4 Shelter From The Storm (11 page)

“Can I use your phone, Mr. Brownlee?” Collette asked. “I’ve got to call my mom.”

Tubby was starting to feel better. He had described the murder of Mrs. Lostus to Dan, and they shed a few tears for her. They said what they would do to the murderers if they ever caught them, and they shared a couple of drinks. They agreed that crime had gotten totally out of control.

“If it weren’t for the good weather, I mean usually good weather, nobody would live here.” Tubby announced angrily.

“’Where blackness is a virtue,’” Dan said solemnly into his glass. “Now what song is that from?”

In time, Wild Dan left Tubby with the bourbon bottle while he attended to his business in the lobby, and the lawyer drank off his chill. Then he scrounged up a dry pair of toreador pants, a ruffled silk shirt, and some shiny black lace-up boots left behind by a calypso band that had once played in the bar.

Tubby checked himself in a cracked mirror leaning against the wall and tried out what he remembered of his bossa nova repertoire.

“Zorro, my padrone,” Dan clapped.

“Did you find me a room?” Tubby asked, hand on hip, elbow and knee counterpoised.

“Not yet,” Dan said, helping himself to a tumbler of spirits. “The place is overflowing with guests. There are people in the lobby offering unlimited sums of money, their bodies, you name it, for a room key. Them who’s got a chair are afraid to leave it to go to the can.”

“Is it still raining?” Tubby asked.

“Buckets, son,” Dan said, knocking back his whiskey neat. He wrinkled his mustache and sneezed. “Damn manager needs to turn up the heat in this place. Saves it all for the paying guests. No consideration at all for the workers.”

“I suppose I could stick it out here,” Tubby said, surveying the shelves packed with luggage. He could make a mattress out of a wide selection of carry-on bags.

“No, don’t give it up yet. I’ve got my friends here.” Dan gave Tubby a mysterious wink. “I ain’t talked to all of ’em yet. We’ll get you a bed, never fear.”

“And something to eat,” Tubby added.

“The kitchen ain’t up and running yet, but I heard ol’ Chef Fouise banging around in there cussin’ up a storm, so I reckon we’ll get it going soon.”

A bell on the wall rang, and Dan hopped.

“Be cool, brother,” he said in parting. “Ol’ Dan will take care of everything. I own this place, man.” He hustled back to the lobby.

Tubby flipped through the magazines stacked on an old steamer trunk.
Penthouse
,
Racing Form
,
Mother Jones
. He saw on each cover the back of Mrs. Lostus’s head split by a dark red hole, sinking into the swirling water.

He found an orange furniture pad and wrapped it around himself for warmth. Seated again on his folding chair, shiny boots propped on the steamer trunk, he dozed off.

Dan’s rough hand on his shoulder brought him back to life.

“Wake up, Tee,” he said. “I got you a crib.”

Tubby stretched.

Dan stood back, fist to his chin, and appraised him.

“My God, don’t you look like a dandy. The cape is perfect. She’s going to love you.”

“Who is ‘she’?” Tubby asked, yawning.

“Your roommate,” Dan said, stuffing Tubby’s wet clothes into a pillowcase. “I don’t think these will ever come clean. I can run them through the hotel laundry and see what they can do. Unless you want to take them with you.”

“Go ahead. I have a roommate?”

“Everybody is doubling up. And you are going to like this one. She’s real nice looking. She’s all by herself, and she’s been drinking all day.”

“And she’ll let me stay with her?” Tubby was dubious.

“She wants to see you before she commits, of course, but she trusts me. We’ve developed a very friendly relationship over the past two days. I told her what an important lawyer you are. That you’re a gentleman. That you’re desperate. I suggested you might pick up the tab for the hotel.”

“The room has two beds?”

“You betcha, son. It’s one of the best. It’s a Mardi Gras special, with a balcony and everything. She reserved it months ago.”

“Well, let’s go and see if she’ll have me.” Tubby rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Only thing, I think you better lose the orange cape. It clashes with your pretty red trousers.”

Tubby followed Dan through the lobby, weaving through clusters of people laughing over drinks and others curled up on the Persian rugs sleeping, all washed up by the storm. A few of the squatters, in honor of the season, were in costumes more outrageous than Tubby’s own.

