Текст книги "Night Watchman"

Автор книги: Tony Dunbar

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

XXV

In the morning Tubby met Flowers for a cup of coffee at the Trolley Stop, a busy 24-hour joint on St. Charles Avenue where no one ever bothered you. Tubby had his coffee with half-and-half. Flowers had his coffee with the “Southern Special,” consisting of three eggs over easy, hot biscuits and sausage gravy, four pieces of bacon, grits and butter, a slice of ham, and God knows what else.

“Very hungry,” he said. “I was up all night.”

He had gotten inside Pancera’s house when the old man went out to nighttime mass. Then after Pancera went home, Flowers got inside the church.

“This was not exactly legal.” He mentioned the obvious. “But I wasn’t observed.”

At the house Flowers had encountered, unfortunately, a housekeeper puttering about in the kitchen. Nevertheless, without being noticed, the detective was able to snoop around in Pancera’s den, or office. The room held a worn brown leather couch piled high with papers, a matching leather chair pulled up to a desk also covered with same, lots of books and no computer. Undoubtedly Pancera had a safe somewhere, but Flowers didn’t have time to look for it. Aside from bank statements and bills, there was unopened junk mail from dozens of political non-profits with names like the American Society for Tradition, Family and Property and the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights; in short, nothing very enlightening.

There were two intriguing items, however. At the very bottom of one of the ceiling-high bookcases was a box of yellowing newspapers from Father Charles Coughlin’s Little Flower Church in Detroit.

“I don’t know what that is,” Flowers admitted, “but the Father obviously hated Roosevelt and the Communists.”

“Pancera must be a collector,” Tubby said. “Those are from the 1930s. Coughlin was competing with Huey Long for the protest vote.”

“Okay, so then it’s way too dated to matter, but I thought maybe it was relevant.”

“What else?”

“A plaque on the wall from ‘The Marti Patriotic League’ with the inscription, ‘For Faithful Service’, and below that the initials ‘ACNI.’ ”

“So?”

“It had a date on it of June, 1977. I just thought, since it was from your time period, that I would mention it.”

“I see. That’s good. What about the church?”

“De nada. Pancera does have an office there, but it hasn’t got a thing in it except bulletins and old orange peels. There is a safe on the floor and I popped it. Inside was a pile of little bills, maybe a thousand dollars, and a jelly jar full of loose change.”

“Lots of dead ends.”

Flowers was mildly crestfallen.

“Crossing possibilities off the list is important, too,” he said. “At least that’s what they teach us in detective school.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest it wasn’t,” Tubby said contritely. “That ‘patriotic league’ thing may be worth something. Let’s call Cherrylynn.”

Flowers didn’t appear to be entirely pleased with this course of action, but Tubby dialed her up anyway. She was at the office, of course, and he gave her the name.

“Add it to your list,” he said.

* * *

Cherrylynn was fully engrossed in her list. She was coming up with a lot of information about Cuban-American youth groups in the 1960s and 70s, but most of them were centered around Miami. There was not much on the web about the Cubans of New Orleans, except for a brief mention in a footnote to a Wikipedia article and some references to the Special Collections material at Tulane University. Maybe it would be worth a trip uptown to see what the Tulane campus library had to offer. That, however, would probably require coordinating with Mr. Dubonnet and his alumni ID card to get access.

But this last name, ACNI, struck a small but rich vein. It stood for Association for Cuban Nationalist Infantry, and there was an extensive write-up about it in something called the “CIA Counter-Revolutionary Handbook, Second Edition, 1985.” She couldn’t find any explanation of what this so-called CIA document actually was or how it had found its way onto the Internet, but sure enough, it identified the founders of ACNI as one Hector Boaz (b. 1932) and Pablo Pancera (b. 1930) in Santiago, Cuba. Were these the fathers of two currently suspicious characters? She’d bet her paycheck that Tubby would think so.

