Текст книги "Night Watchman"

Автор книги: Tony Dunbar

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

XIV

Raisin Partlow had tried to live an uncomplicated life. He had gone back to school after the war and collected his degrees, but he had never done a thing with them. His major achievements were in the realms of tennis and boating, two careers where you could wear shorts, and over the years he had formed attachments with a number of accomplished women. He was usually serious enough about a girlfriend to move in with her, which saved him a lot of overhead.

The war now came back only as fitful dreams for Raisin. It didn’t actually seem true-to-life anymore, but was as if it had happened to someone else who might have died years ago. It did, however, always feature helicopters. Sometimes he was in the middle of the drama, giving the high sign on a cloudy day to a young pilot carrying a fresh rifle squad into battle. Sometimes he saw himself running out onto the tarmac when a bird flapped home carrying its cargo of bloody warriors. Sometimes a careless soldier dropped a match, and flames raced faster than they could run, and they were blown away by exploding aircraft. Those were his standard three dreams. Sometimes, he could mentally skip to the end and wake himself up.

Or, if it was bad, he yelled, or struggled, and Sadie shook him till he sat up awake.

“What was that?” she would ask him, frightened.

It didn’t happen every night. Not nearly every night. Raisin totally rejected the role of victim. He had a superior life and an enviable backhand on the tennis courts. He thought about Marlboros, which he was trying to beat for the twentieth time, a lot more than he thought about Vietnam. America had had a lot of wars since then. It made him feel old to think about his own, so he made an effort not to.

He buried his face in Sadie’s breasts while he caught his breath. This was just an afternoon’s nap that had gotten out of control, but now he was in the embrace of a beautiful scented woman, and in the present moment he could thrive.

An hour later, when they began to think about their evening plans, Raisin remembered that he had promised Janie he would go, again, to the Monkey Business for some event that very night. But lying in the bed with Sadie, he didn’t feel up to it.

Pulling a white towel around himself, he found his phone and called Tubby.

“I made a promise I can’t keep,” he said, and told Tubby about the benefit. It was an early show. A bunch of “fabulous musicians” were playing for free to raise money for some artist who was in jail for public indecency. Whatever that was. Something about street art. The event would show off the bar at its best. Could Tubby possibly attend? There might even be newspaper and blogger attention that would help his tavern-owning client in the important realm of community affection. Raisin was a good salesman, and Tubby said he would be sure to drop in for a few minutes.

* * *

Tubby arrived while Andy J. Forest was playing harmonica, backed up by a bass guitar and a drummer. This was good, reliable, high-class New Orleans music, and he relaxed immediately about the whole noise-level thing. He needed a few soothing moments after his disturbing lunch with Jason Boaz. Bad enough to spoil a stuffed quail. Bad, too, to think that Jason was linked to an old atrocity. But what stung most was being shut out by a client whom he had long thought of as a friend. This bugged him greatly. He was quick to search out a drink.

There was a big crowd in the bar. Evidently whoever was in jail had some supporters. There were actually banker types wearing suits and ties in here. Make that bowties. The artist must have tapped into a well-to-do following. The cover at the door was twenty dollars.

Tubby threaded his way to the bar and wedged himself between a tall boy with the beard of a goat-farming Mennonite and a blond woman in a tight white dress with some sparkle to it, cut above the knees, whose back was to him.

“Old Fashioned!” he yelled at Jack, who gave him a slight nod.

The Regal Beer sign flashed on and off. Andy Forest was into “God Will Understand.” Tubby turned his attention to the blond woman, whose rear end was bumping against his right thigh.

She was engaged in conversation with another lady, brown-haired with a brown business suit, who looked as though she might have spent her day firing people. Her eyes happened to pass his. “Hi, ladies,” he said.

The woman in the suit smiled at him. The blond looked over her shoulder and turned partway around. She was a very appealing, very attractive woman about his own age with unusually clear skin, blue eyes, and bright red lipstick.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Tubby.” He sucked in his gut and grabbed the glass that had miraculously appeared. “I’m a lawyer. You?”

“Peggy. Peggy O’Flarity.” She touched her hair. “And this is Caroline.”

Tubby reached over and shook Caroline’s hand. Then he offered his to Peggy. “What brings you here?” he asked.

Her fingers were long and cool. He was sorry to let them go.

“I volunteer at the Contemporary Arts Center,” she said a little loudly because the band was heating up. “We are one of the sponsors of this event.”

“Great. I’ve gotta admit I’m not familiar with… the artist that this is for. What’s his name?”