“The stairs are quicker,” Dan said and led them up the creamy marble steps.

Down a purple-carpeted hallway they went until Dan stopped and rapped on the door of Room 209.

“Who’s there?” a woman asked.

“Room service. Your guest is here,” Dan called.

The door flew open, and Tubby beheld a tall blue-eyed female dressed in baggy jeans and a bulky gray sweatshirt that hid her shape.

“What have we got here?” she asked loudly, checking out the large man in the undersized red pants.

Tubby blushed.

“This is Tubby Dubonnet,” Dan interceded. “He’s a lawyer with excellent manners. I vouch for him completely.” Dan poked Tubby in the back and winked at Marguerite. “He got caught in the storm and is seeking shelter.”

“Come in,” she said, standing aside to let them pass. “I guess he’s acceptable,” she said to Dan. “Bathroom’s to the left. Bar’s straight ahead.”

Dan pushed Tubby over the threshold.

“I really do appreciate this, Miss Patino,” Dan said. “I know you haven’t had much fun in New Orleans so far. If it ever quits raining, I know Tubby here will show you a real good time.”

“Uh…” Tubby began.

“Now I gotta get back to work.” Dan stepped into the hall. “Check you later,” he said, cocking his finger at Tubby, and closed the door on them.

“Ahem,” Tubby said, looking around.

“Don’t just stand there,” Marguerite said. “Fix a drink, pull up a chair, and tell me about yourself. Just make it entertaining.”

She jumped onto one of the beds, strained to reach a plastic glass full of a golden liquid on the night stand, and sat cross-legged on the spread, waiting.

“I have to call the police,” Tubby said.

Marguerite put one hand over her eyes and with the other lifted the glass to her lips and drained it.

“Right,” Tubby said to the police operator, trying hard not to shout his frustration. “Carondelet near Common Street. That’s where she was shot. That’s where the body disappeared in the water.”

“Look, can you try to get this information to Detective Fox Lane in Homicide? Give her my name and this number?”

Slowly he read the hotel’s number off the phone.

“Room two-oh-nine… Right… Thanks.”

Marguerite was lying on her side, propped up on elbow, listening and watching Tubby carefully.

“That’s what happened to me today,” he said.

She tossed the hair out of hers eyes.

“I asked for action,” she said and held out her glass. “Pour me some wine, big guy.”

Tubby opened the wooden cabinet that concealed a large TV, a bar, and a refrigerator. Her half-empty bottle of Chardonnay was floating in a stainless steel ice bucket. He fixed himself a glass by emptying two mini-bottles of Wild Turkey.

Outside it was raining.

“It was nice of you to let me in.” He served her.

“Do you always dress like that?” she asked.

“No,” he laughed. “I stole them off the conga player in the dining room.”

“Speaking of which, did you see any food down there?”

“No, but I could sure use some.”

“You got any dough?”

“Absolutely.” He smiled, showing her the gold card in the pocket of his ruffled shirt.

“Oh, goody,” she said. “Let’s make it a party.”

* * *

Wendell carefully tapped the filé out of the cylindrical jar into a teaspoon. It was a spice he was not familiar with, but the recipe he had found for okra shrimp gumbo called for it, and the man at the A & P where they had shopped earlier that day— a long time ago, it seemed now— had known just what they were talking about. Wendell was so absorbed in his culinary endeavor that he had almost forgotten that he and Edward were prisoners and that their captors were getting staggeringly drunk in the living room.

Or two of them were. Monk and Big Top had pushed the furniture against the walls and between shots of vodka and Scotch were leg-wrestling on the throw rug. Periodically they would throw open the shuttered front door and thrash around outside in the flood waters, which remained on a level with the first doorstep. The rain was intermittent now, sometimes rolling down the street like a water cannon, sometimes stopping entirely.

As the evening wore on, more neighbors— a strange assortment of long-haired teenage kids with artfully torn clothing, lost-looking drunks, potbellied men in undershirts, and knights in black leather— were poking their heads outside and, in many instances, wading about. It being a fairly transient neighborhood, no one paid any special attention to the water antics of Monk and Big Top. Mainly they passed greetings and comments on the weather. The canoe moored to the front door was a conversation piece, but nobody tried to steal it or contest their ownership.

