4 Shelter From The Storm (17 page)

“Stupid man,” Fox spat through gritted teeth as she sprinted to catch up to the lawyer while at the same time trying to jam a new clip into her 9 mm.

Puffing, Tubby had a fleeting glimpse of Monk and Big Top hustling around a corner in the French Market. Some visitors to the Quarter, attracted to the shots as they would be to any other pyrotechnic entertainment on a dreary holiday, got in the way, and Tubby pushed them aside.

“I’ll be damned. Watch where you’re going,” one of them said in dismay.

Fox caught up with Tubby just before he got to Decatur Street and got a grip on his shirt collar. She pulled hard on the reins just as he reached the corner and forced her way past him. She saw Big Top’s red hair and hints of the two others vanish behind a row of produce trucks and stacks of crated vegetables.

“You stay here,” she ordered. “I’m going around the market that way and catch ’em when they come out.” She streaked away to her right, dodging some tomato vendors who were passing the time sipping coffee and eating hot sausage sandwiches on a wooden box of onions.

“No, I’m going this way,” Tubby called to her retreating figure. He took a gulp of wet sea air and splashed across the parking lot toward the gap in the line of trucks where Big Top had last been seen. He worked his way between the vehicles and found himself in the old open-air farmers’ market. The stalls were mostly closed and covered with plastic. He thought he heard the sound of fleeing footsteps on the pavement flanking the river side of the market and ran in that direction.

A fog obscured much of North Peters Street. Tubby heard a muffled shot and followed the sound, hugging the side of the concrete floodwall for protection. A sudden gust of wind parted the mist, and he saw Monk lying down in the rain-washed street, curled in a fetal position behind some trash barrels.

A ferretlike man, unmistakably the one called “Roux,” with Big Top on his heels, was snaking up the concrete steps that led over the floodwall. Both figures went over the top and were quickly hidden from sight.

Tubby puffed after them, leaving Monk on the ground where he was for Detective Lane to apprehend. The wounded robber heard Tubby running behind him and rolled over to watch him trot the steps. When Monk rolled back around he found the policewoman pointing a gun at him between the garbage cans.

“Oooh,” he moaned, “You got me. Can you help me with this shoulder? I’m bleeding to death.”

Tubby peered cautiously over the top of the floodwall. He could make out LaRue and Big Top running along the railroad tracks, past a string of rusty orange Public Belt rail cars which appeared to be empty but for some vagrants camping out in relative dryness. Big Top had one of the canvas bags on his shoulder. Beyond the two running men, the Mississippi River rode high and swift against the bright green grass of the levee. Unlike the City, the river was not close to overflowing.

Panting down the steps in pursuit, Tubby began to consider his situation. He was unarmed and alone, chasing a pair of murderers at close quarters in a section of the riverfront that, save for a few pot-smoking street freaks, was deserted on this wet Mardi Gras afternoon. One such inhabitant, perched cross-legged on an overturned olive oil can, stared at him dully and suspiciously, but not especially unpleasantly. She tugged at a loose strand of her hair as Tubby huffed past. Two other gentlemen who were closer to Tubby’s age rested on a railroad tie. They passed a joint and nodded vaguely at him in possible recognition.

Tubby hoped that Fox Lane had by now captured Monk and might soon be catching up with him. Otherwise this chase might end up with his own blood on the tracks. The path that LaRue and Big Top had taken was parallel to the river and might soon have them in Jackson Square where tourists were certain to be more plentiful, and where they could probably get lost in the crowd.

Jackson Square did not, however, appear to be their immediate objective. Rue hopped over the railroad tracks and jogged up the side of the grass levee with Big Top’s head hippity-hopping a few paces behind. Though one of the men was burdened by a sack of valuables, they were increasing their distance from Tubby. His musician’s boots, though excellent protection against the rocks in the railroad bed, were beating the hell out of his feet. He was also not in training for competitive running, and only the blind rage caused by the red spot on Dan’s shirtfront had gotten him this far.

A pistol crack sent Tubby headfirst into the dirt. He crawled on all fours for the protection of a rough wooden planter built to draw tourists in this direction on sunnier days. It had once held gardenias but more recently had become somebody’s bedroom.

