5 Crime Czar (16 page)

“I understand the problem, but the cops, you know, caught you with the stuff.”

“It was a setup.”

“Even so.”

“Help me. Whatever you can do.” The prisoner caught himself and made himself sound tough again. “I’ll be all right. Gotta go. Other guys need to use the phone.”

Tubby hung up slowly.

He checked his file and punched in the number for Judge Trapani’s chambers.

“Just a minute, please. I’ll see if he’s in,” a secretary said.

Tubby rehearsed the conversation in his mind.

Wonder if we might have lunch, judge.

Why?

I see you’re supporting Benny Bloom and, you know, I have to support Al Hughes publicly. I’ve known him a long time. But I want to make a really big contribution to you.

Yeah?

A great big one. I want to discuss it in private.

Okay.

Because there’s this acquaintance of mine who’s totally fucked unless you let him out of jail.

“Hello?” Judge Trapani was on the line.

Tubby slapped his hand over his mouth, afraid he might throw up, and slammed the phone into its cradle. He put his head down in his hands.

Clifford Banks’ s office expressed a musty elegance— old wood, old secretaries, old lawyers. Thus it took a few minutes for Banks’s secretary to produce articles of incorporation for Mission Enterprises, chartering the company for “all lawful business purposes.” Tubby and Marguerite were asked to bide their time in a conference room, alone with a carved mahogany table and twenty-four chairs. The Whiteside Bank Building, on whose seventh floor they were sitting, did not have modern amenities like picture windows, but it oozed the comforting feeling of being close to money.

Eventually Banks appeared with a handful of papers and took a seat.

“Sorry you had to wait,” he said. My secretary is getting slower and slower since we made her switch to a computer. I think you’ll find everything to be in order.”

Tubby scanned the document. He and Banks were identified as the incorporators.

“Do you still have the sheriff’s check?” Tubby asked.

“It’s in my office,” Banks said. “Quite safe.”

“Here’s our investment,” Tubby said.

Marguerite handed over a bulky manila envelope full of diamonds and gold.

Banks peeked inside before quickly snapping it shut. He dropped it into an old leather briefcase.

“The sheriff told me what to expect,” he said. “This will be picked up tomorrow, I’m told.”

“Well, actually, since we’re all friends here, it seems to me that since you’ve got our jewels we ought to hold the sheriff’s check. Just for security, of course.”

“It can’t work that way. You could simply cash the check and run off with the money, though of course you wouldn’t. I had better keep the check right in my office where it’s perfectly safe. You’ve got to trust somebody sometime, as they say. If for any reason the venture does not work out as planned, then everybody can get their money back.”

“You win,” Tubby said graciously. “It’s all going to work out great. Frank knows a good deal when he sees one. It’s time to start making big bucks.”

Banks smiled. “Before we can start counting our gold, I need to review your prospectus. At first glance, it seems to me to be slightly thin on facts. And I must admit that I personally have never heard of Worldwide Women’s Boxing.”

Tubby was not worried about a cursory check of that organization. He had incorporated it in the State of Delaware two days ago. In time, of course, the dummy corporation would be seen for the paper front it really was. Tubby’s original plan had been to siphon off the fake company’s money for himself and his friends. When inevitably the scam was uncovered, he had hoped to so confuse the trail that Mulé would blame Clifford Banks, or even himself, for the final bankruptcy. But a new and more direct plan had formed in Tubby’s mind as soon as he had seen the cashier’s check payable to cash.

“The WWB is as real as it gets,” he assured Banks. “Check on it all you want. But we need to get hopping because they are waiting to receive the first installment of the franchise fee…”

“Well, let me make a few calls. We should be able to get up and running in a day or two.”

“No problem,” Tubby said. Right now WWB’s “headquarters” was an answering service, but that ought to suffice for the next twenty-four hours.

“I can promise you that we will make steady progress.” Banks stared at Tubby.

“That’s what I want,” Tubby said enthusiastically. “Progress.”

And fast, because it would not be long before Mulé realized that almost all of the jewels in the manila folder were artful fakes, prepared by Tubby’s client, Sandy Shandell, who had become a Mardi Gras artisan. While a few, like the gold bracelet the sheriff had so admired, were authentic, the rest of the real ones were concealed in a can of Café du Monde coffee in Tubby’s kitchen. Marguerite had picked the hiding place herself.