Edward had escaped to the bathroom to read a magazine in seclusion and get out of the range of the two crazy bank robbers. He was under orders to stay inside and away from the front door, and he had no immediate intention of challenging the rule. For one thing, he could not abandon Wendell. For another, jumping into the dirty water covering the sidewalk had no appeal to him whatsoever. For a third, he feared his captors, especially the one called Rue, who, thankfully, was off to himself in the bedroom.

LaRue had needed a nap, but he didn’t want anybody to know. He collapsed on the four-poster bed and went numb. After about twenty minutes, the bright light in his brain switched on again, and he sat upright. Seeing that he was alone and secure, he straightened his clothes and began taking an inventory of the stolen loot. Dragging one of the wet sacks to the side of the bed, he inspected the booty piece by piece. He could see already that they were rich.

He had Krugerrands, diamond bracelets, emerald rings, fine silver, packets of currency, ruby brooches, gold pins, antique chessmen, solid bullion, pieces of eight, gem encrusted cufflinks, long strands of pearls, engraved pocket watches, and some legal documents rolled up in a scroll and tied with a purple ribbon.

The phone had come back on, and he tried to make his call twice. First he got no answer, which could mean there were still problems with the line. The second time, a woman whom he did not know answered, and he hung up.

It disturbed LaRue to be out of touch with the man who had conceived this operation only because he wanted to bring it to a rapid conclusion. This involved turning over certain things and also getting paid in untraceable cash. He was not concerned about his present safety, however, and he did not mind making up the rules as he went along. Ever since he had backed a pickup truck over his father, LaRue had been able to make the tough choices. Upon reconsideration he had even decided that getting rid of the guard and the woman were smart things to do— calculated risks, so to speak. Sometimes people get in the way. He figured the chances of getting caught for either act were zero.

Edward’s reverie in the bathroom was interrupted by a pounding on the door.

“The two debauchers,” he said to himself.

He drew back the bolt and found Big Top, scrawny in his underwear, muddy and dripping copiously.

“What the hell are you doing in here, sleeping?” Big Top screeched.

“Just reading a magazine,” Edward said truthfully.

“Tell you what,” Big Top announced, pushing past him. “I’m going to take a shower and clean up for supper.”

He stripped off his shorts and socks, hopping one-legged around the bathroom and banging into the sink. He threw his soggy clothes in Edward’s general direction. “See if there ain’t a washing machine around here, would you?”

“There’s not,” Edward said, offended.

“Then I’ll wear some of your dry clothes. While I’m in here you can haul out your duds and I’ll see what you got.”

Big Top closed the door on him. Monk was stretched out in a wet spot on the floor, watching the ceiling fan rotate slowly in the breeze from the windows.

“Howya doin’, buddy?” he inquired lazily as Edward stepped over him.

Edward did not reply. In the kitchen, Wendell was humming an upbeat tune and chopping onions and tomatoes.

“It’ll be done soon,” he said, intent on his work.

“It looks wonderful,” Edward said. “But what about getting away,” he whispered. “Don’t you think we should make a run for it?”

“But my soufflé is in the oven,” Wendell said crossly.”

“What are you making” Edward asked.

“Cheese Soufflé and Chicken Louisiane.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, you fry up the chicken and then you put on the olives, and the artichokes, and the mushrooms, and a little sherry, and the secret ingredients, and that’s what it is,” Wendell said, dusting the flour off his hands. “You serve it on rice.”

“It smells great. But you know they might kill us, or something. I think we could slip out the front door.”

“And go where? It’s an ocean out there. Would you like some wine?” He poured a glass for himself from the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon airing out on the Mexican-tiled counter.

“We could find a police station. There must be one around here. Or we could knock on doors until somebody took us in.”

“And leave all of our stuff?” Wendell raked the tomatoes and onions into the iron pot simmering on the gas stove. He flourished his carving knife in the air.

“I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously,” Edward complained.

Wendell took his friend by the hand. “We’re in a flood, in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, and have been kidnapped by desperadoes. I should take that seriously? They don’t seem so dangerous to me. Well, maybe that Rue, but not the other guys.” He consulted his cookbook. “Cook soufflé twenty to twenty-five minutes in a moderate oven,” he muttered. “Shrimp, ham, or chicken may be added.”