Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 06 - Lucky Man (12 page)

He had not tasted alcohol in weeks, and he missed it. Just like he did every day.

The lawyer’s dark thoughts were interrupted by a call from his real estate agent.

“Have I found you the perfect spot,” she said excitedly. “A two-bedroom house on three acres of land right in Old Mandeville. Cypress trees, Spanish moss, bike path to the lake, the whole bit. It’s a steal at two hundred forty thousand dollars. I drove past your house yesterday, and I think you could get almost that much for it if you sold it today. It will be close, of course, but you can’t expect to make money when you buy a new house. I could show it to you this afternoon.”

“Today? That’s pretty soon.”

“It won’t wait around forever, Tubby. The place is a bargain, and they know it. If you’re interested we have to move fast.”

“Sure I’m interested. I’m just really busy right now. I didn’t expect you to find a place so soon. Maybe next week.”

“It may be gone by then.”

“Look, I’ll call you in a day or two and we’ll try to work something out.”

“Okay,” the realtor said sadly.

Tubby felt guilty for disappointing her. Life was so complicated, all of a sudden.

***

It was close to lunchtime when Jason Boaz arrived. He was a burly man with a rich black beard and on this occasion he was sporting a tan fedora. Characteristically exuberant, he created a small commotion upon arriving by giving Cherrylynn a box of chocolates.

“Filled with rum punch,” he explained. “Hurricanes, I call them. Experimental, of course. See if you like them.”

As they walked out of the office he told Tubby, “That girl is something special, you know. Great telephone personality, a zest for life. You’re lucky to have her.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tubby grumped.

There is something about crossing Canal Street into the French Quarter that makes the world tilt about fifteen degrees. Drudgery and focus are both difficult when you must step around a man sitting on a milk carton playing blues on a sax, when well-dressed German tourists force you off the sidewalk, when children tap-dancing beg you for coins, and when your banker, tie askew, collides with a gas lamp in front of you.

“Great aroma!” Jason exulted, sucking a breeze full of café-au-lait loudly though his nostrils.

“Lot’s of trash,” Tubby replied, kicking a crumpled cup into the gutter.

“You’re in a strange mood, my friend. Had your fill of local funk?”

Instead of answering, Tubby cocked his head at a fat lady passed out like a puddle on the steps of a shuttered house. Her stockings were rolled around her ankles and she was mumbling incoherently in her sleep.

“You don’t see the charm?” Jason pressed. “Where else in America is a siesta permitted in the doorway of a million-dollar home?”

“Lucky dog?” a cross-eyed vendor screamed in Tubby’s ear.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, sidestepping the sausage-shaped wagon and shrugging the man off. “I thought he knew my name.”

“Lucky as a blind dog in a meat house,” Jason said. “Old Cuban proverb.”

He stood back to let Tubby precede him into the restaurant.

It was crowded.

“Shall we eat at the bar?” Jason suggested, and Tubby nodded.

It was in fact an oyster bar, and despite his reservations, Tubby was inspired to enjoy himself.

“Want to split a dozen?” he asked.

“Let’s each get one.” Jason raised his long arm like a mast and waved two fingers at the aproned shucker who was industriously prying open the barnacle-studded rocks with his thick knife.

“What else have we got here?” Jason studied the chalk board above their heads.

“Have you ever had the sweet potato catfish?” he asked.

Tubby had not. Nor had he ever tasted an andouille meat pie, so they placed their orders.

When the waitress departed he invited Jason to lay out his plan.

“Virtual Ties? They’re great. I’m wearing one now.” Jason displayed his chest. From the collar of his blue shirt hung a red tie full of tiny smiling whales. On closer inspection it was revealed that the tie was actually printed onto the shirt fabric.

“That’s pretty neat,” Tubby admitted.

“No foolin’,” Jason agreed. “We can sell these. I’ve got some sample drawings. The whole thing is set out in this précis.” He tossed a manila envelope at Tubby. “Do what you can with it.”

“Don’t they already have something like that?” Tubby asked.

“They have something like everything, Tubby, but I’m the first guy you heard it from, right? Anyway, I’ve got another idea cooking right now.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“You are aware we are in the midst of a cigar craze. Everybody wants to smoke cigars. They’re paying ten or twenty bucks apiece for the things.”

“Right.”

“So I’ve got a plan for a special cigar that will really capture the public’s imagination.”

Tubby made encouraging sounds.

