Fat Man Blues: A Hard-Boiled and Humorous Mystery (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 9) (14 page)

“I’m looking for Frenchy Dufour, the man with the joint across the street,” Tubby said in his most pleasant voice. “Do you know when he comes here?” The lawyer looked quickly around the street, which was entirely deserted, a place of broken business dreams.

“He’s not there too often,” the man told him. “His car’s not here either.”

“What kind of car does he drive?” Tubby asked.

“It’s a big black Lexus. Pretty fancy.” The tall man seemed reluctant to talk further.

“You’re right. It’s not here,” Tubby said.

The man shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you, mister,” he said.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Frenchy lives would you?”

“’Fraid not. If you want to leave me your name, I’ll pass it along if I ever see him again.”

Tubby plucked a card from his wallet and said goodbye.

Reverend Randy Horton watched the lawyer cross the street. “Big fella,” he said to himself. Then he leaned back against the wall and resumed his vigil.

* * *

When Peggy and Tubby had been seated by the window at The Blue Crab, with its view over the marina and dozens of sailboats, they quickly got down to the serious business. Peggy got a glass of wine and ordered the Blue Crab Platter, which consisted of jumbo lump crabmeat in a creamy sauce of baby spinach and pecorino cheese over penne pasta. It was Italian enough.

` Tubby intended to order the traditional— a combo platter of lightly grilled shrimp and fried oysters, which he expected to be plump and salty and fried to perfection. But he noticed a card offering something unexpected for the day, a whole stuffed flounder. “I’ll have that,” Tubby said. Since he was on the mend from recent overindulgences, he ordered a lemonade.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. “You seem distracted.”

He was, by the sight of a 70-foot yacht moving out of its slip and beginning a tight turn into the channel. “That’s a really big boat,” he commented.

“I’ve never seen such a large boat on the Lake before,” she said.

“I believe that one belongs to the ‘Mighty Arm’,” Tubby opined, referring to a successful local plaintiff’s attorney.

“Does he have a captain’s license? I’m pretty sure you need one for a boat that big.”

Tubby asked her to tell him more about what had happened to her on the Causeway, but the buzzing of his phone interrupted them.

“It’s Cherrylynn,” he explained. “Excuse me.”

“Yes… yes.” He nodded. Peggy watched her lunch companion and sipped her glass of pinot grigio. “What?” Tubby shouted. “When?”

He listened to his paralegal’s story then pocketed his phone.

“Cherrylynn was assaulted last night. First Professor Prima, then you, now Cherrylynn.”

“My goodness! What happened?”

He told her what little he knew.

“I think it may have been that old retired cop, Paul Kronke,” Tubby said. “He’s appointed himself protector and savior of all the revolutionary Latin retirees. Cherrylynn has been following up clues indicating that the crazy patriotic anti-Bolshevik organization has another generation of offspring.”

“A little scary.”

“Scarier still, I suspect that Mr. Kronke pushed you off the bridge.”

“Why on Earth?”

“As a way of hurting me. Or sending me a message.”

“I’m definitely opposed to being part of a message,” she said and finished her wine.

“I totally understand that, but I sure did receive it.”

“Supposing you’re right, am I still in danger?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Tubby said. “I think the answer is probably not.” He was trying to be reassuring. “Unless, of course, he makes his move on me and you just happen to be in the way.” That was an attempt at humor, but she took it in another direction.

“I plan to be right here beside you,” she said.

“You’re tough,” Tubby said.

“Yes, I am. Please order me another glass of wine.”

The waitress showed up bringing steaming plates. Jalapeno Hushpuppies and buttered French bread came with Tubby’s vast stuffed flounder. The crabmeat platter came with a fresh salad topped with croutons and a remoulade dressing. Tubby ordered them each a refill.

“Mine’s healthier,” Peggy said proudly.

Tubby inspected her fare. “Maybe,” he conceded. “I wonder exactly how many of these misguided patriots, including the ones in short pants, are out there sneaking around?” Two men had beaten up Prima. One man had assaulted Cherrylynn and someone had almost killed Peggy. He poked a fork into his flounder, which released a puff of steam, and began scraping great white slices away from the backbone.

