5 Crime Czar (12 page)

“You look great,” the lawyer said admiringly. Fox was coffee-colored and from an old family, what New Orleans called Creole. Compliments had never bothered her.

“Hello, Counselor,” she said with a smile that showed off a lot of white teeth. “You look pretty good yourself.”

Indeed, Tubby had primped for the occasion. He was wearing a new summer seersucker he had just picked up at Perlis and had gotten his hair cut that very afternoon by the barber in the Whitney Bank. He gallantly swept his arm across the table and invited her to join him.

The waiter asked what they might like to drink and pulled some menus from behind his back.

Fox ordered a glass of Merlot, Tubby an Old Fashioned.

“Ever been here before?” he asked.

“No, I’ve wanted to.” She looked around at the palm trees and stars cut from brightly colored aluminum. “Reminds me of the World’s Fair.”

“Yeah, loud.”

“Garish.”

“Right, tacky.”

“I like it.”

“The menu has quite a few interesting things.” He studied the list of salads with shrimp and crisp-fried crawfish, Crescent City wraps, and Baja stir-fried vegetables. If this didn’t hook Fox, nothing would.

“Here’s a dinner for two,” he pointed out. “Barbecued shrimp and fettuccine with Creole seasonings and lemon-butter garlic, and an oyster Rockefeller pizza. Why don’t we just get that?”

“That’s a definite diet buster. What is it you want me to do, Tubby? Give up my job and run away to Nassau with you?”

“Would you?”

She smiled and accepted a glass of wine from the waiter. Tubby placed their order.

“You’ve gotta admire a place like this that is not afraid of doing something new, that has an aggressive spirit,” Tubby began.

“Yeah, there are a bunch of new cops like that in my district. Real virile, who do push-ups for fun.”

“I thought that described you.”

“Not any more.” She swallowed some wine. “Nowadays I just try to get through, not break through. You were about to tell me what the occasion is for the dinner I’m about to enjoy.”

“Let’s just relax for a minute.”

“Let me guess. This is to pay me back for all the times I’ve helped you out. And especially for saving you from the bank robbers in the French Quarter last Mardi Gras.”

“You were great.”

“So I’m right.”

“Sure, I got a lot to thank you for, Fox, and there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

Fox nodded. “Get it off your chest, big boy,” she said.

“You know how, on that bank job, I kept saying there was someone else behind it, a bigger boss hiding in the woodwork— a crime czar.”

“Crime czar,” the policewoman repeated flatly. She fingered the stem of her wineglass and stared at the tablecloth.

“Yeah, and now I know who it is.”

“Who, Tubby?”

Tubby leaned across the table so that he would not be overheard by any nearby snoop.

“Sheriff Frank Mulé,” he whispered.

The detective’s eyes shot up to meet his.

“I’m afraid you’ve slipped a gear, old friend,” she said softly.

“No, wait a minute. I’ve actually met with him. And you know who took me to the meeting?”

“Who?”

“A man named Willie LaRue. The one who you rescued me from. The one who shot Dan Haywood. The one you said burned up in a fire.”

“I had a dead body,” Fox said defensively. “But you say he’s still alive?”

“Yes. We had breakfast together yesterday morning. Me, LaRue, and Mulé. At Shoney’s, if you can believe that.”

“You can identify this LaRue as the one who shot your friend?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“Where is he? I’ll pick him up myself.”

“I don’t want him picked up. LaRue doesn’t count. It’s the big boss who counts. Mulé.”

“Tubby,” Fox almost hissed across the table. “What is your evidence for saying these things about Sheriff Mulé? He’s one of the most respected law enforcement officials in the parish.”

“Respected or feared?”

“Both. What’s your proof?”

“I’m going to get proof. I’m setting up a scam where I can get him to show his hand. Only thing is, I need up-front money to make it happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I need a pretty big amount of money. Like half a million dollars.”

“Now I know you’re nuts.”

“I know your department doesn’t have that kind of money. But you know people in the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s office. That’s probably small change for them. You could introduce me. Don’t forget, this is your case.”

“In no way, shape, or form is this my case. Now you forget that crap about half a million dollars. Tell me where to find LaRue. My job is to catch murderers.”

“Fox, I won’t tell you where LaRue is. Now let me explain my plan.”

