Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 02 - City of Beads (18 page)

Then there were folders marked “Hot Spots” and “Investigation Needed.” Tubby began reading these reports carefully. They weren’t boring.

Thirty minutes later he found the following, on smudged paper, like it had been typed up in a place where there was a lot of sweat and grime.

I took the following statement from Mr. Potter Aucoin at Export Products on the Napoleon Avenue wharf on May the 13th.

Signed: Kelly Stuyvesant, “The Environment and You 203.” Professor: Mr. Strapp.

My name is Potter Aucoin, and on January 5 and again on about January 17 I observed some workmen from Bayou Disposal run a four-inch hose from one of their red trucks out of their yard and down the riverbank to where there are trees growing out of the water. I was concerned that they might be crossing my property, but I saw that they were crossing the lot next to mine. It looked like the hose filled up, but I couldn’t definitely see anything going into the river because the nozzle of the hose was under the water. After approximately fifteen minutes the men checked the truck from a hatch on the top and then pulled the hose back to their yard. I have no idea what they were draining into the river. I did not talk to any of the workmen. No one else was with me when I saw this. It was probably nothing. It is not really my business.

Potter Aucoin

Tubby sat back in shock. It was so unlike Potter to care dippity-do about river pollution.

He called Debbie’s apartment. No answer. He called Twink Beekman, but the phone just rang. He called Raisin, and got Melinda, the nurse.

“No, he’s not here, Tubby. He said he was driving down to Plaquemines Parish. I thought he said he was going with one of your daughters.” Tubby detected the small blossom of suspicion in Melinda’s voice.

“That’s right,” he said quickly. “I was just trying to get them before they left.”

“Well, you missed them by an hour. He didn’t say when he’d be back,” she said flatly.

“Would you ask him to call me right away when you hear from him?” She said she would.

Tubby called Botaswati’s T-shirt shop, and his bar. Both places gave him the same story. Not here. The bartender was more direct.

“He say not to talk to you,” and she hung up.

There was nothing to do but fidget. He plowed into his stack of deadly files, killing the hours till he heard from someone.

“I’m not sure which way we go here,” Twink said. He and Debbie were driving somewhere south of New Orleans on an old concrete highway fringed with green slime and muddy road litter. Black swamp, dense with crooked trees, elephant ears, and jagged palmettos, came up to the shoulders. An occasional high spot provided enough spongy ground for a seedy roadside tavern or a heap of rusty oilfield drilling pipe. Their bumpy path kept forking, with the right hand curving generally toward the Mississippi River and the left roughly in the direction of the man-made Gulf Outlet, a Corps of Engineers boondoggle that was fast swallowing up what was left of the marsh. Debbie had a map, but none of these details seemed to be on it.

“I think we should go that way,” she said, pointing westward, “and stay as close to the river levee as possible. That way we know we can’t get too lost.”

“Are we there yet?” Raisin asked from the backseat. Tubby’s associate had been napping, and snoring gently, ever since their journey had begun.

“Not yet, Mr. Partlow,” Twink said. “But we should be getting close.” Raisin sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“You’ll know you went too far if you get to the end of the road,” Raisin said, yawning. On this bank of the river, the end of the line was the courthouse and jail in Pointe à la Hache. The final thirty miles of Louisiana extending past these weathered and humble stone buildings into the Gulf of Mexico were accessible only by boat, a small boat at that.

“Great navigating,” Twink commented. His bright red Chevy Blazer hopped along the uneven concrete. “Huey Long must have built this road.”

“Or Leander Perez. My dad tells me he used to be the political kingpin down here.”

Twink checked his watch. It was about three o’clock.

“I’d sure hate to get caught down here after dark,” he said. Shadows from the oak trees draped in Spanish moss crowded the road.

Debbie nodded, but actually the prospect didn’t frighten her. She had been boating and camping in remote places like this many times. It had usually been with her dad, however, and he had usually known where they were, or said he did.

After rocking along a few more miles the road came out into the light and regained the levee, the tall, grass-covered ridge that forced the river to stay in its channel. The highway traveled along its base, and Debbie pointed out the radio towers of a ship overtaking them, a surprising optical reminder that the surface of the river was at least five feet higher than the roof of the Blazer.