A major find! It told her that she was looking at the right group. But, of course, it didn’t actually prove anything. The cryptic “CIA Handbook” entry described the mission of ACNI as “raising funds for anti-Castro military endeavors.” That was about it. The CIA helpfully provided the Spanish spelling of the group’s name, which was La Asociación para la Infantería Nacionalista Cubano. As an afterthought, Cherrylynn Googled that.

And here she found a link to a 1977 article in the New Orleans Times-Picayune headlined “Benefit Honors Rich Heritage.” Click.

It had appeared on the newspaper’s Society Page, where New Orleans’ daily gatherings of the glamorous and significant were described and where photographs of attendees, often clutching glasses of white wine, were displayed. The ACNI party at the Marriott Hotel Grand Ballroom had been one of the events highlighted in the Sunday edition of the paper, and it was described as a “Cultural Celebration of our Caribbean Character.” The honoree was ACNI founder Pablo Pancera, who received the Premio a la Libertad. Other participants’ names were also listed in bold. What jumped off the page at her was a picture of Pablo’s son, Carlos Pancera, standing beside his wife, Maria. Scrolling over to the photographs of the event she found a picture of the elder Pancera standing between his son and his daughter-in-law. The men all wore tuxedos, the woman was in a blue gown. They all had very un-partylike expressions, and there were no wine glasses to be seen.

Below this somber family scene, another photo caught Cherrylynn’s attention. Once again, an older man was featured with a younger man by his side. The older man was vaguely familiar, and when she enlarged the page she saw his name, Patron Sandoval. To his right was his son, Ricardo Sandoval. Gee whiz! The Rick Sandoval she knew today looked just like his old man did in 1977.

Suddenly Tubby barged through the office doors trailed by a bearded stranger whose black shirt was unbuttoned to display his hairless sculpted chest. Another man in jeans, wearing a cowboy hat and carrying a camera on his shoulder, was in hot pursuit.

“Boss, I’ve got something big!” Cherrylynn shouted.

“Cherrylynn, this is Dinky Bacon. I know you’ve heard a lot about him. The great visual and physical display artist? We’re going to be here for just a few minutes.”

“But this is something…” The secretary paused when the camera swung toward her and resumed with, “Come right on in. We have a really important case breaking right now, but we are also deeply committed to the arts of New Orleans.” She gave the camera her big smile.

Tubby beamed at her and waved his guests ahead and into his office.

The cameraman immediately zoomed in on the view from the window, which pretty much encompassed everything in the Crescent City from the river to the Lake.

“I could do wonders with a space like this,” Dinky Bacon glowed.

“We could use some more art in here, that’s for sure,” Tubby chimed in, “but fully dressed, you understand.”

The camera caught the artist laughing.

“It’s a grave injustice,” Tubby said, apropos of nothing. The camera again swung his way. “This city has traditions of free expression going back hundreds of years, whether it’s political rhetoric, fine literature, grand architectural monuments like the Superdome, or just plain eccentric behavior. Dinky Bacon deserves international recognition, not persecution, and we will see that he gets his day in court.”

“Cut,” the cameraman said.

“Thanks a bunch, Mister Dubonnet.” His client pumped his hand.

“Don’t forget your court date next Wednesday,” Tubby reminded him.

“I’ll be there,” the cameraman and Dinky said in unison.

The lawyer showed them out.

* * *

“What was that, boss?” Cherrylynn asked.

“Pro bono,” Tubby said innocently. “Whatcha got for me?”

“I’ve got you Police Officer Rick Sandoval,” she said proudly, and showed Tubby what she had printed off the net.

XXVI

The plan had Cherrylynn calling Sandoval, following up on her new request for records. She would invite the policeman downtown to Tubby’s office, using her charms, where he could be confronted by both Tubby and Flowers. The plan, however, went immediately awry.

“I found another file on this Pancera guy you asked about,” Sandoval said. “But this is all irregular. I’m not handing it over to you. I’ve got to watch my ass. If your boss wants it, I’ll give it to him.”

“Oh, that’s fine, Officer,” Cherrylynn said. Tubby was listening in on his line and making thumbs up signs to his secretary. “You can bring it here to the office. I’ll make a copy and hand the file back to you.”

