

“No, sir, it was a residence.”

“So is that the real issue?”

“Correct. That and the loud music they play. It doesn’t help that crowds of college students congregate there at all hours and urinate in the neighbors’ bushes.”

Tubby was about to ask what evidence she had of that, but he caught himself in time.

Janie, it seemed, had a series of regulatory hearings coming up over the next two weeks, and that was all she wrote. The complaining neighbors’ names were not on the notices.

XI

Raisin was enjoying the early show at Monkey Business. A solo artist was on stage, a spectrally thin man whose bushy white beard hid his mouth, and almost his nose and eyes as well, belting out the blues and loudly strumming a twelve-string steel guitar. His amp was the size of a small microwave but still made plenty of sound as he worked through “Mannish Boy.”

Raisin’s date was there with him, the oil company engineer who had given him his car. She’d told Raisin she truthfully didn’t care much for the music, but he figured she liked him a lot. Her name was Sadie, and exploring the cultural depths of New Orleans with this weathered but entertaining man with the soft curly black hair seemed to suit her just fine.

“The artist certainly looks like he lives his music,” she whispered into her boyfriend’s ear.

“That’s Scotch he’s sipping from that paper cup,” Raisin whispered back. “And believe me, honey, we’re gonna have lots of fun.” He stroked her neck lightly with his fingers, then went back to drinking. He had bought them each a beer and an order of cheese fries to share, which was about the limit of the financial contribution he planned to make to the night’s entertainment.

“Tell me about your day,” she said hopefully.

“I did some work on the boat. Mostly just cleaning it up.”

She was envious. “I bet it felt wonderful to be outdoors and on the Lake.”

“Yeah, it was. What did you do today?”

“Still working on the Centurion Project. Four months to installation, and the countdown is on. Mostly, I was in meetings all day, but I did get to take a short walk on my lunch break. I went over to Lafayette Square and, you know, just looked around.”

“You love what you do,” he said understandingly.

“There are some days I wish I could just hang out like you, uh…” she bit her lip. “I mean hang out with you.” She patted his leg, looking to see if she had hurt his feelings.

Not a chance. Raisin’s hide was tough. He changed the subject.

“I saw a funny billboard today driving up by the lake,” he said. “It was for Ochsner Hospital. It says, ‘Ochsner, #1 in the Nation for Liver transplants.’ ” He chuckled.

“I don’t get it.”

“Kind of a New Orleans specialty, don’t you think?”

“Raisin dear, you see things nobody else would see.”

“It’s my complicated mind that keeps you interested.” He reached into his shirt pocket where his cigarettes usually were, then remembered he had quit.

“That’s right,” she agreed, and she meant it.

“Where’s Janie tonight?” Raisin asked the barkeep, who had come over to check on them.

“She’s upstairs,” the young man answered. “Is your lawyer friend coming over?”

“Should be here any minute.”

“She told me to let her know.”

At that moment Tubby appeared beside Sadie’s elbow and she offered him her cheek for a quick peck.

“How is everybody?” he asked.

“Life is good,” Raisin said, raising his voice to be heard over the tinny wails of the steel guitar.

“I don’t see why anybody would complain about the noise level in here,” Tubby yelled. “It’s just normal New Orleans music to me.”

“I think they’ll have other stuff going on later. The sign says ‘Last Rites at 11.’ ” He pointed to a pair of big Bose amplifiers, unplugged but waiting, at the rear of the stage. “This blues man is just the early show.”

Janie showed up behind the bar, a ring of silk flowers around the brim of her Stetson. Her bosom strained against the buttons of her khaki shirt. “What are y’all drinking?” she bellowed.

“I’ll have an Old Fashioned,” Tubby called over the counter, “if he can make one.”

“I don’t know about Jack, but I can. You kids want another beer?”

Raisin and Sadie both nodded.

The blues singer launched into “Seventh Son.”

“Have you ever measured the decibels in here,” Tubby asked Janie when she set the tawny red concoction in front of him on its tiny napkin.