* * *

Phase two of Tubby’s new and more direct plan went into effect almost right away. A few hours following his departure from Banks’s law firm, after night had fallen, Flowers entered the same building. He looked better than most of the maintenance staff in his green uniform. The patch on his pocket read “JULIO.” For props he carried an empty bucket and a mop. Simple is best, was his theory. On stakeouts, his favorite outfit was torn clothes, an empty quart bottle of beer, and a brown paper bag. With those symbols of homelessness you were completely unnoticeable— people avoided seeing you at all.

The security woman at the marble desk in the lobby of the Whiteside Bank Building started to say something when Flowers shuffled past, but she caught herself. Her job was to repel teenage boys during the day and, late at night, vagrants looking for a place to sleep. A man in a green uniform did not fit either profile.

The detective turned the corner to the wall of elevators and caught a car going up. He was humming “Remember When,” a Victoria Cordova tune.

He exited at the seventh floor into a dark carpeted hallway facing a pair of heavy glass doors. The names of KEARNEY, COMEAUX, RASPANTI & BANKS were etched in gold upon them. Flowers had an electronic device the size of a cigarette pack that caused the magnetic lock to pop open. He slid into a dark reception area. Guided by the knowledge that named partners occupy corner offices, Flowers set off in search for the one belonging to Clifford Banks.

It was not hard to find. The nameplate was illuminated by the glow from the adjoining office. Softly, Flowers crept toward the light and peered around the open doorway. An attorney in shirtsleeves was pecking away at his keyboard, his back turned.

Flowers withdrew and slipped into Banks’s office as quietly as he could. The lights of the city glowed through the expansive windows, making navigation easy. Flowers sat behind Banks’s desk in the attorney’s soft leather chair and began opening drawers. The large one by his left ankle was locked. The detective picked it without difficulty. Expecting treasure, he was disappointed to find the drawer empty except for an unmarked video tape. Flowers thought it over for a second before sticking the tape inside his pocket and relocking the drawer.

There did not seem to be a wall safe hidden behind any of the paintings of ducks, and Flowers was beginning to feel that his mission was to be a failure when he spied a leather briefcase under the hat rack by the door. It was not even locked, which was quite surprising since it was supposed to be loaded with Marguerite’s imitation jewels. They were not there.

“Someone has already ripped us off,” Flowers said to himself. In a zippered pocket, however, he found the cashiers’ check for five hundred thousand dollars. Who is this fool? he wondered to himself. Does he think a lawyer’s office is invulnerable? The detective quickly swiped the check.

The lawyer next door was consoling his girl friend on the telephone when Flowers made his getaway.

Exiting the elevators in the lobby, Flowers almost bumped into the security guard who was prowling the halls. The woman told him to watch himself.

Outside the building an old man with worried eyes and gaps in his teeth asked Flowers for a buck. The detective paused long enough to give it to him.

“Thanks,” the fellow said. “Us working guys gotta stick together.”

The gala political rally was held on the eve of the election at the Ernest M. Morial Convention Center under the sponsorship of the Alliance for Reformed Government. It was a spectacular event, not to be missed by any of those who desired to sup at the trough of political patronage. All of the most prominent architects, engineers, and city planners were there, not to mention attorneys, purveyors of pens, pencils, and insurance, junior statesmen, and unemployed but multitalented people dreaming of political careers.

Waiting to greet them was the entire Alliance ticket, some forty munificent figures, anxious to fill vacancies from tax assessor to city councilwoman, in a hall that would comfortably seat two thousand.

As it was, only a portion of the hall, that right in front of the stage upon which the politicians were gathering, was reserved for sitters. Here were positioned the high rollers, in fat-waisted groups of eight, seated at round tables, enjoying cheese cubes, purple grapes, and wine for which they had paid five thousand dollars.

The rest of the vast room was open to the crowd of well-wishers who had plunked down a mere hundred dollars per ticket to stand and mingle. They could also drink wine for free or hit the cash bar. As individuals they occupied little space, on the average, and thus the hall could accommodate far more than two thousand in all.

