Текст книги "Night Watchman"

Автор книги: Tony Dunbar

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“What’s that mean, ‘business solution’?”

“Maybe I don’t have a full enough appreciation of what your business was, or is, but in general terms it sounds like you and President Alonzo are fighting over a particular pot of money, and Caponata, whatever his relationship to this business might be, has ties to you both. Like I say, in big-picture terms, I’m wondering if there might not be a dollars-and-cents solution that could be worked out among all concerned.”

“Not while that prick Alonzo has me working over in the Fifth District. I think he wants to get me shot.”

“Tempers are high,” Tubby said. “But maybe it’s a good time to offer a compromise. After all, you got in a pretty good punch.”

“He has pins in his jaw,” Ireanous said with satisfaction.

“Give it some thought,” Tubby counseled. “Time heals all wounds. You say you haven’t received a hearing date for your grievance?”

“No. Not a peep.”

“I could call someone and see what’s happening.”

“No. I’m not sure what having an attorney butt in right now would get me. They might want to shuffle this whole thing under the rug.”

“That’s what you hope?”

“I guess I do. I need to get Internal Affairs out of this so that I can make my own arrangements. But I do want to have you in the wings for when I need you.”

“Think about what I said. Maybe there’s a business solution.”

“I will. Listen, if I get out of this shit hole transfer, maybe I can get your quality of life officer Jane Smith sent somewhere far away, too.”

“I wouldn’t want you to impact her career negatively.”

“What career?” Babineaux spat out. “The Fifth District is a dumping ground. Officer Smith is only here because she got in trouble for dating our chief’s daughter.”

“No! She’s gay?”

“Call it what you want. But from what I heard, Smith wouldn’t put a ring on it, so she fell out of favor.”

“Your police department sounds like some old-world duchy or Russian oligarchy…”

“You lost me. I gotta go.”

Tubby could hear the policeman’s radio squawking in the background.

The connection broke.

XVII

“What’s some lawyer named Tubby Dubonnet doing screwing around in my business?” Carlos Pancera demanded.

He had Jason Boaz pinned down in a small office in the basement of a church.

“What? Who?” Jason fumbled for an answer. Carlos and his moral rectitude had always intimidated him.

“He’s your lawyer, isn’t he?” Pancera yelled. “I’ve heard about that for years. You want some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Jason said.

Carlos rang a bell and a pretty brown-skinned girl, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, entered from behind a curtain.

“Bring us each a coffee,” Pancera told her and she disappeared.

“I got a call from a policeman I know,” Pancera resumed. “Your lawyer is inquiring about me in connection with a shooting that happened to some nameless hippie decades ago. Decades ago! What’s all that about?”

“Carlos, you may remember…”

“I remember nothing. What do you remember?”

“Nothing,” Jason said helplessly. “I wasn’t there.”

“You were one of us then. You came from a good family. What happened to you?”

“I make substantial contributions every year. Leave me alone.” Boaz was defending himself.

Pancera held up both palms to stop such nonsense. “You’ve drifted away from us.”

“I don’t remember Cuba,” Jason whined. “I have never met a Communist. I have other concerns that are far more important to me.”

“Like what? Global warming?”

“Actually, yes. Coastal subsidence is another one. Did you know that the Louisiana coastline is disappearing at the rate of a football field an hour…?”

“Oh, shut up!” Pancera thundered. “Your family’s home, your inheritance, was stolen by a filthy maniac who is still a dictator and the champion of world-wide socialism. His cancerous ideas are still taking root every day right here in the United States.”

“But there are other threats today, my friend Pancera. Disease. Radical Islam. Overpopulation. Rising seas.”

“You are starting to sound like a fucking socialist yourself. That could always lead to a sudden death. The future of freedom, capitalism, and family values is ours to shape, to take. You must come back to us and do your share.”

“I am doing my share,” Jason protested, shaken by the reference to a sudden death. “I have given the benevolent society and the veterans of the Brigade almost a hundred thousand dollars over the years.”

“No puede haber paz sin justicia. Do you remember what happened to ‘Second-in-Command’?”

Jason was confused. “I remember hearing he drowned in Katrina.”

“Yeah, but he had some help. Don’t you know that the Night Watchman got him?”

“No!” Jason was shocked. “All that rough stuff was supposed to be over years ago.”

Pancera stared at him with black eyes that didn’t blink.

“What was his offense?” Jason asked.

“He tried to destroy ‘the papers.’ ”

Jason dimly recalled mentions of ‘the papers’ decades before, but he denied it now. “I don’t know anything about any papers,” he said. “I just want peace. What are you asking me to do?”