“No, thanks. Tell him I’ll meet him the same place we talked last time.”

“Let me see…”

Tubby broke in. “Meet you at the same place? You mean at Le Bon Temps?”

“Right. I’ll be in the parking lot out back. I get off at four. You can be there at four-thirty.”

Tubby agreed. Then he lined up Flowers. They would do this together.

“He doesn’t know we suspect him of anything,” Tubby said, “so I wouldn’t expect any trouble. We’ll show him the newspaper picture Cherrylynn found and see if he opens up about the shooting of a peace demonstrator.”

“I’m in, Tubby, but he’s not going to say much” was Flowers’ opinion. “You’ve got nothing on him, and he wears a badge.”

* * *

Their plan went awry again. Flowers and Tubby, in separate cars pulled into the gravel parking lot across the street from the Bon Temps bar. The sun was still out, still hot, and the only other car in the lot was a police cruiser.

“I thought he’d be off-duty,” Tubby said into his phone, which was communicating with Flowers. “I wasn’t expecting the car.”

“Hmmmm” was what he got in response.

They each got out, and Sandoval got out. Unlike at their last meeting at the bar, the policeman was fully uniformed and wearing his intimidating belt with its gun, radio, night stick, handcuffs, and Taser.

“Hey,” Tubby said, extending his hand. Sandoval looked at it for a second before he shook it. The two men were almost eye-to-eye. Tubby was heavier across the middle. Sandoval was squared off like a solid block of wood.

“Who’s this guy?” Sandoval asked.

“He’s Sanré Fueres, a private detective. He worked some with Ireanous Babineaux.”

“Hi,” Flowers said. They didn’t shake hands.

“I’ve got one file. It’s in the back seat.” The cop opened the rear door of his NOPD Crown Vic. “Get in and we can talk.”

Flowers was shaking his head, but Tubby slid into the seat and reached for the manila folder.

Sandoval slammed the door.

“Beat it!” he told Flowers.

“No way! Let him out of there!”

Tubby had found that the folder contained blank sheets of paper. He was beating on the window.

Sandoval pulled out his badge and shoved it into Flowers’ face.

“He’s a suspect. Illegal possession of records. You are, too. Bend it over!” He pushed Flowers over the trunk of his police car. “I’m going to arrest you,” he said. “Spread those legs.” He had a hand on his Taser.

This wasn’t Flowers’ first rodeo. Tubby watched as Flowers complied, grim-faced, but without protest. Sandoval efficiently patted him down, then yanked the detective’s arms back and slapped cuffs on his wrists.

“Now,” the cop said. “We’re going back to your car.” Tubby was trying to kick out the glass.

“Keep it up and you’re in the hospital,” Sandoval yelled over his shoulder. He pushed Flowers into the back seat of the detective’s big GMC Yukon.

“Your PI license is on the line, dude,” Sandoval told him. “And there’s a special place in the Mississippi River for private dicks who get in my way.” He slammed the door.

Returning to his police car, Sandoval straightened his shirt and gave his backseat passenger a glare. He checked the vicinity to see if anyone was watching, which apparently they were not, then got in and started up.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Tubby demanded from behind him, imprisoned by the mesh shield. “I’m a lawyer!”

“I don’t care what you are,” Sandoval told him. “Shut up or I’ll tase your pecker.”

Tubby swallowed the several paragraphs about Constitutional rights he was about to deliver and shut up. Squirming around to look, he saw Flowers’ parked car recede in the distance. Sandoval took a right on Magazine and headed toward Audubon Park.

They got to River Road, up near Cooter Brown’s, and Sandoval slowed down. Right before Carrollton Avenue, he entered a cramped parking lot outside a small concrete block building badly in need of paint. There was a sign outside that read, “For Rent,” with a suggestion after that: “Mardi Gras Floats?”