“We lace these little suckers with crack.”

“What?”

“Just checking to see if you were listening. Now my real idea is completely legal. You’ve got to realize that half the people who smoke cigars actually can’t stand them. They don’t like the taste or the smell. It makes them sick, but they have to hide that from their friends.”

“Maybe,” Tubby said. Personally, he enjoyed a good cigar, but he had suspected that not everybody around him did.

“Allow me to present to you a ‘Cuba Libre’ or ‘Cigar-Lite’ as I call them.” He pulled a stogie from his jacket pocket and handed it over lovingly.

“Looks like a cigar, right?”

Tubby agreed that it did. He ran it under his nose.

“Smells like a cigar?”

“It does.”

“Well, my friend, that little status symbol is packed with a special blend of lettuce, sugar cane bagasse, and soybean husks, and it burns so light it merely scents the tongue. Anybody can smoke one. On top of that it puts out a cloud of odorless blue smoke so you can puff it like a locomotive and everybody thinks you’re enjoying a real Havana, but you don’t get sick. And we can make a companion product with honest-to-goodness real mint leaves ground up in there that makes the Lite as sweet as a Virginia Slim.”

“This will sell?”

“God, yes. I can make these babies for ten cents apiece and wholesale them for four dollars. That’s what my buddies in the business tell me. And I don’t have to go to Cuba for them because there’s a guy in Chalmette who can turn them out in his garage.”

Jason assumed a serious expression as a patriotic aura settled over him.

“You know, that’s what I love about New Orleans,” he continued, resuming his assault on Tubby’s strange mood. “There are people here from all over the world, and they brought their talents with them. And most of ’em have a sense of humor too. Don’t you think? Like this guy. He came here on a wooden boat from Haiti or someplace and he pumps gas in a grease pit out on Judge Perez Highway. But in his garage he has built a cigar-rolling machine, and in his backyard he grows tobacco. And he tells me, ‘Mr. Boaz, St. Bernard Parish is de land of golden opportunity.’”

“We have a rich culture,” Tubby acknowledged.

“Yeah? You bet we do.”

“Sometimes one longs for simplicity, don’t you think?”

“Balls!” Jason protested.

“Whatever. As for your cigar, though, I’m not certain this is something you can patent.”

“Well, do some research on it. As soon as I line up a guy who can make me a decent box, you know, with gold embossing and cool stuff like that, I’m going into production.”

“Who would distribute them?”

“Not known yet. Hell, I’ll sell them out of the back of my Mercedes if I have to, just to get started. This is my best idea since the Port-a-Soak.”

“What about your state taxes and Uncle Sam?”

“There’s not a shred of tobacco in this cigar. The feds don’t tax lettuce.”

“Maybe I should research that, too.”

“Please do, but be quick. Surf’s up, and I want to ride the wave.”

“By the way, Jason, did you ever happen to meet Norella’s husband, Max Finn?”

“I’ve never been invited behind the red door, I’m afraid.”

“How did you know their house had a red door?”

Jason rubbed his mustache. “Somebody must have pointed it out to me,” he said absently. “Eat your damn oysters. Want some horseradish? Would you like to hear about my hat?”

Lucky LaFrene’s Chevrolet, Hyundai, Nissan, and Isuzu occupied twenty acres of reclaimed swampland on Veterans Highway. The path inside led past a thousand cars in a dazzling array of colors, almost blinding in the sunshine, and a skirmish line of salesmen in sport coats determined to intercept anyone who tried to slip through with his wallet.

“Ninety days, same as cash,” cried one linesman who tried to block Tubby’s way. Nimbly the visitor side-stepped.

“Push, tow, or crawl, we trade them all,” another one loudly promised.

“You’re demented,” Tubby muttered.

As he muscled his way through the glass doors into the frigid showroom his attitude was instantly altered by the vision of the car of his dreams. It was a gleaming red Velocitar, like nothing he had ever seen. Lithe and muscular, lavished with chrome, it spoke to his inner Iron John. Drive me on the levee, let me wrap my seats of black leather around you, it whispered caressingly.

“She’s a beauty, huh?” a man with the wrong coat but gleaming teeth whispered in Tubby’s ear.

“Ah,” Tubby exhaled. “What’s the sticker on that thing?”

“If you have to ask, you probably don’t want to know.” With this wisdom imparted the man tapped a pencil on his temple.

