5 Crime Czar (4 page)

“It’s going to be great working with you, Reverend,” Tubby said. “What exactly do you envision us doing as co-chairmen, Judge?”

“Why don’t you answer that Deon?” The judge pointed at the man with the orange glasses in the back of the room.

“We’re going to be asking you to meet individually with major donors, and to give us names of people who might want to contribute. You will be invited to attend all the planning meetings, though attendance is not mandatory. You are respected pillars of the community, and your identification with this campaign has great value to us.”

“Ah.” Reverend Weems nodded.

“I don’t know how well respected I am in the community,” Tubby said. “I doubt I’ll draw any big time support.”

“I’m sure that you’re just being modest,” Deon began, though in truth he had never actually heard of this particular lawyer before.

“People know you, Tubby,” Judge Hughes interrupted. “More importantly, I know you. We got through Tulane Law School together. We took some hits, as you know, but we got through. I don’t believe I would have gotten this job the first time I ran if you hadn’t walked me through the halls of those big tall buildings downtown, shaking hands with all those old men on the letterheads who’ve never set foot in a courtroom and probably never thought about electing a black judge. I got in so good that, last time around, nobody ran against me. But things have changed,” he said grimly. “I want you to do your old magic for me one more time.”

“Okay, Judge, but I think most of the prominent lawyers already know who you are now and, by and large, they’re going to support you.”

Judge Hughes took off his bifocals and wiped them on his sleeve.

“I’ve got a theory about white people,” he said. “They’re forgetful. When I was growing up over by Carrollton, I couldn’t buy me a soda in the drug store. Back then, the black voters— and there have always been a lot of them in this town— went with whatever white candidate laid out the most cash. I know that, and you probably do, too. That’s the way it was until Dutch came along and we had our man in City Hall. When it was my turn to stand for office I found that most of the whites who I needed also needed me. All of a sudden they were ready to forget the way it had been. Now, Tubby, I don’t count you that way, of course.”

Tubby raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

“I got the white support I needed, and I’ve repaid that, I believe.” The judge’s voice was rising. “Now I need it again. But I don’t want there to be any danger that my white supporters have forgotten about me. You’ve just got to remind them that Alvin Hughes is running for judge, and he’s been a damn good judge, and by God I want some votes and some contributions when the chips are down.” He slapped his palm on the desk and made Tubby, the Reverend, and a paperweight jump.

“I see the direction you’re headed here, Al,” Tubby said. “Don’t let them forget that good government isn’t free.”

The judge beamed and Reverend Weems nodded his weighty head.

“I’d say we ought to organize a committee of influential members of the Bar who support the reelection of Judge Hughes,” Deon chimed in.

“We’ll have to have several dinners, with tickets in several price ranges,” the judge offered.

“And, of course, some parties in people’s houses uptown and in the Garden District,” Tubby said, stroking his chin.

“And a full-page ad, signed by lots of lawyers, in the
Times-Picayune,”
Deon suggested.

“We will, of course, strive to see that our churches are also behind you,” said Reverend Weems, not wanting to be left out.

“Right you are, Reverend,” the judge agreed. “That will be critical. Because my opponent’s father is Bishop Bloom, pastor of the Original Babylonian Missionary Pentecostal Church, and he’ll pull a lot of ministers their way. But I don’t want to overload you gentlemen with jobs right at the beginning. Deon’s going to be drawing up a plan of campaign, and he will be communicating with both of you. And I’ve got to talk to the mayor and the councilmen and the other powers that be and see how the deck is stacking up. And in five minutes I’ve got to get back on the bench.”

Court was adjourned.

Judge Hughes escorted his shield bearers to the door of his office.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your willingness to help,” he said as he shook each man’s hand. He gave Tubby a wink.

Mrs. Evans smiled as they shuffled through the compact waiting room. The Reverend Weems was unfamiliar with these surroundings, and Tubby pushed him along gently until they were in the hallway outside.

A half-dozen citizens wearing JUROR badges lounged on the long pews facing the grand doors to the courtroom.

“I know we’re not supposed to discuss the case, but that lawyer’s perfume is making me sick,” a plump woman told her companion.

“And you know that tall one with the mustache,” her friend responded. “I don’t think she’s ever shined her shoes.”

“I suppose this is where you do most of your work,” the Reverend Weems wheezed as they walked toward the only working elevator.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it.” Tubby laughed and pushed a button.

“I have no doubt that this is what God has planned for you,” Weems said kindly.

Whom did I offend? Tubby wondered.

Daisy needed to go to work, but Charlie was stalling around, making conversation as they sat in his pickup parked outside her room at the Tomcat. They had eaten dinner at the Picadilly Cafeteria and the evening was balmy, which was all nice, but now it was prime time to get to hit the sidewalk and pay the rent.

“How do you get the old guys and, you know, bikers to leave you alone?” Charlie wanted to know.

Daisy had told him that she never let herself be picked up by these two types of customers, which wasn’t true, but Charlie kept asking her this kind of stuff.

“Charlie, I got to go,” she insisted.

“How do you keep from getting hit on by the cops?” He was torturing himself.

A dark green Cadillac sedan pulled up and parked on her side. Its headlights switched off.