Sandoval pulled Tubby out of the cruiser at gunpoint, used a key to unlock the solid steel door, and pushed Tubby inside. It was dark, but the cop popped a switch, and the dingy space was brightened with fluorescent ceiling lights that hissed. There were no Mardi Gras floats there. Tubby’s focus was on a single chair in the middle on the concrete floor.

“Have a seat,” Sandoval said as he pulled the metal door shut with a clang.

Tubby rushed the cop and got a nightstick in the nose for his trouble. He staggered back and would have fallen on the concrete if he hadn’t hit the chair first.

“Let’s reach an understanding,” Sandoval said, wiping his lips with his hand. “This is going to hurt you a lot worse than it hurts me.”

Blood dripped from the lawyer’s nose, but he held his head up.

“Ah. Ah,” he sighed, trying to shake off the pain.

“You’re in a bad place, counselor,” Sandoval said. He produced a rope from somewhere in the confined room.

Approaching Tubby, he explained, “I’m going to tie you up. If you don’t like it I’ll bust a couple of your ribs first. Believe me, there are no cameras in here.”

Tubby submitted, his head swirling too fast to think of an alternative. Quickly, his hands were bound together, then to the chair. Then his legs were tied together. He had never in his life felt so helpless, except maybe when one of his MP wrestling buddies had squashed his face into the mat.

Mission accomplished, Sandoval went to a corner and spoke into his phone.

“Relax,” he said when he came back. “You’ve got a few minutes.”

* * *

There had been an afternoon, back in Naples, when it was raining and the wind was blowing, making white caps in the bay and tossing the palms around like mop heads. Tubby, secure behind the glass doors to the balcony, thought that maybe he would like it here. The condo towers were obscured by low clouds, the Jaguars on the street had retired, and the sea, with its stirring elemental power, reminded him that this was a real place and not a mere movie set. It was seductive to watch the torrential rain washing over the porch and cascading down in tropical waterfalls from the balcony above.

Marguerite’s larder in the coziness of her apartment was filled with expensive cheeses and wine. On the kitchen counter was a bag of fresh stone crabs just waiting to be cracked and eaten.

Now, tied to a folding chair in a barren concrete warehouse, he could not remember why he had thrown away the chance to live amidst such heavenly delights. In utopia. What could he have been thinking?

* * *

The door creaked open and admitted Carlos Pancera. Tubby knew him only from pictures, but the man had a fierce presence that was memorable and commanded respect. There were two others with him, both of them old-timers like Pancera. One was slender, with gray hair and a deeply lined face. He wore a clerical collar. The other was big, like Tubby, and red-faced with jowls that sagged over a large neck. He was wearing a black Saints sweatshirt over a major potbelly. He looked vaguely familiar. Tubby wondered whether Jason Boaz might be the next one through the door.

The three men huddled with Sandoval for a minute, conversing in low voices out of Tubby’s hearing, though he picked up faint allusions to “asshole” and “troublemaker.” Sandoval fetched more folding chairs from a stack by the wall and arranged them in a half-circle facing their captive. In the spare shadowy room, Tubby was reminded of a séance he had once witnessed while working on a case. Perhaps José Marti would be summoned from the great beyond. Or Fulgencio Batista. Or Parker.

“Who are you guys?” he asked. His mouth was dry. Blood was caking on his lips.

“You know who I am,” Pancera said, his voice like a hammer. “You’ve been asking all over town about me. And who are you? Some unimportant person who can’t mind his own business?”

“You want to know who shot that hippie forty years ago?” Sandoval demanded. “Well, I did.”

“No, you didn’t. It was me,” the fat man said, and Tubby could have believed him. He had mean pig eyes. There was just a hint in that boozy face of the angry boy he might have been.

“Enough from both of you,” Pancera ordered. “The point is that it was a patriotic act. It instilled fear in the enemy.”

“He was just a kid,” Tubby said, exploring the knots binding his wrists with his fingertips, seeking a flaw.

“None of us were kids,” Pancera said scornfully. “We were all young men with brothers and fathers dying around the world fighting socialism. What matter if you killed the enemy in Bolivia or Southeast Asia or New Orleans? It was war.”