“My old inventor friend, Jason Boaz,” Tubby continued, “once told me that, from a scientific perspective, four is the number of components you need for any effective mechanism or structure. Three legs to support the stool. Three points is all you really need to move the Earth, he said. Then you need a fourth component to hold it all together— the seat of the stool, he said.”

“Very interesting,” Peggy observed politely, though she wasn’t sure of the relevance of this insight. “Who are these gangsters and what do they do when they’re not scaring women and beating up school teachers?”

“I certainly don’t know what they do. It’s all very secret, I’m sure. I imagine they go out in the woods and shoot guns. You know, practice their survival techniques, get tactical training in close-quarter battle, fly on helicopters and slay feral hogs, things like that.”

“That’s weird.”

“Not as weird as you might think. You ought to look at some ‘survivalist’ publications.”

“You’ve done that.”

“I have.”

“It is certainly not an area I have any expertise in. Nor is Cuba. But is reclaiming the island actually very relevant today?”

Tubby did not really have an opinion. About Cuba he knew zippo.

“Cherrylynn has a theory that they have a lot of money,” he said, returning to familiar turf.

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that. Do they get that much financial support from their local sympathizers in New Orleans in this day and age?”

“Maybe they pass the hat for the good Father Escobar’s living expenses. No, I mean big money. Money they’ve had for a long time.”

“Where would it have come from?”

“Her speculation is that the founders of the group were expected to set up a new government to replace Castro after the 1960s invasion, so naturally they had to be well-funded for that purpose. Governments don’t come cheap.”

“Well-funded by whom?”

“Your guess would be as good as mine,” Tubby said, spearing a bit of his fish. “The CIA? There was also the Kennedy thing.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m just playing with ideas,” Tubby said. “But if there is any money, I’m sure that a main objective of these young soldiers is to guard the bank.”

* * *

When Cisco got the call from the policeman, he was helping his wife load up a basket for a barbeque over at his friend José’s. He opened his phone, but his wife was waving her hands at him from the driveway outside, mouthing, “We’re going to be late.” The kids were already strapped in the car and fighting.

The cop had a booming voice. He quickly outlined the basics. In case Cisco was interested, he should know that Frenchy Dufour had gotten him involved in a murder.

“Who is Frenchy Dufour,” Cisco asked as sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Don’t play coy with me. I can connect the dots.”

Cisco saw the inescapable problem immediately. A police investigation could easily lead to the identity of the Cuban-centered group and the stash of money that Cisco was using to finance Frenchy Dufour.

“Give them Frenchy!” Cisco cried in extreme distress.

The cop laughed. “Well, there’s no telling what Dufour would say if he got picked up,” he said. Cisco knew that to be true. Frenchy had a motor mouth.

And, the cop said, there was also a lawyer lurking around trying to find Dufour. “Look out for him,” he advised Cisco.

Cisco had heard the name Tubby Dubonnet before, from Father Escobar. Dubonnet was the guy who had stolen the Papal Scrolls, giving the guys, the members of his “youth group,” their only triumph. Because they stole them back.

“It’s all okay,” Cisco told his wife when he hung up. Face frozen in a smile, he hopped into the driver’s seat. “That was just business. But not to worry. I think José will save us a little something to eat.”

At that moment José Guerrero was grilling beef burgers and fat links of andouille sausage in his backyard. The afternoon was balmy and the air was smoky when Tubby Dubonnet walked into the yard and introduced himself.

“What’s up with this?” José demanded. “Did I get a parking ticket? How’d you get in here anyway?”

“The gate was open,” Tubby explained with a friendly smile. “See?” Indeed the fence gate hung open. “I don’t know about any ticket. I’m not a cop. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.” José had black hair and a short scruffy beard. He fit the profile in Tubby’s mind of a guy who could beat up a college teacher.

The politeness left José’s eyes. “Wait a second, dude.” He closed the top of his grill with a clang and picked up his stainless steel spatula. “I’ve got people coming over.
Comprende
? I don’t want to buy anything.”

José’s girlfriend, a pretty blond girl wearing an apron, appeared at the sliding doorway connecting the deck to the house. “What is it?” she called.