A band known as the Thousand $ Car belted out homemade roots rock from a spot between the cash bars and contributed greatly to the overall gaiety and din.

All of the endorsed candidates were in attendance, together with their staffs, vital supporters, and most of the city’s factual and impressionistic media. Some of the latter had arrived early to obtain good squatting positions up-front by the stage. They were liberally sampling the gratis offerings. A newspaper illustrator, already intoxicated by the atmosphere, cheerfully sketched a green olive that had escaped Sheriff Mulé’s martini and rolled off the dais.

Tubby Dubonnet came to do his bit for Judge Al Hughes, one of the many stars of the show. Dressed to the nines, he steered his Chrysler to the front entrance, and while an attendant held the door for Marguerite Patino, he tipped the valet parker twenty dollars to let the car stay where it was. The gesture impressed Marguerite and insured them an easy departure. Tubby had made dinner reservations an hour hence at Bayonna. He had had to twist an arm to get them and intended to keep his political hobnobbing on a tight schedule.

Even as they were locking up they could see Judge Hughes and his wife, Arabella, mount the steps and get swallowed by the crowd around the doors.

“Big turnout,” Marguerite said. “This is a lot like Chicago.”

Tubby flashed a pair of hundred-dollar tickets at the uniformed men standing on top of the steps, but security was very loose. The ARG idea was to build a boisterous crowd, not to keep anybody out.

Shaking hands and snagging two glasses of wine as he went, Tubby navigated Marguerite toward the shade of a tall rubber tree, which subtly marked the divide between standing room only and reserved seating. He waved at Al Hughes, who had now climbed up onto the stage. The judge beckoned him forward, but Tubby ignored the invitation.

“Gee,” Marguerite said. “How would you even get a drink around here?” She was jostled from behind by a large woman trying to get her photograph taken with a television newsman.

“At your service.” Tubby handed her one of his plastic glasses of wine. “After this you’re on your own.”

The program was beginning.

Alphonse D’Amica, president of ARG, took center stage in the midst of his candidates and began speaking unintelligibly through a screeching microphone.

Clifford Banks tapped Tubby on the shoulder, mouthed a chilling hello, and moved on.

After some mechanical adjustments, D’Amica’s voice thundered throughout the hall, summoning the entire field of endorsed candidates for public office to come to the stage for public viewing. Nimble Vietnamese waiters swirled around among the tables.

At that moment, Daisy was being dropped off across the street by a White Cloud cab. She was nervous, and was hurrying toward the convention center when she heard the taxi driver yelling that she owed him eight fifty. She had to run back to pay.

She approached the busy building cautiously, concealing herself behind a cluster of peanut vendors until she got close. The security guards at the entrance, however, were yakking it up with a chubby man sporting a pie-sized “SAM ARUBA FOR CONSTABLE” button, and she made it inside without a problem.

Weaving her way through the crowd, she saw Tubby by a rubber tree and changed her route to avoid him.

“Here they all are. The selected few. The leaders of our community now and for tomorrow,” D’Amico bellowed into the microphone.

“Get to know your candidates,” he screamed as the supportive throng jockeyed for position, and flashbulbs started popping.

Daisy grabbed a drink from a passing tray and pushed up to the front. At the center of the stage, Al Hughes was posing for a picture, theatrically shaking hands with Sheriff Frank Mulé.

Mulé saw Tubby in the crowd and waved at him. A gleam of gold flashed on his wrist. The sheriff pointed to the bracelet he had swiped from Marguerite’s loot and bared his teeth in a wicked laugh.

Tubby reached inside his coat a pulled out a yellow certified check for five hundred thousand dollars. He held it daintily between thumb and forefinger and waved it aloft for the sheriff to see. Mulé stared at what was in Tubby’s hand, and his eyes darkened.

Daisy was standing on one leg trying to get her pistol out of her garter when she was almost knocked off balance by a bump from behind.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” an ebony-skinned college boy apologized. “They pushed me.”

Three Vietnamese waiters converged on the stage. Each drew a revolver from his vest. Oblivious, Daisy raised her own little gun and pointed it with both hands.