“Yeah? Who won?” Tubby baited him.

“We did,” the fat man said.

“What about Cuba?” Tubby asked. “It’s still the same as it was fifty years ago.”

Pancera answered him. “That cause is still unfinished, but one day Cuba will be free. The men you see here now are not too old to fight, and we also have resources.”

The priest, silent till now, added, “I will say Mass again in Havana. I can promise you that. In the very church where I took my first communion.”

“What’s your part in this, Sandoval?” Tubby asked the cop. “Why did you turn over the police file to me?”

“Shut up, turd!” Sandoval stole a quick glance at Pancera and the fat man, who also looked momentarily puzzled. “I’m the one who protects this group by rooting out infiltrators and eliminating little worms like you.”

“Eliminate me!” Tubby blustered. “My detective saw you taking me away.”

“You died trying to escape, and he will also, soon enough.”

“If you’re going to kill me, what’s all this hocus-pocus about?”

“Who are you working for, Mister Dubonnet?” the priest asked gently, resuming the interrogation.

“I’m a lawyer,” Tubby said. “I work for clients.”

“You’re a crud communist,” the fat man said. “I can smell one in a crowd. Who do you really work for?”

“Nobody. I’m not working for anybody. To me this is only about seeing justice done. Don’t you get it? This kid died in my arms.”

“Ah, so you say you just happened to be walking down the street when a gun went off?”

“No, I was with the demonstrators, but…”

“You admit it!”

“We were all kids. I went into the Army.”

“Do you work for the government?” Pancera wanted to know. “Hollywood? Are you writing a book? Is it the Kennedy assassination you are investigating?”

“I have no interest whatsoever in the Kennedy assassination. I think it happened when I was in third grade.”

“You lie through your teeth,” Sandoval grumbled.

“What’s the connection? I just don’t get it.”

“I think he needs a couple of whacks,” the fat man said.

Desperate to change the direction this interrogation was taking, Tubby broke in with, “Why did Officer Babineaux have to die?”

“He was like you and stuck his nose into places it didn’t belong,” Sandoval said.

“But he was your partner, your friend.”

“You think that,” Sandoval said angrily. “He tried to blackmail me into dumping our union president. Alonzo was cutting him out of the business and keeping me in. Babineaux didn’t go for that and threatened me. Some friend, huh?”

“What could he threaten you with?”

Pancera held up his hand palm out to stop the talk. He addressed Tubby. “Let’s just say that we have records going back many years. Our struggle will be chronicled one day in the history books. But the time to make those records public has not yet come. Unfortunately, that black policeman Babineaux you speak of had been given those records for safekeeping by Mister Sandoval after the levees broke during Katrina, since Officer Sandoval’s house was severely flooded. Babineaux was high and dry uptown, and he was heavily fortified in his house. Unfortunately for your policeman, he had too much time on his hands and read those records. He decided to use them for his own purpose, which was to threaten, I’ll call it blackmail, Officer Sandoval for personal advantage. This had to do with some petty dispute he and Sandoval were having about controlling off-duty police assignments. None of that had or has a thing to do with the rest of our group or the historic movement we have been a small part of. Those records are invaluable and of vital interest to us and to history. It was very unwise of him to threaten us in that way.”

“So you killed him?”

Tubby directed that at Pancera, but the policeman and the fat man both laughed.

“No,” Pancera said drily. “I can’t say that I killed anyone. But I was happy to see him gone. I was happy to see our records returned to us for our posterity.”

“Perhaps,” the priest broke in, “this man is not going to answer our questions.”

“I can make him talk,” Sandoval said.

The priest rose from his folding chair and straightened his back. “Life is full of mysteries,” he said vaguely. “We may have to live with the mystery of this man and his motives, even after he has gone to his grave. But,” he added, “if you want to try to pry it out of him, my strong friend, I won’t stop you. I, however, am leaving.”

“I’m staying,” the fat man said.

“I will drive Father home,” Pancera told the group. “You two can take care of everything here.”