Текст книги "Night Watchman"

Автор книги: Tony Dunbar

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

XX

“Ms. Peggy O’Flarity gave me your name,” the voice on the phone began. That was an introduction that worked.

“How can I help you?”

“I go by the name of Dinky Bacon, Mr. Dubonnet, and I am a visceral artist.”

“Ah, are you the gentleman who was arrested for being naked in Jackson Square?” Tubby had known this call was inevitable from his first encounter with Peggy, bless her heart.

“That is hardly the extent of my artistic presentation, but nudity in front of the cliché of Saint Louis Cathedral, where every crying child in America has been photographed by its mother, and the grit of street people who surround that religious edifice, goes to the substance of my art, which in my estimation…”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Tubby interrupted. “I’ve also seen some of your plumbing sculpture at the Contemporary Arts Center. But, Mister Bacon, where are you calling from?”

“I’m in the parish jail.”

“I thought they raised your bail money last week at the benefit concert.”

“They did, but would you believe there was a detainer out for me for failing to appear in court last November?”

“What was that charge all about?”

“Art and nudity at the Voodoo Fest. I duct-taped myself to one of Drake’s speakers. All they gave me that time was a ticket.”

“Yet you didn’t appear?”

“That’s what they say.”

“Is your time on this phone limited?”

“Yes, sir, it is. There is a line of criminals waiting for me to get off.”

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“I thought I did. He was a volunteer, and a very nice young man, I thought, but after they said I couldn’t go home, he left, and I haven’t seen him again.”

“Do you want a lawyer?”

“Yes, I think I need one, and Ms. O’Flarity said you were the very best.”

It was hard not to cry.

“Got it. Do they have you booked under the name of Dinky Bacon?”

“No, my real name is on my wristband.”

The lawyer sighed, and waited. Nothing more was forthcoming.

“What is the name on your wristband?” he finally asked.

“Tobias Magnum,” the client said reluctantly.

“Well, too bad, Tobias. This is Friday. There are basically no judges around until Monday. Even if I found a judge and she was willing to release you on your own recognizance, there is no one at the jail with the authority to cut you loose this afternoon. In any case, I am going to be gone for the next couple of days, so whatever I might do will not happen over the weekend.”

“I’m going to miss my sister’s birthday.”

“I’m just telling you my situation.”

“I don’t know anybody else to call.”

“Neither do I. Public Defender?”

“They say next week.”

“There you have it.”

“But there will be a producer from the Arts Channel at my sister’s birthday bash. He’s coming to film me. It’s my big break!” Bacon was distraught.

“Tell you what,” Tubby said. “Give me the producer’s name and number and I’ll call him. I will tell him your plight, and maybe he’ll see a story in it and come over to the jail with a film crew. Wouldn’t that be the lead-up to a great documentary?”

“Man, it sure would. Wait. I’ve got his number memorized.”

He rattled it off, and Tubby read it back to confirm. What sounded like a fight was breaking out around the jail pay phone, and the call ended.

Despite the gloomy picture he had painted for Dinky Bacon, the attorney decided to take a shot and called the Honorable Alvin Hughes, the one judge he knew who might be willing to do something on his holiday.

XXI

Saturday morning came up typical New Orleans beautiful, and Tubby was very grateful that he had been invited to take a trip to the country. He had promised to be at Peggy’s on the Northshore at about 11:30. They would enjoy the air, take a tour, eat some lunch and, if he liked, go riding. He bounded out of bed at his normal 6:30 and donned a pair of new blue jeans and an expensive checkered skirt from the Orvis store in the Warehouse District.

His phone buzzed, and it was Raisin.

“I was out in Janie’s neighborhood last night,” he said.

“Can you tell me about it later?” Tubby asked. “I’ve got some important matters involving a lady I need to attend to.”

“Okay. Did you get that sound meter from your bud?”

“Sure, I did.” Tubby didn’t go over the point where Boaz had threatened him with a gun.

“I’d like to fool around with it if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. It’s simple to operate. You just turn it on and point. Cherrylynn knows where it is, and she can figure out how to get it to you.”