“Get this lawyer Dubonnet off my case. Dejar morir muertos en paz.”

“How can I let the dead lie in peace, tell me?”

“You will find a way. You have always been a very smart fellow, Jason. There are many others involved in this, as you know. They do not want their lives to be disturbed by ancient events. They move very fast when they are threatened. Make this go away. You got it?” His fingers did little dances like snowflakes falling. “Just make it go away. Or else we will act as we must.”

* * *

“Mr. Boaz is on the phone,” Cherrylynn called from the other room.

“Hi, Jason. What’s up?”

“All the stuff we talked about, I can’t talk about, but I want to say, you know, we’re friends.”

“Okay,” Tubby said encouragingly.

“And I’ve finished my little decibel invention. I think it will suit your purposes admirably.”

“Great. Great. You didn’t have to. Like you said, I can probably buy one at the store. But, of course, I’d like to have yours.”

“You absolutely should. Mine’s better. You can field-test it for me and see how well it works.”

“Gladly.”

“I can drop it off at your home tonight.”

“That works. I’m leaving here soon. I have to stop at the grocery store and pick up some stuff, but I should be home by six.”

“No problem. I’ll see you then.”

After hanging up Tubby stared for a minute at the life of his city beyond his office window. Far off in the east there was a plume of smoke, maybe a house on fire. He could see a traffic jam building up on the I-10. Sounds of a brass band rose up from Bourbon Street, forty-three stories below. There was a very large bird circling over the panorama, flying even higher than Tubby’s office. Likely it was a bald eagle whose nest was at Bayou Sauvage, coming back from its daily feast in the Gulf of Mexico. Burning buildings, snags on the Interstate, vast distances, meant nothing to that extraordinary creature.

Maybe, he thought, when I solve the Parker murder, when Collette finishes school, when I find the right woman, I can be free like that.

Nah! A fantasy. He collected his briefcase and headed out the door.

* * *

Tubby was steering his handsome Camaro uptown on Magazine Street when Raisin caught up with him on the mobile.

“Want to go out tonight? Janie’s bar?”

“That’s what you say every night, but I can’t. No point in it till I get my noise meter. Jason is bringing it over in an hour. Let’s go tomorrow.”

“Does all of this noise pollution crap sound like nannyville to you?” Raisin wanted to know. “Didn’t we use to stand right next to the speakers at Grateful Dead, the Band, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Janice Joplin? Didn’t the whole floor vibrate?”

“I can’t hear you.”

“But really, hasn’t the music always been loud? Remember Benny’s on Camp?”

“Oh, man, yes. At two in the morning you could hear it all the way down to Napoleon Avenue.”

“And nobody thought there was anything wrong with that.”

“Well, maybe the neighbors did.”

“I doubt it. The neighbors then were a lot younger and hipper. Everybody thought local music was cool. That was the sound of New Orleans! I mean the Nevilles lived two blocks away. Everything in those days was less uptight, less high class.”

“Well, Raisin, we can still see the Wild Tchoupitoulas and the Buzzards on Valence Street,” Tubby said.

“Less and less often.”

“You think?”

“Take the Bywater,” his friend said. “It used to be just trains, working people and lead paint. When did they start caring about how loud the music was?”

“I don’t really know. Neighborhoods change.”

“I’m going to the bar by myself. I want some action.”

“Why not knock on a few of the neighbors’ doors while you’re over there and see if anyone is really bothered by the noise?”

“I might just do that. What the F-bomb.”

“Is that what we’ve come to? And you are a guy who knows what a real bomb is.”

“The times are way too mellow now, Tubby.”

* * *

With his feet up on the glass coffee table in his living room, Tubby Dubonnet was reading a history of Andrew Jackson’s Indian wars and sipping a toddy. The doorbell rang. Reluctantly, he got up and let Jason in.

“How about a drink,” he offered.

“No,” Jason said. He seemed very agitated. He was carrying a rectangular black briefcase with brass clasps. “Let’s just sit down.”

They did, in the living room, on two chairs separated by the coffee table. Tubby had furnished his place slowly over the years. It was still sparse and simple, featuring lighter woods like cypress and pine, despite advice from his daughters and various girlfriends who seemed to prefer things solid and dark.

Jason opened his briefcase on the table and extracted a 9mm automatic pistol, also black, which he pointed in the area of Tubby’s knee.

“I am supposed to threaten you with this to make you stop asking questions about things that happened when we were young. And I’m supposed to shoot you if I fail.”

Tubby’s eyes didn’t leave the gun.

“But you know me.” Jason waved the pistol in the air as Tubby’s gaze followed it. “That’s not my nature. So, no. I can’t do it!” He re-stowed the weapon very neatly in his briefcase.