Edging his nose along the side of the rugged timbers he found a crack stuffed with a discarded baby diaper. Removing it gingerly, he had a view of Big Top and Rue jumping from rock to rock at river’s edge in the distance.

He could see a tug boat, painted red, black and white, churning water against the Esplanade Wharf. The swollen river itself was almost empty of boat traffic. Its gray expanse blended into an overcast sky, which even the seagulls had abandoned for stations on the wooden piers under the docks.

LaRue and Big Top clambered up onto the wharf accompanied by screeches of these same birds, and they ran for the tugboat. If Tubby had had a hunting rifle, he could just about have popped them at this range. But he didn’t.

Big Top, bag and all, leapt from the dock to the deck of the vessel below.

LaRue was telling him to put the ladder up for him, and Tubby started running toward them again.

Big Top got the ladder in place and LaRue started climbing down. He saw Tubby lumbering down the planks of the wharf and he calmly sighted his .45 down the rough creosoted surface.

A wave caused the tug boat to lurch, and with it the ladder. LaRue’s shot went wild, but Tubby prudently fell flat again. LaRue jumped for the deck and pulled the ladder with him.

In the cabin, drinking coffee, Captain Ambrose thought he heard a loud noise, but over the thunder of his twin screws he couldn’t quite be sure. He had them turning at two knots against the current just to keep the boat in one place beside the quay wall. He was not even tied up to the pier because he did not plan to be here long. His mate had just gone ashore to escort his girlfriend and Captain Ambrose’s wife back to their cars. The two ladies had slipped on board Sunday night, and would have gone home yesterday had not the flood cut them off from their vehicles. With the city under water, the river was the safest place to be.

The captain had been sweating their presence ever since, because having a woman, even your wife, on board violated a large number of company regulations— especially if you were supposed to be working. And yesterday he had been working nonstop to secure a harborful of big oceangoing ships to safe moorings in the port as the river rose higher and the wind blew harder.

Both women had been forced to hide belowdecks in the kitchen, where they played cards, read the mate’s
Playboy
, and got in a big argument about whether you put tomatoes in jambalaya. They were very cranky by the afternoon, and Captain Ambrose was so wired by then that he had even put a nasty dent at the waterline of a freighter. Someone was bound to notice it sooner or later. Now, a day after he had expected, he was finally rid of both of them. And if only his mate would hurry up and get aboard he could get this vessel back onto the river where it was supposed to be.

He heard footsteps rapping up the stairs from the galley below.

“Harley, that you?” he asked. “Fix us some coffee.”

But the face that came through the hatch door belonged to some skinny wharf rat he had never seen before.

“Who do you think you are?” Captain Ambrose bellowed. Then he saw the gun in LaRue’s hand.

“Shut up, shithead,” LaRue coughed, advancing into the cabin. He was out of breath and getting that sleepy feeling.

Staggering up the stairs behind him was a red headed man trying to get a gun out of his plaid Bermuda shorts.

LaRue pointed to the controls arrayed on the polished mahogany console.

“Get this boat out in the river,” he commanded. “We’re taking a ride. Do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”

“You ain’t allowed in the boat,” Ambrose snarled.

LaRue stuck the barrel of the pistol in his face.

“You got any family?” he asked.

Ambrose bit his lip, thinking he did have a wife he loved pretty damn much even though she had been a major pain in the ass for the past thirty-six hours.

“All right,” he said grumpily, swiveling around to his control panel. “Where ya wanna go?”

“Upriver, and fast,” LaRue directed.

The captain pushed on a chrome lever with an orange ball on top, and the chugging below grew in volume. The floor throbbed.

Tubby meanwhile was running across the wharf and waving at Fox Lane, who he could see coming on foot over the levee, to hurry up. As the tugboat started to rumble away from the pier, Tubby took a giant leap and crashed onto the deck.

He lay there in a heap for more than a minute as the boat roared back from the dock, too blue to move. His clearing vision enhanced the pain, and he decided his skull was cracked. His face, pressed into the corrugated steel, was on fire. But he wanted to tangle with “Roux.” It was a compulsion to hurt someone such as he had not felt since he’d wrestled for his alma mater and old Coach Rugg had worked him into a frenzy at the state championship, urging him to tear every son of a bitch apart.