He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to drive the fifty miles into the totally unfamiliar country of the far north. Like a lot of city dwellers, the lawyer simply never had any need to go across the lake. But he was psyched for this trip and he hit the road right after downing a single cup of coffee. First, a stop to fill up the gas tank at the Shell station by the river and check his tires and oil. Can’t be too careful when you’re on a long expedition across a vast body of water. Second, he pulled into Dot’s Diner on Jefferson Highway, a favorite breakfast joint that he rarely visited because it was off his beat.

The special thing was, they were friendly. They also had several different morning papers lying around, and kept your coffee cup full. And they made their own biscuits. He took his time ordering and eating. The diner didn’t sell booze, but there was a bar next door that advertised good Bloody Marys at an attractive price. He was immensely full of high-calorie food, however, so he abstained and rolled onto the highway.

The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway calls itself the longest bridge in the world, at 24 miles, though other bridge builders– in China and Turkey for instance– have challenged the claim. It is, however you measure it, inarguably long, and it crosses the wide, brackish inland sea that makes New Orleans almost an island. It provides an option for urban sprawlers who, if they don’t mind the distance, can spread out into the rolling piney woods of St. Tammany Parish to create gated communities, Christian schools, and golf courses wherever they like. The drive to get to and from the Northshore gives thousands of daily commuters the opportunity to meditate, to explore books-on-tape, or to read all of their text messages while gazing over the long miles of blue crab trap floats running beside the bridge. They could stare at the distant white sailboats, cruising in the sun’s glare and captained by people far more fortunate than the working stiffs behind the wheel.

The morning drive northward was opposite to the commuters’ direction and therefore quite peaceful. There was a light chop in the lake. Its sparkling waters stretched to every horizon. The morning sun was off to the right, not blinding, but golden. White birds searched for trout, and Tubby cranked up Chuck Berry singing “Johnny B. Goode” on WWOZ.

To get to Folsom, once off the bridge, you had to pass first through miles of strip malls and traffic lights, which gave drivers time to ponder questions like who might St. Tammany have been, until at last the Walmarts and subdivisions gave way to “Acreage For Sale” signs. Tubby realized that he was still running a bit early, so he poked along, even stopping at a fruit stand to encourage local food by buying some fresh honey. It would end up in his pantry back home with all the rest of his unopened jars of country honey, craft-fair chow-chow and mysterious jalapeno salsas.

He followed his MapQuest directions to a narrow blacktop road that wound around rolling pasturelands and past the occasional polo club. Tubby had never watched a polo match, but he knew it to be a pastime for the wealthy. Peggy O’Flarity’s driveway was gravel, and he slowed to spare the paint job on his restored Camaro. A large split-level brick home surrounded by hedges and trees with bright flowers appeared, and his hostess was in a porch swing waiting. He suppressed the temptation to fishtail as he came around her circular drive.

“Here you are,” she said happily, rising to greet him as he climbed out of his car.

He gave her the proper kiss on the cheek.

She offered Sangria from a pitcher afloat with orange slices, which he naturally accepted, though it wasn’t his drink. He sat down on the porch rail facing her in the swing– all very much as he imagined a proper country squire would do. The sun was on his back. It lit up her face and brightened her white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Are you hungry or would you like to see my place first?” she asked.

“I’d like to see your place. It’s very nice to be out of the city.”

“Isn’t it? Coming here is just so invigorating. Do you smell the hay?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.”

“They just cut it yesterday,” she said proudly.

“How many horses do you have?”

“Only six. And one is too old to ride.” He thought six was quite a large number.

“What do they all do?” he asked.

She smiled at the question. “Oh, I ride them. I also have friends who join me for what we call ‘expeditions.’ I have a groom who takes care of the stables and all that.”

“Do you have a cook and a butler, too?”

“No,” she laughed. “My horses are cared for far better than I am. I actually have to cook and dress myself.” She was wearing jeans, with the white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a substantial gold necklace with a green stone that fell about where the top button of her shirt would have been.