They passed square freshwater ponds on the left side of the road, and a sign, PARISH CRAWFISH FARMS, explained what they were. They passed a miniature industrial complex with shiny chrome pipes that apparently existed to pump something gaseous in or out of vessels berthed in the river. Then they went by a cattle farm with a couple of buffalo mixed in. Finally Debbie spotted a painted metal sign to Bayou Disposal.

An arrow pointed down a shell road away from the levee, and, after exchanging a look with Debbie, Twink turned the Blazer down it. Gravel rattled under the floorboard. Soon they were out of sight of the levee, and after skidding around a turn or two they found the entrance to Bayou Disposal, blocked by a new chain-link fence and a wooden guard shack.

Twink eased the Blazer up to the gate in the fence. Beyond it they could see a small fleet of red tanker trucks parked in a row beside a mobile home, apparently the office, which was mounted on concrete blocks. There were a couple of men in the distance working around the trucks, but no other visible activity.

A young man who needed a shave, wearing a brown jacket with a “Security Patrol” patch on the shoulder, leaned out the window of the guard booth.

“Can I help you?” he called.

Twink rolled down his window. “Is the office open?” he asked.

“Not really,” the young man said, “Who are you looking for?”

“The manager,” Twink said.

“Joel Proulx?”

Twink had no idea, but he said, “Yes.”

“He’s not here today.”

“Well, is there anybody else in the office?”

“I’ll call and see. What are your names?”

“My name’s Beekman. What’s all the security for?”

“Oh, we’ve had a little trouble lately with vandalism.” The guard pulled his head back inside.

In a moment he poked it out again.

“They asked what your business was.”

“I’m from Tulane University in New Orleans. I just wanted to see how y’all were handling your operation.”

The head disappeared again, then returned.

“They say for you to write a letter.”

“We just want to meet the people. It won’t take a minute.”

“They say for you to go away,” the guard reported a little more forcefully. “This is private property,” he said, making it official.

“Let’s go, Twink,” Raisin said.

Twink was ready to argue with the guard some more, but Debbie poked him in the ribs with her finger, and he got the message.

He turned the Blazer around in the driveway, grumbling.

“Why don’t we go down the road a little further,” Debbie said. “Maybe there are some neighbors or something we can ask about what goes on at this place.”

“Okay,” he muttered discontentedly. “Makes you think they’re hiding something, doesn’t it?” In the backseat, Raisin was beginning to pay attention.

Farther along the back road they encountered more crawfish ponds, serene in the afternoon sunlight. Looking closely, they could see tiny orange flags sticking out of the water in straight rows. In one of the ponds some people were lazily paddling a pirogue, checking things in the water.

“I think those are the markers for the traps,” Debbie said.

“I thought crawfish grew wild in the swamps,” Twink griped. “This looks more like agribusiness.”

As they got closer they could see that the people in the boat were taking nets out of the water, emptying them, and tossing them back in. The people were wearing pointed hats, and the immediate image was of a rice paddy in Cambodia.

“It’s like another world,” Twink said.

Later, when Raisin reported to Tubby, he described it this way:

“We drive up to this metal packing shed. Some men are hanging out in the shade, but they all fade. A big, fat, muscular guy comes out of the shed to meet us. He’s Vietnamese or something. He doesn’t look that friendly to me, but your man Twink jumps out and says hi. The man grins and pulls out his cigarettes, so I know he’s not going to start shooting.

“Twink goes, ‘We’re from New Orleans, and we’re doing some research about water pollution. We’re here to save you. Tell us everything you know about Bayou Disposal.’”

“He said that?” Tubby interrupted.

“No, just words to that effect.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, so the guy lets out a loud noise that sounds like ‘Vark,’ and that’s when I got the idea he doesn’t speak English. Then this second guy comes out of the shed, and he asks can he help us. Twink gives his speech again.

“‘You with the government?’ the man asks. A very good question—shows he’s alert.

“‘No,’ Twink says. ‘We’re students at Tulane University. We’re investigating complaints about the possible illegal dumping of chemicals into the water.’ I don’t say anything, even though I know this guy is thinking ol’ Raisin doesn’t look like any Tulane student.

