4 Shelter From The Storm (18 page)

Tubby, gun extended in front of him, began a slow, quivering descent to the galley.

At the bottom he jumped across the open space and cased the room from a half-crouch.

The weathertight door to the outside deck was open and swinging in the wind, and Tubby cautiously stuck his head through.

He saw LaRue bent over Big Top’s body.

The robber squirmed around and placed one shot into the metal plate half an inch from Tubby’s forehead, and Tubby stepped onto the deck and fired back. The bullet might have hit the unconscious Big Top or might have struck a Creole cottage a mile away, but it clearly missed its target.

The canvas sack was on the deck between them.

With Captain Ambrose again blowing his air horn in protest, LaRue ripped the diamond necklace off Big Top’s chilly neck, and stood to face Tubby, gun to gun, mano a mano.

“You’re empty,” LaRue said.

“Doubt it,” Tubby wheezed. He aimed at LaRue’s midsection and pulled the trigger.

Loud click. Tubby looked dully at his weapon.

“I ain’t,” LaRue said.

Driven by instinct alone, Tubby hugged his head with both hands and jumped over the side. The roiling brown water of the Mississippi reached for him, then surrounded him with cold.

The
Prissy Ann’s
throbbing screws whipped him down, around, over and up, and through no power of his own he was expelled to the surface gulping for air.

Through the blond hair pasted over his forehead he glimpsed the spire of St. Louis Cathedral above the waves and began swimming furiously for the shore.

Aided by the tugboat’s wake, he washed against the rocks underpinning the levee. He hugged one, tried to stagger over it, and fell. He reached the Moon Walk by crawling.

Hippies dressed as one-eyed undertakers helped him ashore and laid him out on the warm timbers. He choked and heaved and blew off his nearly lethal dose of water like a beached whale.

An anxious sampling of local citizenry formed around him, offering freely their advice and opinion in a medley of dialects and languages from around the globe.

In a surprisingly short time, Tubby found that his faculties responded to the helm, and he tried standing up to the accompaniment of an impromptu blues band that was striking up a tune on the benches beside him and passing the hat. In fact, after all that running, the dip seemed to have done him some good. Smiling sheepishly and thanking everyone, Tubby broke through the circle of curiosity-seekers and climbed up the steps to see what had become of the
Prissy Ann
.

She was against the dock, not more than a hundred yards away, churning the river steadily near the stern of the steamboat
Natchez
.

Tubby hurried in that direction, and the imperturbable captain watched his approach from high on the tug’s bridge.

“Can you grab a rope and tie us off?” Ambrose yelled at Tubby, “Or are you a fucking pussy?”

Tubby was a fucking pussy, but he helped to get the boat tied up. Captains evidently never did that kind of shit. Afterwards, adrenaline wearing off, Tubby also took off his wet shoes all by himself and lay down on the wharf to rest, all by himself. He was watching a pair of seagulls float lightly on currents of air when Fox Lane and a much larger policeman cantered up on a strong bay mare.

The uniformed officer put his hands around Fox’s waist and lifted her off the horse tenderly. She looked up smiling and said thank you. She was also glad to see Tubby.

“The main guy, ‘Roux,’ got away,” Tubby complained. “He took the money with him.”

“At least I got the black dude,” Fox said. “He’s in the custody of this officer’s partner. What did you say your name was?” She looked up.

“Reginald,” he said smiling down from the saddle.

“The other one, the redheaded guy, is down on the deck. I think he’s dead,” Tubby said.

That took the smile off Reginald’s face, and he dismounted. His steed lowered its head, snorted, and grazed around for hot dog buns and novel smells on the creosoted wharf.

“He’s not dead,” Fox called out. She was down on the deck, kneeling over Big Top. The uniformed cop climbed down to look over her shoulder. He began talking on his radio. Tubby was six feet above them, on dry land, and he had no intention of returning to the boat.

“Ah, man, Rue,” Big Top said softly.

“Is his name ‘Roux’? Was he the guy in charge?” Fox asked.

“He stole my damn diamonds,” Big Top said. His eyes were not looking at anything.

Reginald took his radio away from his ear.

“They lost him in Jackson Square,” he reported. “An officer had him in sight, but he started throwing jewelry and money at people. Sounds like he started a riot and then beat feet.”

Fox shook Big Top’s shoulder.

“What’s his name? Where did he go?” she repeated.