“I got dressed up for this?” She was indignant.

“I’ve got Mulé hooked on the idea of buying into a ladies’ boxing franchise.”

Fox stood up.

“I’m out of here,” she said.

“Aw, come on. Wait! I knew we should have eaten first.”

“You need to get some help, Tubby. Only I can’t give it to you.” She stood up, jammed her purse under her arm, and was gone.

Tubby, rising to follow her, met the waiter carrying a huge platter.

“Dinner for two?” he inquired, watching the front door wheeze shut.

“That’s a lot of food,” Tubby said.

He sat back down, looking at the oddest pizza he had ever met.

Judge Perez Highway got busier every year. Used to be when you took a trip to the parish you were in a world of fishing villages and truck farms as soon as you got past Arabi, but now it was all built up. Four-laned and cluttered with Wal-Marts and shopping centers, it was slow going until you passed the sign, laced with bullet holes, that said you were entering Plaquemines Parish. Then the road narrowed, the tract housing gave way to house trailers and abundant piles of oil field equipment, and white egrets stood watching over any spot wet enough to hide a crawfish.

Tubby had the radio tuned to WWOZ, and Bobby “Blue” Bland howled from his open windows as the car whooshed down the straight highway. “Going to miss my baby…” he was singing along, beating his hands on the wheel. Gotta be pumped up to raise the big bucks.

He was going to see Noel Parvelle, a man who had made millions in the spice business. His garlic powder, Cajun seasonings, hot pepper sauce, and gumbo herbs were beside every cook’s stove, though Parvelle had long ago turned over management of the company that bore his name to his sons. Now the old man sat around thinking bitter thoughts and reading royalty statements from all the oil wells he owned across south Louisiana.

Parvelle’s driveway started at the blacktop by the river levee, wound through a few acres of grassland spotted with tall live oak and pecan trees under which Brahman cattle grazed, and ended at a large house, ringed by wide porches and raised about eight feet off the ground on massive cypress posts. When hurricanes blew through, a tidal swell from the Gulf of Mexico might send waves of salty water over the lawn, but the house was built to survive.

Parvelle was seated on his front porch, and he watched Tubby park and climb the broad wooden steps.

“You’re late,” he barked.

“Sorry, Mr. Parvelle,” Tubby said. “It took me more time than I expected to drive through Chalmette. How are you?” He offered the old man a hand to shake.

Parvelle was stuck in a wheelchair. He was no happier about it today than he was five years ago when a high-speed drunken rampage over the levee in a Jeep had put him there. He grabbed Tubby’s hand and squeezed it like a hawk squeezes a rabbit’s neck.

“Yo! Feeling pretty good are you?”

“Have a seat,” Parvelle yelled. “What’s your business?”

Tubby pulled an oak rocker up to the invalid’s wheelchair and sat.

“You remember when you got ripped off in that oil lease sale back around Mardi Gras? When they got your counterletter. When the Great Return Land and Investment Company was stolen from you? You told me you’d pay good money to know who was behind it all. Well, I know.”

Parvelle just stared at him. His lips were stained with tobacco juice.

“I’ve got a plan to expose the son of a bitch,” Tubby continued. “I just need a little money to make it work. I knew you’d want to be in on the deal.”

Parvelle raised his chin, showing off his knobby Adam’s apple, and snorted.

The guy is senile, Tubby thought.

“Mr. Parvelle. I’ve got the bad man in my sights. I need some cash though. You’ll probably get your money back. I’m taking about the guy who set you up and stole your company from you. We can catch him.”

“I know who it is,” Parvelle sang, like a child in nursery school.

“What?” Tubby was confused. “You know who I am?”

“I know who he is,” Parvelle sang again.

“You do?” Tubby wasn’t going to get half a million dollars.

“Frank Mulé,” Parvelle whispered loudly.

Tubby’s jaw dropped open. All he could do was nod.

“I know everything you do, Mr. Lawyer.”

“I guess you do,” Tubby said. “Don’t you want to catch him?”

“Why? Him and me are partners now. He said he was sorry for all the mix-up over the Great Return Investment Company. I told him I had a mind to break his legs, and he cut me in on the deal. We’re great pals now.”

“I wasn’t expecting that,” was all Tubby could think of to say.

“It’s a cold world, son,” Parvelle cackled. He spit some brown syrup over the porch rail.