“Dinky Bacon. He does studio art, but he’s also a street performer.”

“What did he do to get into trouble?”

“He’s been incorporating male burlesque into his music and sometimes in his gallery exhibitions. Basically he just got a little too naked in Jackson Square.”

That was funny, and Tubby laughed. He clinked glasses with Peggy, who was drinking a beer.

“It’s a great city,” he said. “You come here much?”

“First time.” Her mate, Caroline, had rotated to pay attention to a nearby woman with spiked purple hair and an aqua tutu. “Seems like a nice enough place,” Peggy observed. “It somehow feels familiar to me.”

“I think it’s a great establishment,” Tubby said. “I represent the owner.”

“That’s right, you said you were a lawyer. I don’t like lawyers.”

“Neither do I. Why don’t you?”

“My ex, I guess.” She smiled again and finished her beer.

“Let me buy a round,” Tubby suggested. “I’d like to know more about our honoree and why the arts center thinks he is worth supporting.”

“He’s actually internationally famous,” she said. “But admittedly, that’s mostly through the Internet since until recently he didn’t believe in displaying his pieces for sale.”

“Will he be here tonight?”

“Not unless he gets out of jail. The point of this whole thing is bail money.”

“I suppose he has a lawyer.” A frolicking drunk smashed into them and apologized. Tubby mopped Old Fashioned off his shirt.

Peggy used her napkin to help him a little. “I suppose he must,” she mused.

Tubby let the subject drop. He had enough hopeless causes. Still, it looked like a lot of twenty-dollar bills had walked through the door.

He was able to get a few more details about the lady. Peggy lived far, far away on the Northshore. Actually, she owned horses.

“I know all about horses,” he boasted. He was thinking about horse races, of course. But when he was ten he had had a pony.

Her kids were scattered, one in Nashville, and one in D.C.

Her ex still lived in New Orleans in their old house. She got the horse farm. And the horses.

And Tubby got her phone number, written on the back of a CAC flyer promoting “Bourbon and Burlesque.”

Peggy O’Flarity had to leave early because of her long drive home. He walked her to her car, a BMW.

Back in the bar he knew only Caroline, who was at this point fully occupied by colorful people whom Tubby didn’t find to be his type. Janie never made an appearance. Tubby drifted outside to compose himself in the dark. Only a few low-decibel sounds escaped from the bar, and he could hear train cars clanking in the distance. He decided that this would be a good time to drive home, after pausing for a few slow and deep inhales of rich Mississippi River air.

When he reached his house, he found a message on his land line from Marguerite. All was still well in sunny Florida, but why hadn’t she heard from him? She couldn’t understand. Was he all right? She was just worried about him, that’s all.

He liked his Florida lady. That much was true. The chemistry was there, but ever since she had moved south from Chicago, she seemed to have developed a nesting instinct. Naples was her nest and Tubby wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be an egg.

That picture was wrong on several levels, including the one that was his life, here in New Orleans, close to his girls, his law practice, and etcetera. She was also a Yankee, but what did that matter?

Nevertheless, he didn’t call her back and went to bed.

It bothered him when he woke up before six, and it bothered him while he stoked up a pot of Community coffee. Eventually, after he had made some toast and eaten a Satsuma, he hit reply and let the phone ring. To his great relief, he got her voicemail.

But he didn’t leave a message.

He felt bad about that, too.

XV

The lawyer got to the office a little early, even before Cherrylynn. After leafing through The Advocate, where he learned that murders in New Orleans were on a pace to match 2004, a record year for homicides, and after checking his emails, he decided to follow up on the information Cherrylynn had given him.

Tubby knew the policeman, Kronke, who back in the distant past had done the so-called investigation into the death of John Doe. In recent years this same officer had interrogated Tubby when a client showed up dead in a Place Palais elevator minutes after visiting Tubby’s office on the 43rd floor. Later on still, Tubby had questioned the policeman, during the crazy period when he was on the trail of the Crime Czar. Tubby regretted that he had once told Kronke to screw himself. Maybe the policeman had forgotten that, but Tubby doubted it.

He pressed in the number that Cherrylynn had given him.

“Hello,” Kronke answered. He sounded grumpy, like he had just woken up.

“Hello, detective, this is Tubby Dubonnet…”

“The attorney,” Kronke said flatly.

“Hey, you remembered. It’s been quite some time.”

“I’m off the force, so why could you be calling me?”

“You quit?”