“Here is what I prefer to do. I want to give you a legal fee of fifty thousand dollars, and you will represent me until I die or go crazy, and you will stop all these inquiries.”

Tubby shook his head to clear it and took a deep breath.

“Are you offering me a fifty-thousand-dollar bribe?” he asked.

“To me it is a legal fee,” Boaz said. “Believe me, I have the money.”

“I don’t know if I believe you or not, but what makes you think…”

“Tubby,” Jason pressed his hands together as if in prayer. His bearded chin bobbed up and down and his black glasses jiggled, “that shows how important this is to me. It may be a matter of my life or death.” He touched his heart. “And I know you could use the money. Who couldn’t? And it would solve everything. I’m desperate.”

“No.” Tubby stood up. He was looking for an opportunity to snatch the briefcase, but Jason hastily drew it into his lap and popped the clasps open.

Tubby had a gun of his own in the house, but unfortunately it was upstairs in the nightstand by his bed.

“I was afraid you would say that, my friend, and you might as well have signed a death warrant. But, hell, Tubby. That’s just the way you are, right? You never were a crooked man.” His tone changed back to friendly. “I suppose we must just let the chips fall where they may. A pesar de las consecuencias, as they say in the old country. It may all work out. This is the twenty-first century after all, not the 1970s. I’ll give you my special device anyway. Come sit by me.” He indicated the sofa, where Tubby’s book still lay, spread open to the page he had been enjoying.

“I’ll stand, thank you,” Tubby said warily.

“Okay, but my invention is not so big.” Boaz pulled a mobile phone from his case. “The screen will be hard for you to see.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tubby said.

“This is a new Samsung I just bought, and I programed it with this very ingenious app I invented. Here’s what you can do.” He clicked it on. “Now, speak loudly.”

“You are an extremely bad client!” Tubby said with considerable volume, while Jason aimed the phone at him.

“Excellent,” the inventor said. “Now let’s see what you can replay here.” He did some scrolling around and then held up the screen for Tubby to see.

He beheld himself, a chest and head shot, with his Rodrigue print hanging behind him on the wall, nervously yelling, “You are an extremely bad client.”

Jason demonstrated with his finger that today’s date and time, and a running count of the decibel level, all appeared below the video. Tubby’s voice had measured from 60 to 75 decibels.

“It’s very simple,” Jason said proudly. He gave the device to Tubby.

“That’s the way it works. That’s the only thing it does. Use it in good health.”

The visitor latched his case and stood up.

“I feel quite a relief,” he said. “I have neither shot you nor spent fifty thousand dollars.”

He made his way to the door quickly, with Tubby close behind him.

“If I live through all this,” Boaz continued, “maybe I will make some money from this invention.”

Tubby let him out and promptly double-locked the door.

He tossed the phone on the chair and went directly into his kitchen for something straight and serious.

“Christ,” he said out loud. “This town is completely full of insane people.”

XVIII

Raisin had put away a few at the bar. Feeling bulletproof, he thought he might just prowl around the neighborhood and be friendly, so he went outside.

Right next door to Janie’s club was a shotgun house with a hand-painted sign outside that said “KEEP OFF STEPS. CLEAN UP DOG MESS.” On the curb in front of the house were a pair of homemade “NO PARKING” signs stuck in paint cans that had been filled with cement. Raisin had noticed these when he arrived and obligingly had parked in front of an adjacent empty lot. Certainly this was a promising house if one were looking for prickly neighbors.

He rapped on the glass pane of the front door. In a moment the door cracked open a few inches, constrained by a safety chain.

“What you want?” The man inside was a stocky African-American in a T-shirt. His round head was bald except for a fringe of white hair.

“No problem,” said Raisin. “I’m asking about the bar next door. I heard there were complaints about the loud music.”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m a friend of the owner,” Raisin said. “I’d like to see what can be done to make the situation better.”

“Y’all can clear out of this neighborhood. That would make the situation a whole lot better.”

“I’m not sure who this ‘y’all’ is, but…”

“All you rich honkies think you can run over people who’ve been here all their lives.”

“Hey, do I look white to you?”

The man tried to see better through the crack. It was dark outside.

“Not too sure,” he admitted.

“I am of French extraction, primarily. Maybe some Creole. But what’s the deal? Half the musicians who play at that bar are black.”

“I don’t care if they are. I don’t care for that music.”

“Tell the truth, I don’t either.”

“It rattles my walls.”

“What do you do at night?”

“What do you do? I try to sleep.”

“You work during the day?”

“I was a longshoreman at the Louisa Street wharf for twenty-four years.”