“I know where he went,” Big Top said dreamily. “What’s the name of that river up by the lake?”

“River?”

“Bayou St. John?” Tubby’s voice came from above.

“That’s it,” Big Top said happily. “Across from a golf course. That’s where he was supposed to meet ’em.”

“Meet who?”

“Hell, how would I know? That’s where we was to go to get paid.” Big Top coughed. “My head hurts like the devil.”

“We got an ambulance coming,” Reginald told him.

“Whew,” Big Top said, and expired.

“You missed him by half an hour,” Wendell told Tubby. He and Edward were straightening up the mess in the apartment and taking an inventory of their clothes. “It took a long time, but the ambulance finally came and got your friend.”

“His name is Dan,” Tubby said. “Where did they say they were taking him?”

“Charity Hospital, I’m pretty sure they said.”

“Where’s Marguerite?”

Wendell avoided Tubby’s gaze and busied himself with his broom.

“She left right after the ambulance did,” he said finally.

Tubby stroked his chin. Then he brushed past Wendell and left a new trail of muddy footprints into the bedroom. It was just as he had left it an hour and a half before except that there was no sign of any stolen property or any canvas bag.

He turned to find Wendell watching him from the doorway.

“Where’s the bag full of stuff?” Tubby squeezed Wendell’s arm above the elbow. He noticed Edward, kicking back in an arm chair, hands clasped over his stomach watching the cobwebs on the ceiling.

“Uh, what bag?” Wendell said, squirming against the pressure of the fingers gripping him.

“Don’t give me that shit,” Tubby said, squeezing harder.

“Your ladyfriend took it,” Edward called.

“She just took it?” Tubby said incredulously.

“Acted like it was hers,” Edward said.

“You mind letting go of my arm?” Wendell asked.

“Sorry,” Tubby said, letting go. “How did she get it out of here?”

“Just carried it out on her shoulder,” Edward told the ceiling.

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Tubby said.

“Of course, I didn’t really pay attention,” Edward said.

“Neither did I,” Wendell agreed.

Tubby’s hands rolled into fists and his eyes narrowed to slits.

Then he closed them and almost laughed.

“Did she happen to say where she was going?” he asked.

Wendell shook his head. Edward shook his head.

“She said this was one vacation she was going to remember,” Wendell added.

* * *

Fox Lane spent the last hours of daylight methodically trudging around the places where cars could pull off Wisner Boulevard to park beside Bayou St. John. Eventually she found an empty blue Ford Taurus sitting under a tall cypress tree. It was unlocked, and the ignition had been popped. There was mud all over the driver’s seat. She had not a doubt that the vehicle would soon be reported stolen, and that this was the car the man Tubby called Roux had used to get from the French Quarter to this spot. Someone had picked him up here.

There were no other signs of her quarry, so she called downtown for a tow truck. If the vehicle didn’t get stripped first, she could go over the car thoroughly at the impound lot. She was willing to bet she would not turn up a damn thing.

All in all, it hadn’t been a bad day though. Of the three men who might be charged with homicide, one was dead and one was wounded and in custody. Considering how much better this was than her department’s old averages, she might even get a commendation from the chief.

* * *

Intensive care was a quiet place. The nurse in charge, seated in the center of a circular counter in the middle of a round room, kept Tubby in view from the moment the white door whooshed open until he presented himself at her desk.

“Dan Haywood?” he inquired.

“Are you a relative?” she inquired.

“I’m a friend of his, and his lawyer,” Tubby said.

Satisfied, she pointed to a segment of the ward curtained off from view and asked him to please be very quiet.

Tiptoeing, Tubby pushed the stiff fabric aside and stared at a very sick man.

The face that was sticking out of the blue blanket was gray and pasty. Dan had tubes coming out of his nose and out of his inert, outstretched arm. There was so much equipment around him he looked like he was sleeping in a stereo store.

Tubby was following the curve of Dan’s substantial gut where he knew the bullet had gone in, when it suddenly rose and fell. The head shuddered, and the mouth exhaled. Then the body was still again.

“What’s his condition?” Tubby asked the nurse as quietly as he could.

She was filling out a chart with a red pen and did not look up when she spoke. “He’s listed as ‘critical,’” she said. “For more information you’ll have to talk to the doctors.”

“Okay. Where are they?”

“Best bet is tomorrow morning around nine o’clock. They’re all making rounds then.”

“Well, I mean is he going to live?”