“I retired. I was out of there at sixty. All I do now is kill skeet and chase the ladies.”

“Good for you. Yeah, well, I’ve got a couple of years to go. You know, I’ve still got one kid in college. So I’m still practicing law.”

“Enough of this old time’s sake,” Kronke cut him off. “Why did you call?”

“I’ve gotten interested in a case, a very old one. Back in the early 1970’s. There was a shooting at a demonstration on Canal Street. A young kid was killed in a drive-by.”

“Really.”

“I know that’s a long time ago, but do you remember anything about it?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you were apparently the investigating officer.”

“Who says?”

“Well, your name was in the paper. And there’s a police report that says the deceased was a vagrant, maybe a dope dealer. He was pronounced dead at Charity.”

“Early seventies. Sorry. I wasn’t on the force until 1979. Must have been my old man.”

“P. Kronke?”

“Same name. He was Peter. I’m Paul.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that there’s no follow-up information in the record?”

“Maybe the record was lost. Or maybe that’s all there was. Back in the seventies, even after I became a cop, there was a homicide every day. Every Friday and Saturday night was like a shooting gallery on the carnival midway. Even Sundays, except when the Saints came on TV. One dead, two, three. They just kept coming in.”

“I remember. But there’s this piece of paper in the folder and it has a name, ‘Bert Haggarty’ and the word ‘Indiana’. Could you make a guess what that means?”

“No.”

“I thought maybe it was the boy’s name, or his family’s name.”

“I can’t help you.”

“That’s too bad. There’s another name here. It’s hard to make out. But it’s Carlos Pancera. Do you know who that is?”

The line went dead.

Tubby looked at his phone. “I must have struck a nerve,” he muttered. He called Jason Boaz, who also answered.

“Who is Carlos Pancera?” he asked.

“Tubby, leave this alone. You’ll get us all killed.”

“Well, who is he?”

“I want nothing more to do with you. I have spent my entire life getting away from these people. You are too valuable to throw yourself away on these sort of Don Quixote questions.”

“You make it all seem quite dramatic.”

“This is not some crime novel you are writing. This is not historical research. This is real. Think about your family.”

That caught Tubby in the gut.

“I have been working on the decibel app,” Boaz shifted gears, “and maybe one day I will again seek your legal advice. If you are alive to give it. In the meantime, go to Radio Shack.”

Flowers phoned in. He wanted to make his report in person, and Tubby invited him to come on downtown.

While he was on the phone Cherrylynn made a pot of coffee. He filled her in on his conversation with Kronke.

“And by the way, when Flowers gets here please show him right in.”

Her hands flew to her hair. He enjoyed watching her blush. For some reason, the detective’s visits always energized his secretary.

“Oh, before I forget,” she said as she was closing his door. “Your friend Marguerite called and left a message.”

“What was it?”

“She says she’s taking a cruise to Cancun and not to be concerned about her. She said she’d let you know when she returns.”

The door closed. All of a sudden Tubby was full of concerns and regrets. How could he lose Marguerite? She was such a rare and rich individual.

His remorse was short-lived. There were other important things to think about, right? Who the hell was Carlos Pancera?

And his computer told him that pleadings had been filed in Jahnke v. Grimaldi, his oilfield accident case that had been squatting in Eastern District for a couple of years because one judge had recused himself, and it took an eternity for the new “Her Honor” to be appointed to the job. The pleading was a Rule 56 motion to dismiss Tubby’s client’s case on summary judgment. He didn’t want to read it. Mercifully, Flowers showed up.

Cherrylynn ushered him in like he was royalty.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he told her. “How are you, Tubby?” The detective appeared bright and eager, as always.

“Breaking up with my Florida girlfriend, I think. How are you?”

Tubby’s loss didn’t faze Flowers. “Hard at work. Do you want to hear about Caponata or the police union boss first?”

“You choose.”

“They are related. Your police association president is Archie Alonzo, an important citizen, as you would expect. He rides in Bacchus. His wife filed for divorce on the basis that he chained her up on her birthday, which he characterized as ‘rough love.’ Apparently, she came around to his way of thinking. She dismissed the suit, and they seem to have reconciled. He was on the last mayor’s transition team. The interesting thing is that he lives way beyond his means. His salary is about a hundred and fifty, but he’s been going to Vail and to Grand Targhee Resort in the Tetons. He drives a Lexus LS, which costs close to $75,000. And he had a big ol’ house in Tall Timbers. Estimated on Zillow to be worth more than a million. So he’s got to be on the take somehow.”