Tubby got himself into a sitting position and rested his head against the cool steel wall. Fox Lane’s silhouette was getting smaller on the shore. She had her hands by her chin— radioing for help, he hoped.

Captain Ambrose watched the dock recede with mounting anger. Taking the
Prissy Ann
out against the current at near flood stage was only moderately hazardous, but it used up lots of diesel, and it was something he usually got paid for.

“Where y’at, Ambrose? Over,” his radio crackled. It was Robin at the office. The captain reached the transmitter and switched it on.

“Leave it alone. Don’t answer,” LaRue ordered.

Big Top was entranced by all the lights and gauges.

“What happened to Monk?” LaRue asked him.

“He got shot in the arm and couldn’t run no more.”

“Who’s that on board, Ambrose?” the radio inquired.

Ambrose looked over his shoulder at LaRue. “You realize this is piracy,” he said. “And this here is the Port of New Orleans. That makes it a Loosiana crime.”

LaRue bent down and put his nose next to the captain’s.

“Shut up,” he said quietly. He extended his hand and flipped off the transmitter. “Get cute with me again and I’ll sink your damn boat. You can believe that.”

“Monk dropped one of the bags of stuff,” Big Top said dejectedly. “I couldn’t carry them both.”

LaRue looked through the glass over the bow, which was parting endlessly repeating black-edged waves. Approaching in the distance were the twin spans of the Crescent City Connection, looming like medieval castles guarding a mountain pass.

“Get in closer to shore,” LaRue directed. “This ain’t gonna be a long ride.”

The sound of the weather door grating open below caused LaRue to step quickly to the top of the stairs. He saw nothing, so he opened the aft door on the bridge and stepped outside of the cabin where he could look down on the deck. The wind whipped his hair around and made his eyes water.

He saw that asshole Dubonnet scampering around the back of the boat to hide. LaRue fired once, sending a bullet whanging off the side of the pretty steel tug and into the vastness of the river. Carefully, he inched down the exterior stepladder to the deck.

As directed, Captain Ambrose pointed his boat toward the spire of the St. Louis Cathedral, and the
Prissy Ann
began digging through the murky deep toward the tourist overlook where stevedores had once loaded half the world’s cotton onto steamboats.

When he saw LaRue descend out of sight on the ladder, the captain seized his opportunity. He grabbed the red whistle handle that dangled just above his head and gave it a good pull. An earsplitting “BZOOOOO” escaped from the air horns on top of the tug.

Big Top spun around spasmodically in search of the source of the ungodly sound, and Captain Ambrose took full advantage of his lack of vigilance. He lifted the massive brass handle off the directional finder and slammed it with a mighty “Hunh” against the back of Big Top’s head.

The blow added momentum to Big Top’s rotation but did not entirely brain him. He dropped his gun to the floor with a clatter but had enough survival instinct to grab the handle of the door to the outside where LaRue had gone, pull the lever, and reach open air.

Ambrose jerked his craft hard astern to avoid colliding with the boulders piled up to protect the shoreline. The lurch sent the addled red-haired robber tumbling mindlessly down the steps. He screamed and splatted onto the deck below.

Captain Ambrose heard someone coming up from the galley. Crouching down, he picked up Big Top’s gun, ready to plug whoever came through the hatch.

“Whoa!” Tubby yelled, coming face-to-face with a crimson-cheeked seaman pointing a small cannon at him.

“Who are you?” Ambrose demanded.

“I’m a lawyer,” Tubby said, hands up.

Ambrose shook his head in puzzlement. He had never let a lawyer aboard his boat before.

With a menacing curl of his lip he gestured for Tubby to advance, which he did in a rush when another gun fired from somewhere below them and a bullet hole appeared in the overhead of the cabin.

“That sorry bastard!” Ambrose screamed. “Quit shooting in my boat.”

“Lemme use that gun,” Tubby begged. “I’ll go down and keep him busy, and you get us back to the dock. Call the police on your radio.”

Ambrose was not used to having so many things go wrong at once in his floating kingdom, but he had not survived working on the river for twenty-five years because he flaked in a crisis. Snarling, he tossed the pistol to the lawyer and returned to his controls with both hands busy. He set a course for the most immediate mooring, where the steamboat
Natchez
was berthed.