“‘We don’ like Bayou Disposal,’ says this fella, let’s call him Vark.

“‘Ah,’ Twink said. ‘Can you tell us why?’

“Vark is willing to talk. He invites us in. So we go. It’s dark in there. They pack fish and it smells like it, but right then nothing much was going on. He sits us all down for a powwow on some wooden crates. He joins us and lights another cigarette. I hear little, uh, shuffling noises behind me, and what do I see when I look over my shoulder but that we are not alone. Like a dozen men have drifted out of the recesses of this place and are checking us out. They’re dressed for work, white rubber boots, dirty jeans, army jackets, baseball caps, shaggy hair. They all got short black mustaches. I begin to wonder if I am going to fail at my job of protecting young Miss Dubonnet. They’re not threatening, but they ain’t friendly either. They’re not showing much.

“‘So,’ Debbie begins, ‘have you had a problem with Bayou Disposal?’

“Vark says, ‘Maybe a month ago they come in here. Bring in lots of trucks. Since then, the crawfish no good.’

“‘What do you mean, no good?’ Twink asks.

“‘No good. Stay small, shells soft, shells white. All fishermen around here, same problem. Can’t sell. Man from Mulate’s, big restaurant, always buy my crawfish. He say too small now.’”

“You do a good dialect,” Tubby said.

“I’m just practicing,” Raisin said. “I haven’t quite got it yet. ‘You connect this to Bayou Disposal?’ Debbie asks.

“‘Yes,’ Vark says. ‘They put something in the ground. It gets in the water.’

“‘Have you told anybody about this?’ Debbie asks.

“‘No,’ Vark says. ‘Why? They got big men with guns,’ he says.

“‘Let us help you catch them,’ Debbie says.

“Then they all started talking to each other in their language. I get none of this, but it gets loud. Then”—Raisin snapped his fingers—“they turn it off and start nodding like it’s all settled.

“‘What can you do for us?’ Vark asks.

“‘We can report this to the government,’ your daughter says. ‘We are going to bring a lawsuit against Bayou Disposal to make them pay for what they are doing. We will take statements from you. We can tell your story to the newspapers.’

“‘How long all this take?’ Vark wants to know.

“‘That’s hard to say,’ Twink tells them. The government is big and slow, but he has a secret weapon—a great lawyer named Tubby Dubonnet has volunteered to help them. He’s going to take everybody to court.”

“Jesus,” Tubby moaned.

“They didn’t seem immediately impressed with your name. I do not think they could quite pronounce it. More discussion ensues. It gets noisy. One guy with real big callused hands, flat like a plank, makes a speech. Vark interprets. ‘He say courts take a very long time. Big politicians decide what the courts say. These people want to know how long it will take.’

“Twink says he doesn’t know. ‘If we catch them in the act, maybe we can get an injunction. Maybe as soon as a month, or… maybe longer.’

“They look doubtful. More discussion. More speeches. Sounds like a whole violin section out of tune. And then here comes something that sounds familiar. Somebody says, ‘Bin Minny.’ And then, after that, nobody said anything for a full minute. Vark is so deep in thought he lets his cigarette burn down to his fingers and has to throw it down and stomp on it. He says, ‘They want to take care of it without you. You no worry about it.’

“Twink was unhappy. ‘How can we not worry about it? They’re breaking the law’ but Vark is not impressed. ‘Men all want to be in business again soon,’ he says. End of conference.

“Very politely, they show us the way out. By which I mean they all followed us outside and made sure we got in the Blazer. They were passing around a pack of Marlboros and having a huddle with each other when we drove away.”

“What do you make of that?” Tubby asked.

“That they’re planning to take care of the problem in their own way.”

“What was Debbie’s reaction?”

“She said it was sad they were so suspicious of us. It was sad that these people are newcomers to our country, and they don’t know how to go about getting things done.”

“But they may know how,” Tubby said.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Raisin said.

Tubby was waiting outside Dixon Hall when Debbie came out of Biology 201. She was juggling a sizable pile of books and laughing with friends when she spied him, and she immediately broke loose and pushed through the swarm of students.

“Hi, Daddy.” She was worried.