“All very interesting, but it doesn’t get me closer to a defense for my errant police officer, Ireanous Babineaux.”

“Right, well, this might possibly help. One of Alonzo’s close friends is Trey Caponata. They’ve appeared together in the Times-Picayune society page. Both support the Kenner Rotary’s efforts to curb cancer. And Caponata submitted an affidavit for Mister Alonzo, the union boss, in his divorce proceeding, before Alonzo’s wife withdrew her petition. In the affidavit, Caponata, the mobster said that the union dude was a faithful member of the Saint Bonnabel School’s dad’s club, that he was known for his fried turkeys at Thanksgiving, that his wife was an exaggerator, even in high school, and that he had never seen any hint of marital discord between the two.”

Tubby leaned forward with a grin on his face.

“This is pretty good stuff, detective. You mean to tell me that this wise guy Caponata, whose bodyguard is my client Ireanous Babineaux, is a bosom friend of Archie Alonzo, the man my client punched out?”

“Seems to be the case.”

“Well, embrasse moi tchew, they’re all in something together.”

“No doubt about it.”

“So, what do you think Caponata is into?”

“He’s remarkably clean,” the detective reported. “He supports the governor with money, but modestly, like five hundred here and there. Caponata has a girlfriend in Houston, but he keeps it quiet and has been married to the same woman for twenty years. No recent criminal record.”

“Something is going on. I need to have a heart-to-heart with my client, Officer Babineaux.”

“Shall I keep digging?”

“No. That’s enough for now. But I would like you to check out someone else.”

Flowers took out his iPad.

“He’s Carlos Pancera. Who is this guy?”

Flowers stopped typing.

“He’s not a secret, Tubby. That individual is a prominent citizen.”

“You’re kidding me. Who the hell is he?”

“He’s the leader of the free-Cuba people here. All the Latinos get his email blasts, unless they block him out. His Facebook following is huge. He’s been preaching about Castro since before I was born.”

“Castro is still alive?”

Flowers frowned at him.

Tubby ignored him. “How come I don’t know these people?” he complained.

“Maybe you are just not very involved in the Latino community, Tubby. But Pancera is an icon.”

Chastening information. “I can’t be in touch with everything,” he said, recovering. “How old is he?”

“Maybe sixty, still going strong.”

“What do you think his politics were in the 1970’s?”

“Probably the same as today. Free Cuba. Nuke the commies.”

“What about opening the dialogue? Cultural exchanges? Economic opportunities?”

Flowers laughed. “I don’t think you appreciate the depths of passion these folks have. Fortunately, New Orleans is just a sideshow. Their real influence is in Miami.”

Maybe, or maybe not, Tubby thought. He asked Flowers to get some current information on Pancera.

XVI

When lunchtime rolled around, Tubby decided to take a stroll. The sky was clear and the weather was surprisingly pleasant, so he was willing to depart his Place Palais high-rise in the Central Business District and hike a few blocks just for the exercise. To the Contemporary Arts Center, in fact, where he hoped he might run into a certain volunteer. At the very least he might find an interesting exhibit that could serve, in a social situation, as a proper conversation starter.

The three-story brick edifice on Camp Street had once been the headquarters of the Katz and Besthoff drugstore chain, and memories of K&B’s signature purple color, splashed on signs and logos and labels for treasured house brands such as Creole cream cheese ice cream at 89 cents a gallon and four-year-old bourbon for $4.25, still warmed the hearts of New Orleaneans over the age of 21.

Happily, the arts gallery was open. Actually, there was no one inside the expansive room, and Tubby strolled about, admiring this and that and trying to understand an exhibit of found-art sculpture, mostly constructed of re-purposed galvanized pipes and plumbing fixtures. Hung from the pipes, or in frames welded onto the arrangements, were photographs of “old” New Orleans, Mardi Gras, ballrooms, fruit vendors. The artist was identified as Dinky Bacon, the exhibitionist whose fund-raiser the lawyer had attended. Bacon was described on a placard as living in Rudduck, Louisiana.

As far as Tubby knew Rudduck was a boat-launch on the muddy banks of Lake Maurepas and anyone there would have to live in a shack accessible only by boating across narrow bayous overhung with Spanish moss and teeming with alligators and other reptiles. However did this artist get his works, some of which were quite bulky and cumbersome, in and out of a waterbound cabin in Rudduck? This question intrigued him more than the sculptures themselves.

“Are you a member, sir?” An elfin silken-haired girl with tattooed legs appeared at his side.