Tubby leaned forward to look, and his bubble popped. Almost as much as my house, he thought.

“Not bad,” he said loudly. “Say, can you tell me where I can find Lucky LaFrene?”

“The boss of bosses? His office is in the back. Maybe I can tell him who’s calling.”

“Sure. Tubby Dubonnet, from the Al Hughes campaign.”

The salesman wobbled away, and Tubby lost himself again in the rich ruby luster of the Velocitar. Why, this baby had a full wet bar in the back and a TV set on the dash. If only the kids would drop out of school, he might have some money. If only the Kleeb settlement would ever come through. If only an injured seamen would hobble into his office. He again pondered the nagging question central to his profession. Should he advertise in the Yellow Pages? The boys who could buy this car probably did.

“Howya doin’ Tubby, Tubby, Tubby?” Lucky LaFrene spouted, waddling across the floor.

He pumped Tubby’s hand with both of his own.

“Are you car-shopping or just name-dropping? What’s the lowdown, dude? We can deal if you’re for real.”

“We met at the Hughes fund-raiser, remember, Lucky?” Tubby worked his hand loose.

“I’ve gotta memory like a bat trap, bubba. I know you like a glove.”

“That’s great. Is there someplace we can talk for a minute? I’ve got something kind of private to discuss with you.”

“Confidential, huh?” LaFrene winked and motioned Tubby to follow him. “Let’s retire to my inner sanctotum.”

LaFrene’s office boasted a cluttered desk, a cabinet full of model ships, and a bright orange sofa. The turquoise walls were covered with plaques and awards for automotive one-upmanship and civic loveliness.

“Make yourself comfy,” the host invited. “What can I do for a legal beagle?” He settled behind his desk and tossed an executive tension-reducing bean bag into the air. He snatched it with one hand and grinned.

“You know Max Finn?” Tubby asked, keeping an eye on the orbiting sack, “He died day before yesterday.”

“Yeah. Sad thing.” LaFrene frowned obligingly. “We was campadres from way back. We all called Max ‘Twenty-One Gun Salute’ at St. Anthony’s. Bet you can guess why. We had some times together.” A tear oozed out of the corner of his eye. He sniffled.

“I represent his widow, Norella.”

“What a lady. She must be totally begrieved. They was together such a short time. What happened to poor Max? Nobody’s sayin’ nuthin’.”

Tubby shrugged. “I was hoping that you might have some idea. Norella leaves the house at noon and everything’s fine. By four o’clock, he’s dead on the floor. She says the last thing he told her was you were coming to meet him.”

“Me?” LaFrene let the beanbag plop onto his desk. “That’s a pile of poop-poop-pee-do. I was nowhere around Max yesterday or the day before. That’s really what she told you?”

“She says that’s what Max told her.”

“Must be some kind of misunderstanding. Max and me hung out a lot together, but not when he died, I can promise you that. No, no, not us.”

“What did you do when you hung out?”

“Oh, we was just pals, you know. We’d hoist a few or go out on the boats. Max, you know, was a great sailor. He was planning to sell me his OmniMach HydroRocket. It’s really mine. I guess Norella told you that.”

“She didn’t mention it.”

This information troubled LaFrene. “I hope she ain’t having any mental magnesia. We already shook hands.”

“I’ll ask her. What can you tell me about Max’s business?”

“Me? Not much. No, no, can’t say what he did. He was a whiz at craps, I’ll say that much. He made some dough working the telephones, too, if you call that working. What do I know about it? I’m just a car magnate.” LaFrene held open his hands to illustrate his humble empire.

“Did you ever know about him being involved with call girls?”

“What the hell’s that?”

“You know. Setting up girls with men for parties. Escorts. Hookers, maybe.”

“Whoo, he had some fillies, sure, but I don’t believe everything I see.”

“What’s that mean, Lucky?”

“For instance, I once saw a flying saucer right over Lakeside Shopping Center, plain as rain. And I saw it zoom right down Veterans Boulevard all the way to where Clearview is today. In my hot-rod Chevy!” He pounded his desk. “It was just swamp back then. And I wasn’t the only one who saw it. But I don’t believe it.”

LaFrene’s benign grin wrestled with Tubby’s incredulous stare.

“So,” the lawyer resumed, “you saw Finn with different women?”

“I seen him with lots of pretty dames, that’s true.”

“Did Norella know about it?”

“You just asked me a question I can’t answer,” LaFrene said primly.