“I hope so, sir. Critical means he has an extremely serious injury. All we can do is hope for the best.”

“But, like, what are his chances?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” She put down her pen and looked over the top of her glasses. “That’s all I can tell you.”

Tubby gave it up.

At the other end of the hall, a policeman sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair outside a closed door.

“Is the patient in there named Monk?” Tubby asked. Now that he was near the uniformed man he realized that he was not a city police officer, but rather a deputy from the Criminal Sheriff’s Department.

“Who are you?” The guard straightened up in the chair and thought about standing up.

“I’m a lawyer. Tubby Dubonnet. I’m trying to locate a prisoner named Monk who was shot this afternoon in the French Market.”

“Are you his lawyer?”

“Probably not,” Tubby said wearily.

“So.” The jail guard jerked his thumb as in instruction to depart.

“Well, would you mind giving him this?” Tubby offered an ivory card on which his embossed name looked far more neat and elegant than he actually felt.

“If he wakes up,” the guard said.

“You might tell him his partner, Big Top, got killed, and the man they were working for ripped the diamond necklace right off his neck.”

Tubby left the hospital and walked through dark and almost deserted streets to retrieve his car. It was time to go home and see what kind of mess the water had left him.

Except for a neighbor’s car stuck in the mud of his front lawn and some strange garbage cans lodged in his azaleas, his home was fine— or as fine as he had left it. He called his ex-wife, Mattie.

“Hello,” she answered loudly.

“Hi, this is me. How are y’all making out?”

“We had two feet of water in the yard. It covered up the deck, but nothing got in the house. Collette got trapped in a cab and had to spend the night with total strangers. Two of her friends are here, too. We’re all making pancakes and doing our toenails.”

“What about Debbie?”

“She’s fine. She’s at Marcos’ apartment. It’s on the second floor. Their lights were out all day, and every time I talked to her she was in bed, so I guess the marriage is still on.”

Tubby nodded. That was okay.

“Christine was trapped here all day with me,” Mattie continued. “Everybody was wondering where you were. The kids were worried.” She didn’t say she had been.

“I was stuck in the French Quarter. Dan Haywood got me a room at the Royal Montpelier. But we got involved in something, and Dan got shot in the stomach. He’s in intensive care at Charity.”

“Got involved with something. Dan got shot?”

“Yeah. Me, I’m okay.”

“What on earth happened?”

“It’s a long story. Tell the girls to call me when they get finished with their feet.” It was his story to tell, not Mattie’s.

They hung up.

Tubby stripped his clothes off on the way to the bathroom and stepped into a hot shower. Half an hour later he slipped under the covers and fell asleep, a full glass of bourbon untouched beside his bed.

On Ash Wednesday the sun shown brightly in a cloudless blue sky and the world repented. Fresh breezes stirred the crape myrtle trees and lifted the flowers from the flattened grass. Children came out to play. Parishioners walked to church for their mark of Lent. The city was fresh and clean momentarily, excesses forgotten.

On Tubby’s front doorstep, the
Times-Picayune
lay just as it should. He stooped down to get it and, standing up, breathed deeply an elixir of sea salt, blossoming trees, rotting leaves, and the bacon he had frying in the kitchen. But for the automobiles stranded in odd places, and the line of organic matter a foot upon on the foundation of his house, there was nothing to suggest that yesterday the world had almost come to an end.

He settled down in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and chicory, five crisp strips of bacon, and a tomato he had picked up from the vegetable man on Nashville Avenue on Saturday— a long time ago. The headline on the front page was two inches tall and said, “MARDI GRAS WASHED OUT.” All other stories of international significance were relegated to the back pages. Thankfully, however, the courts of Rex and Comus had converged.

Three people had died, one story reported, and a woman’s body had been found lodged in the street drain grating near the end of Poydras where police K-9 dogs were trained. As an aside, two of the noble German shepherds had escaped drowning by sitting through the rainy day on top of their kennels. One had actually climbed a 12-foot fence topped with razor wire to get to freedom. Damage was estimated in the hundreds of millions of dollars. The previously unsinkable French Quarter had taken a heavy hit, washing a century of crud from barroom floors. The railroad bed of the St. Charles streetcar was badly eroded, and RTA officials estimated that it would take an amount equal to the entire federal appropriation for the nation’s mass transit program in each of the next six years to repair it adequately. Grant applications were in the works.