“No, not for years. Do I need to pay something?”

“It’s actually ten dollars, but an annual membership costs only thirty-five and you get all sorts of special rates and invitations for the performing arts and our important events. We’re just about to start the fall season.”

“I’ll be glad to pick up some information. Here’s a ten. I was wondering if a woman who volunteers here, Peggy O’Flarity, might be around today.”

“Ms. O’Flarity? Yes, I believe she’s at the board meeting upstairs. They should be breaking up soon. Then they all have lunch.”

“Ah. Would it be possible to give her a note?”

Apparently he looked respectable enough. “I could try,” she said.

Hurriedly Tubby scribbled on the back of a business card. “Would you possibly like to have lunch with me? I’m downstairs now.”

The girl looked at the note while pretending not to, and told him to stay put.

Tubby did. The gallery had floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street, and with that urban scenery as a background, the plumbing art, together with the antique photographs positioned at odd joints, gained a context. The lawyer went groping for insightful things to say to demonstrate his intellectual side.

Hearing the click of heels above, he looked up.

He was transfixed by a pair of legs in black shoes coming down the circular stairs.

“Mister Dubonnet. Is that right?” she asked when she had completed the spiral. She had a wide smile and twinkling blue eyes.

He found his voice and rose to the occasion. “You’re saying it exactly right, but please call me Tubby. I was just in the neighborhood.”

She took his hand and gave him a smile. “And I was just finishing a meeting. What do you think of our exhibit?”

“I think, as seen with the street as a backdrop, these works fit into our urban context.”

Peggy O’Flarity had to suppress a laugh. “Well put,” she said. “I can’t wait to tell the artist. His show, however, is entitled ‘Country Living.’ ”

“What does he know?”

“Quite right,” Peggy agreed. “Did you invite me to lunch?”

“I certainly did. I’m afraid I don’t have reservations. But we’re close to Tivoli & Lee. I’ve never been there. Want to try it?”

“In the Hotel Modern, or Moderne, however you say it?”

“Yeah, it’s just a couple of blocks.”

“That would suit me, though I’m missing out on pizza and pasta salad with the rest of the board.”

Tubby ushered her to the door. “You didn’t tell me you were a board member.” He took her elbow at the steps.

“Yes, and I have been for a couple of years. It’s really a very important group.”

Tubby was something of a stranger to non-profit boards. He had always shied away from activities with no potential economic benefits other than fishing and hunting ducks.

“I’d like to hear more about your impressive group,” he lied. “How does membership here compare to, say, being on the board of the New Orleans Art Museum, or the Ogden, or the Confederate Art Museum?”

She launched into a long and informed answer to that question.

He enjoyed the sound of her voice. He would have called it languid and sexy. She was learned. She dressed a lot smarter than he did. A white blouse, unbuttoned to a daring point, a bold, beaded necklace he thought could be lapis, a wide red belt, a sharp black skirt, and those heels.

He realized she had said something that he was supposed to respond to, but they had arrived at the restaurant. “Here we are,” he said with relief.

“Oh, how nice and cool in here,” she said. The first thing that met the eye was the bar, with colorful stools against one wall, and the second thing was the cheerful hostess who said that a table for two for lunch would be no problem.

She pointed at a little shiny table with stainless-steel chairs, but Tubby pointed to a booth upholstered in burgundy leather and said that’s where they chose to be seated. They were given black napkins and spring water, and made quick work of ordering.

Peggy said she was sticking to her diet, and had a luncheon salad made of arugula and apples.

Tubby couldn’t go quite that far, even for good health, so he ordered the Tivoli Burger, made from pedigreed beef topped with roasted garlic cream cheese, pepper jelly, pickled onions, and bacon. And, just to see how it would come out, an order of deviled eggs on the side.

“How about a glass of wine?” he suggested.

“Why not?” she said agreeably, and they each ordered a glass of Foxglove Chardonnay, maybe not fancy, but the best they had.

The establishment also offered a seventy-five-cent martini, but Tubby dismissed that as gauche under first-date circumstances.

“Was finding you today at the CAC my lucky break?” he asked. “Or do you come into the city often?”

As she began to speak, the most amazing thing happened. Her subject evolved into New Orleans, what she loved about it, what she hated about it, and he found himself totally engaged in her comments. She would make an observation about the architecture and the oak trees, and he would immediately have an impression of his own to share. The Lake, the history of the French Quarter, all the good things that had happened since Katrina. He was there. It had been a long time, about five years in fact, since he had had an actual conversation with an interesting and accomplished person who liked him. Talking to Raisin didn’t count.