“I don’t know. This guy just walked in.”

She started to step onto the deck but her boyfriend waved her back.

“It’s about an assault that took place last week on the university campus,” Tubby said in a low voice.

José’s jaw dropped and he hefted a big fork off the grill.

“What right have you got…?” he began.

“I’m just interested in it,” Tubby said still smiling. “This is all friendly. I just want information, that’s all.”

“Information? I’ll give you some information. I know cops, and I don’t appreciate your coming into my yard.”

“Have you ever heard of Oliver Prima?”

“It’s high time for you to leave, bud.” José was starting to sweat right through the red T-shirt he was wearing underneath his apron.

“Okay. Sorry to bother you.” The lawyer turned and walked away, crossing the lawn and going around the pool where yellow and purple noodles drifted peacefully on an apatite sea. At the gate he met another couple and two children who were arriving, carrying a casserole covered in tin foil and a bag of kid gear.

“Have a good day,” he said as he squeezed past them. The newcomers looked at him with curiosity.

Tubby had what he wanted— a visual on the man José Guerrero, who was now his number one suspect for beating up Prima and maybe more. He wished he could link him to the axe murders. Tubby also had a mental picture of at least one of his prime suspect’s male friends. There was a new Chevrolet Traverse parked out front. Tubby noted its license number and walked calmly back to his own car.

José’s guests were his friend Cisco, their other buddies and everyone’s families. The conversation with Cisco, once the kids ran inside to play Churchill Solitaire, and the wife delivered her stuffed artichokes to the kitchen, was tense.

“Why’d you grab me?” Cisco demanded indignantly.

“How did they get onto us?” José hissed.

“Who is they?” Cisco said in the deep and deliberate voice he used when he was strained and speaking of important matters.

“He said he was a lawyer, Tubby Dubonnet.”

“That’s the same guy!” Cisco felt momentarily short of breath.

“What same guy?” José was distraught.

The others began to arrive.

“We need to have a meeting,” Cisco whispered. “Tonight. First thing— after we eat dinner.”

* * *

Tubby went home and considered what he knew.

His girlfriend and secretary, you might as well say his family, were in imminent danger. These fool young men were somehow involved. And Detective Paul Kronke, the so-called Night Watchman, who had taken it upon himself to target Tubby’s whole world, had emerged from his cave.

He went upstairs to check that his revolver was still in the bedroom and loaded. Little good it would do him there.

To make himself feel better he got his gun cleaning kit from its shelf in the closet and took it downstairs with his shotgun.

On television, the news was all about national politics and local crime. All bad. He thumbed the remote looking for old movies though his fingers were greasy with graphite dust.

His phone buzzed.

“Hey, boss.”

A familiar voice.

“Flowers?”

“I’m back in town.”

“Did you just get here?”

“Yes, I think I need to sleep for forty-eight hours.”

“Get your sleep. I’ll call you soon.”

* * *

After a full spread of steaks and burgers, chips and salsa, appetizers and tomato salads had all been polished off, and the kids had settled deeply into the television and video games, Cisco suggested cigars for the four men. They were the core of the “group.”

José cracked open one of the bottles of Chivas Regal his guests had brought and poured them each a shot. While the women cleaned up the kitchen, the four men adjourned to the back yard and reclined on the ring of lawn chairs surrounding the grill where pecan chip embers still glowed.

Cisco offered Montecristo Robustos around and pensively lit one up. He puffed into the night sky back-lit by the city’s glow.

“What are we going to do about this?” José asked, always in a hurry.

Cisco blew out a smoke ring and cleared his throat. The others watched in expectation.

“Let me bring you guys up to speed. José is concerned about a lawyer who just happened to drop in unannounced this afternoon right before our party. The dude was asking about a teacher who he says got beaten up.” Cisco’s head was tilted back and his eyes were focused on the moon above them. “This lawyer is the same guy who gave Father Escobar a hard time last year and stole the records of…, I mean the Papal Scrolls.”

“He didn’t keep them for long,” one of the guys muttered with satisfaction.

“No,” Cisco agreed, “but anyway he’s back, and…”

“And he has somehow connected me to beating up that professor,” José interrupted.