After they finished their beverages, she took him walking around the estate. They visited a hay barn, the stables, the head of a trail she said stretched for miles over the farms of the other landed gentry, and a spot she liked where you could look over a pond at a long green horizon of trees. She said it was a special place for sunsets. Then they went back to the house for lunch, Tubby nodding while she chatted away like a tour guide.

Lunch would be nothing fancy, she said. Just a lump crab salad with an aioli dressing made of garlic, olive oil, lemon juice and egg yolks, served on crispy tortillas, which she admitted she had made. He was quite bowled over, and he also appreciated her simply and tastefully furnished house. The furniture was contemporary. There was incredible art on the walls, oils, watercolors, photographs, and glass art pieces. They sat in the kitchen, and she served them more wine.

“What do you really do for a living?” she asked at one point.

“Mostly I represent people whom I find interesting and try to get the best possible results for them. I’m a problem solver.”

“Are you an ethical lawyer?” she asked, coyly flashing her eyes at him.

“I never lie to the judge,” Tubby said. “And I never screw a client. But I do try to get paid.”

“That all sounds very sensible.”

She cleared the plates into the sink, and he helped. They talked again on the porch, and he learned that she had gone to school at the University of Arkansas, where one of her daughters was now enrolled. Another daughter was about to get married in Nashville. The ex-husband, the attorney in New Orleans, was bending over backwards to pay for the wedding in ways too splendid to comprehend. Tubby was amazed that he didn’t recognize the guy’s name, but the fact was he didn’t travel in the same circles as most of the big-firm guys.

“So would you like to go riding?” she asked.

Rashly, Tubby said yes. It will all come back to me, he thought. Apparently his willingness to have an adventure had been anticipated, because two of the horses were already saddled and waiting outside the barn.

“You won’t want to push Ramses very hard,” Peggy said. “He’s getting so old and lazy.”

“All the better.” Tubby managed to mount without assistance. Peggy did so far more gracefully and she knew comforting words to whisper in her nag’s ear.

They took off on a leisurely trot across a wide field, and Tubby found that a measure of his teenage horsemanship did come back. They followed a farm lane over the hills that had views of far-away mansions and miles of green pine trees. More than two hours passed this way, and the sun began to set. Tubby regretted that the day was ending and told her so. She had obviously enjoyed herself, too, so he took a chance.

“Can I take you out to dinner?” he asked.

“Tonight? You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to if there’s somewhere you like. Where do people eat around here?”

“There are a couple of choices.”

“Do they sell wine?”

“Are you kidding? Even the gas stations around here have full bars. Gus’s is the best food in Folsom, but it’s mostly breakfast and po-boys. We’re only a hop and a skip from Covington, and we could get a table at Del Porto or Ox Lot 9.”

* * *

The meal at the Ox Lot, named for an earlier, more rustic period in the town’s history, was over the top. They drank chicory-infused Manhattans and Premiere Cru Bordeaux, and they ate Oyster Patties, Whole Roasted Red Snapper, and Grilled Colorado Venison, which was prepared with the sort of things that make a chef’s eyes sparkle, like rutabaga puree, roasted baby turnips, Tangipahoa Parish kale, beech mushrooms, and green pepper jus. Tubby was feeling pleasured beyond belief. Peggy was stroking his ankle with the pointy toe of her high heels. This restaurant was in an old and beautifully restored railside hotel, once the town’s center, and Tubby was leaning closer to suggest that they get a room. But before he could pounce, she got a grip on herself and said, in a tone not to be argued with, that it was time to go home.

Almost always a gentleman, he steered them to his black muscle car, and they set off on the two-lane blacktop northward. They laughed most of the way while listening to greatest hits on the radio. He was proud of getting her home without incident, though he had some doubts whether he could sail through a sobriety test.

Pulling into her driveway, she asked, “Do you think you can make it back to New Orleans?”

“Oh, yeah,” he proclaimed, before realizing it was a trick question. “Honestly, I do think I can. But would you like to do this again sometime?”

“I’d love to.”

Peggy popped out of the car. “Let’s see whether you can get out of the driveway.”

As a matter of fact, he did very well, only flirting with the lawn twice.