The food came. Tubby’s burger in its warm bun was suitably immense. The deviled eggs, served on a square pearly dish, were each topped with a scoop of smoked gulf fish in a mousse and with a spoonful of big crispy capers. They each reached for one.

But the food was almost an afterthought. A good meal, they both said so, but they kept on talking. It had possibly been a long time for her, too.

Dessert menus arrived, and they both said no. But they ordered cappuccino while she described the Northshore– a land to which Tubby had seldom traveled. It had always represented, to him, a suburban wasteland occupied by narrow-minded, unfortunate people who had to commute hours each day, but she made it sound interesting. What with the beautiful farms, the trails, the rivers, the bicycling, and the cultural events in Covington.

“I’d sure like to explore it someday,” he said, totally in her spell.

“You could if you like. Come on over and see my place. You can ride a horse.”

They made a date for Saturday afternoon. She lived off Route 40, near Folsom.

* * *

After lunch they walked back to her parking spot near the Contemporary Arts Center, where they said goodbye. Strolling alone down Camp Street, Tubby was mentally flying, and he imagined how nice it would be to spend the rest of the afternoon out on the lake on his boat. That was way too complicated to make happen, however, since the boat, Lost Lady II, was on a trailer in his driveway and probably out of gas. He considered dropping over to his old bar, Mike’s, on Annunciation Street in the Irish Channel. His Camaro, however, was parked at his office building, so that’s where he ended up.

Once there, his mind inevitably shifted back to work. Cherrylynn gave him some messages, but nothing was as vexing as his lack of understanding of his police officer client, Ireanous Babineaux, and his apparent involvement with not just the union boss he had slugged but also with the mobster scion, Trey Caponata.

* * *

It took two or three tries, and in the intervals Tubby read a motion to dismiss his federal case– a motion he considered repetitive and frivolous– but finally Babineaux called back.

“Have you heard anything further about Archie Alonzo, the guy you hit, bringing up any charges?” the lawyer asked.

“The word is out he’s going to charge me,” Babineaux said, “but I haven’t seen anything so far.”

“You told me he provoked you. Were there any witnesses to that?”

“Yeah, Rick Sandoval. He’ll say I was provoked.”

“By touching your chest with his finger?”

“That’s right.”

“Did anyone else see this? I mean, Sandoval and you worked together and might be seen as friends. Were there angry words? Did anyone else hear them?”

“The only other person in the room was Alonzo’s suck-up vice president, and he’ll say whatever his boss tells him to say.”

“Got it. What was the argument about?”

“I told you. Alonzo didn’t like me operating the off-duty officer job referral service. He wanted it all for himself, so to speak.”

“You told me that your so-called service was being replaced by an official central dispatch for the whole department.”

“Yeah, but under the union contract, that dispatch is operated by the police benevolent association, which is run by Alonzo. It takes a percentage, and that ends up in Alonzo’s pocket.”

“That makes things a lot more clear. I didn’t understand that Alonzo had a personal interest in cancelling out your deal. But tell me, how did Sandoval happen to be there when the argument broke out?”

“Rick was my partner in the business. You need a black guy and a white guy for everything in New Orleans. I’m the black guy. He’s my white guy. That’s the way it is.”

“That’s the way it is?”

“That’s the way it is.”

“How did you get to know Sandoval?”

“We actually injured each other in high school. I was playing for St. Augustine and he was playing for Jesuit. He tackled me and broke my collarbone. I rolled over on him and broke his ankle. We were both in casts for the rest of the season, making faces at each other from the sidelines.”

“How did Trey Caponata become a part of your arrangement, or was he a part?”

After a pause, Babineaux asked, “What makes you want to know that?”

“It’s an odd coincidence that you worked for Caponata, and that Caponata is a good friend of Alonzo. You didn’t tell me that Caponata and your victim were such good friends.”

“Once upon a time we was all good friends.”

“Not anymore?”

“Trey is siding with me for right now. He and I go way back together, too. I’ve saved him from getting into a lot of shit he couldn’t handle.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“I see you may have been covering up for a criminal.”

“Trey is legit.”

“Then he’s the first Caponata that is.”

Babineaux didn’t respond. He wasn’t giving anything up.

“I’m just wondering,” Tubby said, leaning back from his desk as if the client were actually in the room, “might there not be a business solution to this whole thing?”