“But you don’t work now, so you can get up late in the morning if you want to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You can have a belt or two at night if you want to.”

“What’s a belt?”

“A shot. A hit off the bottle. A Jack and Coke.”

“I could if I wanted to.”

“Let’s have a belt.”

“I ain’t got Jack. Maybe some Coke, but I don’t keep whiskey in the house.”

“No worries, babe. I got a bottle right here in my car. What if I bring it in the house and we just sit down and savor?”

“Maybe.” The man was interested.

Raisin’s car, the red Miata, was only a few yards away. He fetched his load from the trunk where it was stored judiciously out of the driver’s compartment.

“Sorry, dude,” he called over his shoulder. “It isn’t Jack Daniel’s. It’s Maker’s Mark.” He displayed the red-capped bottle.

The homeowner opened the door and waved him inside.

“My name’s Raisin.”

“Monk. Ashton Monk. Come on back.”

They went through the man’s living room, full of old furniture and with pictures of Jesus, JFK, Robert, and MLK on the mantle. And through the bedroom and another bedroom, to the kitchen.

“Pardon all this mess. I’m a bachelor. Take a chair. I’ve got some glasses somewhere.”

XIX

It was a Code 10-30, a burglary in process.

“This is what we live for,” Ireanous Babineaux said to himself. To the dispatcher he said, “Five-O-Six, on it.”

“Unit Seven-O-One and Four Ten, are you responding?” was the dispatcher’s dry question.

Babineaux killed the radio when he was a block away, and snapped off his lights.

Cruise in swiftly and silently. Double-park outside the shuttered furniture store on Chartres Street.

Probably a false alarm. Not much to steal here. He relaxed.

On the other side of the levee, a docked container ship’s tall sparkling towers gave more illumination to the street than the city lights did. It was a nondescript old-time store with dark alleys on either side. Somewhere in the back of the store an alarm was ringing. No one was on the street. The other cars hadn’t come yet.

Babineaux heard someone or something scrambling about in the back alley. It sounded to him like the perps were trying to get away over a fence. His instincts to catch the bad guy overtook his good sense.

“Give it up! Police!” he cried and took one step into the darkness.

Two shots cracked out, but he only heard the first one, the one that put a hole in his forehead.

Footsteps peppered down the sidewalk. A car started on the next block. A ship sounded its horn. Lights out, another police cruiser crept down the street, while Babineaux’s life slipped away.

* * *

The downed policeman’s Glock lay beside his outstretched hand on the pavement. The safety was still on. That’s what the responding officer, Victor Argueta, noticed first. He had the alley cordoned off with yellow tape, and they brought out some lights. No sign of forced entry in any of the buildings in the immediate vicinity.

Since the coroner was on his way, the detective crossed the street and sat down on the grass of the levee. He popped some Wrigley’s spearmint and wished he was still allowed to smoke cigarettes on the job. It was peaceful and airy over here, across the street and ten yards away from the violence and the spotlights. Crickets chirped in the grass. His pants felt the damp. This scene didn’t make sense. Why did the cop go down that alley alone? That dismal, full-of-garbage, empty alley? Was he an idiot?

* * *

Tubby found out about the shooting by reading the newspaper the next morning, and he immediately called Flowers.

“It couldn’t have been Caponata,” Flowers said. “He was at the Hot Pockets Casino in Biloxi watching women’s boxing until 5 o’clock this morning.”

“Who is working the Babineaux shooting?”

“I’ll find out.”

“The lid is on this investigation,” Flowers reported a few minutes later. “There is no particular detective assigned to it. A cop named Victor Argueta was on the scene, but it’s not officially his file. Internal Affairs has a piece of it, which means everybody else stands back. That’s what I’m hearing. I’m afraid my connections in that particular department are limited, but I’m working on it.”

“We have to figure this out,” Tubby protested. “He was my client.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Flowers promised. “Oh, here’s another bit. They’re also looking into another cop in that district. She’s one Jane Smith.”

“The quality of life officer?”

“You are right, sir. How’d you know?”

“It is tempting and very frustrating to imagine connections everywhere and not have the slightest clue what those connections might be.”

“No comment, boss. I’ll call you if…”

“…I have anything,” they both said at once.

* * *

Officer Sandoval was on the phone with Tubby.

“Did you hear about Babineaux?” the cop asked.

“Yes,” Tubby said. “Tough break.”

“Real tough.”

“I’m really sorry about it. I don’t even know how it happened.”

“I hear he went into a dark alley by himself,” Sandoval said. “Which he shouldn’t have done. He’s no rookie, but that’s the kind of guy he was.”