“I should have handled that differently,” Tubby told himself as he drove down the dark lonely road. But he was actually quite satisfied with the evening. Important groundwork had been laid. She wanted to see him again. The black sky was full of amazing stars. You couldn’t see a show like this in the city.

These country people drive like maniacs, Tubby thought. There was a pick-up truck, or maybe a large SUV, racing from behind him. Tubby braced himself, afraid that he was going to get rear-ended. The crazy driver slowed just in time. He was prevented from passing by a sharp curve in the road and a double-yellow line and settled in a few yards behind the Camaro’s rear bumper. Tubby drove erratically, almost blinded by the high-riding vehicle’s blazing headlamps.

“What the hell!” he cursed. The blacktop straightened out and the truck could pass, but it hung onto Tubby’s tail for another painful quarter-mile before suddenly pulling around. For a few seconds it travelled beside the Camaro, long enough for Tubby to see that he was aside a black Lincoln Navigator. Then the Navigator tried to force him off the highway into a ditch. Tubby swerved to avoid contact and floored it. The Camaro was old, but it was fast. The Lincoln, however, effortlessly kept pace. It swerved to tap his front fender, knocking Tubby off-kilter and onto a nonexistent shoulder. Tin cans and rocks banged against the Camaro’s undercarriage. He was zooming straight at a row of mailboxes marking the turnoff to a side road.

A loud crack and a flash in the night. “They’re shooting my tires!” he thought. Right before crashing into the mailboxes he yanked the wheel hard to the right. He took out at least one of the posts, doing untold damage to his car’s bodywork, and gyrated madly down the side dirt road with all four tires still in commission.

Tubby simultaneously cut his headlights and gave it lots of gas. Sightlessly he went flying into a web of farms and fields with no illumination other than the moon and the dots of burglar floodlights standing watch over distant garages and tractor sheds. Thick woods crowded in from both sides. There were no people here.

He stuck to the middle of the rutted roadway, hearing stones ricochet off his pan, seeing and then not seeing the headlamps of the pursuing vehicle. He picked the left fork at a crossroads, then took another left into a grassy path marked “No Trespassing. Occidental Tree Farm.” He quickly bashed into a dense stand of scraggly pine plantings, where the car came to a rest. Tubby turned the engine off.

The pursuing vehicle was out there somewhere. Tubby could almost hear it. Far away a semi downshifted and gunned its engine on the highway. In time, these human sounds faded away. Insects and cicadas buzzed.

Tubby gave his car a good long rest. The night’s noises, crickets and tree frogs, and what might have been a barn owl, got louder. Way off, he thought he heard a woman’s voice calling– maybe telling someone it was time to come inside for bed. He got his breathing under control and swatted a bug.

After another fifteen minutes he turned the key and was a little surprised that the Camaro started up. It was almost buried in the shrubbery. Backing out without lights, he no longer cared about scratches on his paint. Worse things could and probably would happen. Very slowly he tried to retrace his steps, but was soon lost on the dirt roads. At least he was alone. Finally, aided by luck, he reached Highway 25 and had a decision to make. He did not believe that his assailant was an insane stranger who just liked shooting at people. He believed him to be a calculating murderer from New Orleans who intentionally wanted to kill him. If so, danger was to the city in the south, and refuge was to the horse farm in the north, back toward the protective arms of Peggy O’Flarity.

Tubby made his turn and went a mile in the dark before an oncoming truck beeped at him until he flipped on his headlamps. Driving slowly, checking all his mirrors, he found himself again at the O’Flarity driveway. Carefully and cautiously, he turned in. The house was dark when he parked out front, but a security lamp automatically switched on when he got out of the car.

There was a rustling noise inside when he rang the bell. A curtain by the door parted, then the door opened. She was wearing a plush white robe, and her hair was mussed up.

“Uh,” he said and held out his hands.

“You want a cup of coffee?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen the loup-garou.”