“They keep talking about decibels, decibels,” she complained. “What are they anyway, and how do know how many you got?”

“It’s a measure of sound level. I guess you use some kind of meter,” Tubby opined.

“Where would you get one? Is there a sound store?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“I could ask around at work,” Sadie offered.

“What about your friend Jason Boaz?” Raisin suggested. “Isn’t he some kind of engineer? He’s a tinkerer and probably knows all about any crazy device you can think of. Or he could probably just invent one.”

That wasn’t a bad idea. Jason was an occasional client of Tubby’s. He invented things, like radios that masked the origin of email messages, apps that could tell you where your boss was standing in the office, blenders that could turn peach pits into livestock feed. Some were less likely to make it than others but those that did earned good money.

The blues singer got to the end of his set, to scattered applause. He came around the room with a tip jar. “Great sound,” said Tubby and tossed in a five. Sadie threw in a bill, and Raisin passed. Someone plugged in the jukebox and out came George Jones. But, comparatively speaking, the joint was quiet, and private conversations were able to resume.

Tubby stood up and stretched. “I guess I’ll call Jason while I’m thinking about it. Let’s see what he knows about measuring decibels.”

* * *

The man with the troubled past was styling his hair with an ergonomic clipper he had invented. It fit into the palm of his hand and was elongated to reach behind the head. He had a date tonight with Norella Peruna, a Honduran who often looked him up when she was in New Orleans without her current husband, whoever he might be. She had briefly been a widow when Max Finn died, but after that misfortune, she had soon walked down the aisle again. Norella liked a good time, as in casinos, fancy Latin dance parties, the tango, shopping at the outlet malls, and Jason tried his best to oblige her. Tonight he had a pair of tickets to the Azúcar Ball in the lobby of the Whitney Bank, a charity event with a big band that went on till dawn.

Of course, he was almost certain to run into some of the old crowd, but they normally ignored him. Because he wrote generous checks, when he was flush with cash, to the correct liberation organizations and churches, he was afforded some peace and quiet.

He heard the phone buzzing in the kitchen but declined to answer it. It took major concentration to trim his chin and cheeks and leave just the right aura of heavy whiskers, and only the slightest suggestion of a beard.

* * *

Tubby left a message and dropped the phone back in his pocket.

“Oh well, Janie, we’ll do something about all these decibels in good time. But to a more important problem, what was in this building before Katrina? The city is saying it was a residence.”

“No way!” she exclaimed. “Bud lived upstairs with his second wife and his mother, just like I do now, but this down here was always a club.”

“Yes!” Tubby slapped the bar. “That’s what we need to prove. Have you got any pictures?”

“Are you kidding me? This whole joint was under water. There was black mold from the floor to the roof. Hell, the roof blew off! But Bud always told me this downstairs was a happening bar. They always played live music here. Hell, his mother was a belly dancer!”

“Okay, tell me some names. Who played here?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But they had some big shows. He talked about a New Year’s party that got raided.”

“That’s probably not too helpful. How about the neighborhood? Anybody here likely to remember?”

“The neighbors here are all new. Back in Bud’s day, this whole area was white. Then the yats moved to Kenner, darlin’. This was one of the last white bars. Not too many people were coming. At the end Bud was running it as a private club.”

“To keep it all white?”

“Shit, no! Bud wasn’t even all white. He was one of those blended Mediterranean types. He didn’t give a crap what color you were. He didn’t like wops, that’s about it. But to get the customers in here he had to offer extra entertainment.”

“You mean like…”

“I mean like girls.”

“This was a strip club?” Tubby exclaimed.

“It might have been that.” Janie lowered her voice. “But to be real about it, baby, this old joint was a back-of-town whorehouse!”

Raisin’s laugh was like a dog’s bark. “Let’s see you get a zoning variance for that,” he crowed. He happily tipped back his beer.

“A what-house?” Sadie was delighted.

“Jeez,” Tubby said. “That could give us a problem.”

“But,” Janie insisted, voice rising, “they had live music here on the weekends. I swear!”