“Now I suppose you’re going to tell the sheriff that I’m out to bust him.”

“Not me, shyster. I don’t owe that smelly little bastard the time of day. What happens to him, happens. I got mine. You wanna get yours, that’s your affair. But I don’t owe you anything either.”

“What I had in mind was more along the lines of an investment.”

“An investment in nailing Frank Mulé?” Parvelle laughed. “That’s a loser, son. Get off of my porch.”

The drive back to town seemed to take forever.

* * *

Willie LaRue was stalled in traffic. He was trying to get on the bridge at St. Charles Avenue, and his path was blocked by a parade. From where he sat, it looked like some guy on a float dressed up like a crawfish with a lot of half-naked teenage girls dancing around him.

LaRue kept both hands on the wheel. His eyes blinked fast.

The sign on the float said, “MONSTER MUDBUG FOR SHERIFF.” The girls were pitching cups and doubloons at the startled bag ladies on the sidewalk.

Finally the mess cleared away, and he could get onto the up-ramp. It was his day to visit his mom.

After parking at the Sweet Madonna Manor and checking in with the nurse, he took his customary seat facing the thin-faced old woman in her wheelchair.

“Willie here, mom. Anybody home?”

He watched her eyes in vain for a sign of recognition.

“I guess you know I didn’t turn out so well,” he told her.

“Did you ever know it was me who killed Dad?

“No, I guess you didn’t.

“Do you know what I do for a living?

“Do you know what pays the bills around here?”

LaRue looked at the ceiling. His eyes closed and he fell asleep.

When he woke up, his mother was staring at him. LaRue almost screamed, but he choked back the sound and composed himself quickly.

“Who gives a shit anyway,” he said, and he left. He had an errand to run.

He drove to the Original Babylonian Missionary Pentecostal Church on Telemachus Street. Another car was already in the lot, and a man was waiting patiently in the front seat. LaRue pulled into the next space. He got out of his car, and the man rolled his window down.

La Rue handed the man a thick envelope. “The sheriff said for me to give this to you personally,” he said.

“Should I count it?” Benny Bloom asked.

“Not around me. I’m just the messenger boy.”

LaRue turned on his heel and split.

Tubby was not accustomed to being treated like a lunatic. As a member in good standing of the Louisiana Bar, he could treat other people that way. But the title of lawyer was supposed to earn you a measure of respect— maybe even trepidation.

Driving under the expressway, where river-bound traffic was standing still and emergency vehicles, lights flashing, crowded the shoulders, Tubby thought maybe they were right.

Since he had fallen victim to this obsession— call it what you will— to get to the top of crime’s ladder, he had not been much fun to be around. His daughters thought he was acting oddly. He had even shrugged off Marguerite when she begged him to fly to Chicago. And it wasn’t like there were lots of other women in his life.

But there was always the picture of Dan Haywood and the blood pulsing out of his chest to make him feel the anger again. He had a picture in his mind of Frank Mulé, lying in that same dirty gutter, staring sightless at the clouds while the life flowed red out of him. And there were those dreams he was having— all of those faces calling him, reaching for him. Tubby’s fingers hurt so much from the way that he was gripping the steering wheel that he came back to the present and remembered to take his foot off the brake.

Tubby outlined his strategy to Flowers the next morning.

“Couldn’t you have said a hundred thousand dollars rather than half a million?” was the detective’s comment.

“Same difference,” Tubby said. “I don’t have either one.”

“You know, I’ve heard rumors about a turf war between the downtown mobsters and the Vietnamese in New Orleans East,” Flowers said. “I’m just thinking out loud, but maybe they’d be on our side.”

“You mean Bin Minny?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never met him. I’ve seen his picture in the papers. You reckon he would talk to me?”

“He’s got a restaurant.”

Thus, Flowers and Tubby drove out of town for lunch at the Empress of Saigon.

A woman with long black eyelashes and ruby red lips, who could have been fifteen or thirty, showed them to a table in a dark corner. A huge aquarium dominated the far wall, and they could watch schools of fish flit about in a brilliant blue bubbling sea as much as they cared to.

“If Mr. Minh is in, would you please give him my card?” Tubby laid one gently in the waitress’s palm. “You could tell him that I desire to speak about an important subject.”