XXII

A lot happened while Tubby was away. On that same Saturday morning while he was lingering over eggs at the diner, Cherrylynn found out that her boyfriend, Rusty, had not come home during the night. She knew he wasn’t in her bed, obviously, but neither was he on the sofa, where he sometimes crashed if he came in plastered. She thought about calling him up and speaking her mind then and there, but it dawned on her that she just didn’t care. This had been going on for too long, ever since he quit his offshore job. To say it straight, she was over him. This was a liberating revelation.

Delivering the news to Rusty wasn’t going to be much fun though. He had never dared to get violent with her, but he sure could get loud. Cherrylynn pondered this over a cup of herbal tea and made up her mind. She stuffed all of her boyfriend’s clothes and junk into the suitcase and duffle bag he stowed in a closet, then put them outside onto the apartment’s tiny front porch. She set the deadbolt on the front door so that it could only be opened from within.

Suddenly she was in a hurry to get out of there and avoid a confrontation, with all the yelling and door-pounding that might entail. She ran to grab her purse, a banana, and a yogurt and exited out the back. She had never given Rusty a key to that door.

Cherrylynn jumped into her Civic and, under a canopy of pink crape myrtles, she bumped out onto the street. Where could she go to kill a few hours? One of her girlfriends was in Atlanta for the weekend, and the other one wouldn’t be up this early on a Saturday. Might as well go to the office where there was Wi-Fi and parking. On the way she could drop off Tubby’s decibel register at Raisin’s girlfriend’s house.

* * *

Also on Saturday, before lunch, Jason Boaz went to Confession. His church had a new priest. He was a young guy whom Jason hoped he could relate to on a contemporary and worldly basis.

The penitent had to bide his time in the pews until a blue-haired woman finally emerged from the confessional, looking chastened and tired. There is nothing that woman could possibly need to confess, he thought to himself, but perhaps he was wrong. As soon as the light turned green, he hurried up the aisle and into the box.

Through the grill, he could make out the faint features of the priest.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, my last confession was two years ago,” he began.

“All right, my son, have you denied your faith?”

“Not at all, Father.” He would never do that.

“Have you profaned the use of God’s name in your speech?”

“Not very often, Father.”

“How about honoring Sundays?”

“Guilty, Father.”

“Sexual thoughts about someone to whom you are not married?”

“Yes, Father. I know that’s wrong. I mean, I guess. Whatever. But what I want to confess to is that think I may be killing somebody.”

“That’s very serious. In what sense do you mean that?”

“In the literal sense, Father. You see, I’ve built a miniature explosive device, which I’ve given to a man, and it’s set to go off and kill him under certain circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Loud music. Actually, any very loud noise. You see…” and here Jason prattled on for a few minutes about how the device worked.

The priest let him talk until he wound down.

“Why did you do this?” the clergyman finally asked.

“It’s a long story,” Jason said, wanting to rush through this part, “but I was told to do it by some people that, frankly, I’m very afraid of.”

“Do you mean to say that you fear for your life?”

“Yes, I do,” Jason said earnestly.

“Well, you’ll just have to trust that the Lord will protect you. But you know that you absolutely have to stop this thing from blowing up.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He knew this would be the answer.

“Good, because if you don’t intend to call it off, I may have to tell the police about this Confession.”

Jason was astounded. “I thought this was private!” he exclaimed.

“There’s an exception to everything,” the young priest said.

“That certainly settles it then. I’ll get in touch with the man as soon as I walk out of the church and tell him to drown that phone in the sink.”

“You will have to take the consequences of this act as your penance. What else do you wish to confess?”

“I guess that’s about it,” Jason said.

“All right. Do your penance and you will be absolved. Go forth and sin no more.”

“For His word endures forever,” Jason mumbled as he hastened away.

But he couldn’t reach Tubby on the phone. The lawyer was at that moment out of cell phone range, riding a horse over the hills of St. Tammany Parish.

* * *

Cherrylynn leafed through the small file she had created on Mr. Dubonnet’s strange interest in the old shooting. She knew that her boss’s conversation with the policeman whose father had originally investigated the matter, Detective Kronke, had failed to produce anything useful. But maybe she could use her feminine smarts to make something happen.