“What do you mean?”

“A macho guy. A crime fighter.”

“Have they caught the shooter?”

“No. I want to meet with you in person.”

“Sure. Absolutely. When?”

“Right now would be good.”

“I can do that.”

“Le Bon Temps Roulé uptown. Know where that is?

“Sure. Are you allowed?”

“Today’s my day off. I’m not in uniform.”

“I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“I’m already here.”

* * *

Le Bon Temps Roulé was a venerable neighborhood dive on Magazine Street with a pool table and a piano. It was open all the time, though early morning customers had to lift their shoes to let Jessie Beach do his daily mopping. The bar’s jukebox never stopped, so at a table by the window Tubby’s and Sandoval’s conversation was hidden by “Help Me, Rhonda,” followed by the Ventures, which someone who had already caught a cab had selected. The volume wasn’t at maximum, since it was late morning. The barmaid left them alone.

“Quite a while since I’ve been here,” Tubby mused. He was searching for the Moss Man photo that used to hang over the portal to the back bar. “Are we drinking?” he asked.

“I don’t drink,” Sandoval said. He looked like he’d been working out for a couple of hours. His white T-shirt stretched to cover his major biceps. He had on navy-blue sweat pants below.

“It’s a little early for me, too,” Tubby said regretfully. They were now the only patrons in the place.

“Sorry about your partner,” Tubby said again.

“My partner?”

“Babineaux. He said you ran the off-duty officer thing together.”

“He always talked too much.”

Tubby shrugged.

Sandoval said, “He told me he hired you to be his lawyer.”

“That’s true, but his check hasn’t cleared.”

“It will. Babineaux was usually straight with the money.” Sandoval lowered his big head for a moment, as if in silent prayer. His eyes might have been moist. “Bad stomach,” he said, recovering.

“Did he leave a family?” Tubby asked.

“He’s got a kid up north who will probably get his benefits, little as he deserves them, and a girlfriend on Transcontinental who could use the money. We’ll probably pass the hat to help her out.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“What did he hire you to do?”

“That’s a professional, what do you say, confidence, but it basically deals with the dustup with your union president, Archie Alonzo.”

“Was that all he wanted to talk about?”

“I can’t tell you more than I just said.”

“Well, what do you know about Alonzo?”

“Only what Ireanous told me, and I can’t share that with you.”

“Then if you won’t talk, you can’t help me,” Sandoval said, with an unpleasant snort. “And sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong didn’t help Babineaux.”

“Who says I was sticking my nose anywhere?”

“I do. Archie Alonzo does.”

“Did Alonzo set Babineaux up?”

“Not in person.” Sandoval seemed disappointed. “Alonzo was at some meeting with the mayor. I think some hood off the street blew Babineaux away. But by Alonzo just sending a crime-buster like Ireanous into a crime-ridden neighborhood– it was like sending him to the executioner. Everybody knew that. It was to be expected.”

“I heard he was shot at close range with his safety still on.” Tubby had gotten that from Flowers, who had gotten it from a detective Argueta.

“Really?” Sandoval said. “Then it must have happened fast.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s that,” Sandoval said. “You’re not telling me anything new about my old partner, and I’m out of here.”

“Wait!” Tubby got a grip on the cop’s forearm. “Weren’t you and Ireanous close?”

“In what way?” the cop asked. “We weren’t married.”

“You were friends in school.”

“We beat the shit out of each other in high school.”

“Was Trey Caponata part of your business deal?”

“Caponata tries to be a part of everybody’s deal. He comes up with a lot of jobs for our off-duty cops, like Italian weddings and graduations. But he’s the kind of a guy who always needs a little slice for himself.” The policeman pulled away from Tubby’s grip.

“Where does this leave you?” Tubby asked. “Are you going to keep working in Police Records?”

“Don’t you worry about me, Dubonnet. I’ll take care of myself. And it seems to me that you don’t have any more business in police affairs.”

“You can call me if you need any legal advice,” Tubby told him.

“I’ll take care of myself,” Sandoval said again. He pushed himself out of the booth and walked out of the bar.

Tubby watched him get into his police car and scratch off from the curb. The street was empty except for the vapors rising from the outdoor smoker of a barbeque joint across the street. A passing city bus blew them away. Tubby leaned back and closed his eyes to think.

He wondered absently how Sandoval knew that the police union boss Alonzo had been at a meeting with the mayor when Babineaux was shot. He wondered what Sandoval had hoped to learn from him in the first place.

The cop’s departure brought the bartender back to life.

“Want anything, sweetie?” she called from the bar.

Tubby shook his head.

He felt that he needed to go home and take a shower.