There was that handwritten name on a piece of paper found in the old police records– Bert Haggarty– and there was the scribbled impression of the name Carlos Pancera. She knew that Flowers, Tubby’s private detective, was already making inquiries about Pancera. The possibility that she might cross paths with this investigator was very enticing, yet Tubby might not like her to be interfering. But what about this Haggarty? The note said “Indiana” beside his name, so she started there.

It was amazing how many oddball possibilities Google offered for that name. Scores, maybe hundreds. She thought about going into Westlaw but, at fifty-nine dollars per individual profile, Mr. Dubonnet would have a cow. She searched for the big cities in Indiana, since personally she couldn’t name any, and then ran through the White Pages available for Indianapolis, Bloomington, Evansville, etc. That gave her nearly two hundred more Haggarties, but only one Bert, and he was in Fort Wayne. Of course Bert may have been the name of the victim, or the victim’s now-deceased parent, or Bert might live in the country and not be in the city directories, or he might not have a phone, or… the chances were poor that this one name could be her guy. And what was she supposed to say when she called him? “Sir, do you know anything about a boy that got shot in New Orleans forty years ago?”

Why not? All it took was nosiness and nerve, and she had both. She called the number. A man’s voice said, “Hello?”

“My name is Cherrylynn Resilio. I work for a lawyer in New Orleans. Do you possibly have any connection with a shooting that occurred in this city in or about the 1970s?”

“What did you say?”

She repeated her question.

“Of course not. What are you selling?”

“I’m not selling anything.”

“Well, quit bothering people. I’m in the middle of changing diapers.”

“So sorry…” was all she got out before the line went dead.

I guess I could do that two hundred more times, she thought, but that would be no fun. What if Bert Haggarty had moved to Minnesota or Montana, which in Cherrylynn’s recollection were the states next to Indiana. The exercise was pointless.

Back to Carlos Pancera? She consulted Google again and had much better luck. He had been on the Board of the Latin American Cultural Society and had attended a gala given by Caribbean Freedom touted as a “Cuba Libre and Lime Night,” music by Bodega Brass, tickets $250. He was an elder of the St. Agapius Catholic Church. He had received an honorary degree from Loyola University in recognition of his contributions to cultural understanding, presented by the Dean of the College of Social Sciences.

Now that was an interesting lead. Cherrylynn was taking a course on “The Politics of Rock and Roll” in that very department and her teacher, a young assistant professor named Mister Prima, possibly had a crush on her. They addressed him as “Mister,” but his first name was Oliver. He gave all the students his home number.

“Oh, hi, Cherrylynn.” Her name must have popped up on his phone since she had called him once before about a reading assignment.

He said he didn’t mind talking to her on a Saturday, and, yes, he knew who Pancera was. There was a lot to the man’s story, more than could be covered on the phone, and anyway Oliver was busy at the moment.

But, as it turned out, he would be free later. He was in fact in his office all day, catching up on some research. He could see her in the evening, on campus. She was so satisfied with this outcome that she hummed a tune to herself while checking her hair in a pocket mirror.

She was on a roll. She figured that Officer Sandoval would not be working today, since the Police Records office was undoubtedly closed, but she did have his cell number.

“Yeah?” His voice was as brusque as she remembered it. Just like a cop should sound.

“Hi, Officer. This is Tubby Dubonnet’s assistant, Cherrylynn?”

“Yeah?” he said again, but his voice seemed to soften a little.

“I did appreciate your finding that old file for us, but there really wasn’t much in it.”

“You got all there was.”

“I don’t suppose there is anyplace else you could look?”

“Not a chance. I don’t know much about how records were kept back then. I was just a young man myself.”

“One of the names in the report was Carlos Pancera. Is it possible that there would be some material about him?”

“I don’t know the man.”

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you did. I just wondered if you might look.”

“You think I’m a librarian for a living? I’m a cop, and right now I’m frying catfish for a bunch of people.”

“I know you’re a policeman, and I know you are stuck in a job below your skills, but if there is any way you can help me I’d be really grateful.”

“Maybe,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll look on Monday.”

“Thank you so much. Shall I spell the name?”

“No. I got it. Bye.” He hung up.