“Charlie, I told you it ain’t pretty, but it’s how I pay my bills. You got a better idea, you just let me know, okay?”

He frowned.

“Okay?” she repeated.

There was a tapping at the window, and Daisy jerked her head to see two strange men standing outside the truck. The one who had curly hair and looked like a bouncer at a strip show leered at her and tapped again. He was working his square jaw around a wad of bubble gum. The other guy looked like a dead coal miner.

“Open up, Daisy Chain. I want to talk to you,” the big one said.

“Shit,” Daisy spat and rolled the window down.

“Yeah?” The man looked familiar, like she might have done something with him a couple of weeks back. She was sure, however, that she had never seen the character standing behind Curly. He was thin like a stick with protruding ears and had hooded eyes that did not leave hers— very creepy.

“Tell john-john to get lost,” the big guy said. “I got something private to say to you.”

“Now wait a minute,” Charlie said.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Daisy demanded.

“I’m a representative of organized crime, Miss Daisy Chain. We don’t allow independents working out here on the Airline. Now let’s go discuss the situation.” He reached inside the window and unlocked the door.

“Get out!” Daisy shouted angrily. She skittered over the seat next to Charlie.

Curly-hair grabbed her right arm above the elbow and yanked it hard.

Charlie grabbed her left arm and pulled it his way.

Daisy was swearing and Charlie was yelling at the man to leave his girlfriend the fuck alone.

They never saw the skinny man come around to the driver’s side of the truck, but all of a sudden he pulled Charlie’s door open.

Charlie tried to slap the man backhanded. He nicked the cheek a little before everyone saw the gun in his hand.

Charlie’s lip curled up in an angry snarl over his teeth when the man stuck the barrel of his pistol between Charlie’s eyes and pulled the trigger.

Pieces of skull splattered over Daisy, and the explosion deafened her. She stared in horror at the gunman’s steady green eyes during the instant it took him to turn away and trot back to his car.

She saw the surprised look on the curly one’s face. He let go of Daisy’s arm and banged the door shut. Blinking, mouth open as if he might have something to say, he backed up to the green sedan. Then he got inside and the car lurched away from the curb. Its lights swept over Daisy’s frozen face, and it rocketed off into the night.

Daisy was screaming, but she couldn’t hear herself.

When it rains at night in New Orleans the streets seem to melt. The traffic lights make fluid stripes of red, yellow and green that ooze on the shiny black asphalt like finger paints squirting out of a tube. They shimmer and dance to the beat of windshield wipers. Pedestrians huddle against the brick walls of buildings, clutching their packages, watching raindrops bounce over their shoes and gutters overflowing and bubbling along.

It was like that the night that Dan died. Tubby drove down Magazine Street to the hospital, trying to remember to steer. He got the call at home from one of the doctors, a man named Smaltz, he thought. All he could do when he replaced the phone on its cradle was to suck deep breaths and try to contain the pain.

Dan and he had known each other for a long time. Mixed-up memories of him collided like the rain drumming on the roof of the car. A much younger Dan, shooting cans of Miller in a college dorm, ripping a sink off the locker room wall when he lost a wrestling match, arguing politics with anyone who would listen to him preach against the bourgeoisie, growing pot in the landlord’s backyard— a forty-year-old Dan getting shot in the chest on St. Ann Street.

A tragic waste. The guy wouldn’t hurt a fly, Tubby was thinking, squeezing the steering wheel so hard it hurt. Dan died trying to rescue me. He took my bullet.

That scene would always be vivid in Tubby’s mind. Dan was lying spread-eagle on the street, a bubbly bloody hole in the center of his chest. Tubby felt he was responsible, even though rationally he knew he really wasn’t. It was Roux who had pulled the trigger.

Dan had been on the job, bellhopping at the Royal Montpelier, drinking immoderately and helping the rest of the staff mop up after the worst flood in modern history— the famous Mardi Gras deluge. Tubby had been caught by the flood, like everybody else. Exhausted and dazed, he had struggled to the Royal Montpelier where his old buddy had warmed him with whiskey and found him a cozy bed in the room of a lonely tourist from Chicago. Things got complicated, and a bastard called Roux cut Dan down on the street, as easily as one might swat a mosquito.

But Dan had survived, after a fashion, in a hospital bed for five months. Until now.

* * *

There were a few hours, before he started drinking, during which Tubby adequately performed the role of attorney for the deceased. That is, he made arrangements for Bultman’s to come for the body. He called Dan’s Aunt Melissa in Harvey and left a message on her machine.

“So sorry, Dan died tonight. You can call me.”

With thirty-five cents he borrowed from a nurse, he called Detective Fox Lane at the Sixth District. She wasn’t there either, but he left word that the Dan Haywood matter was now officially a homicide. As if that would make any difference. Fox, whom Tubby used to think of as a stellar officer, had dropped the ball when it came to ferreting out the person or organization behind the senseless murder. That investigation had dropped out of sight like a paper cup you kicked down a storm drain, like a dead woman sinking into a muddy flood.

Tubby fled the hospital, found his Chrysler, and let it carry him uptown. The rain had stopped, and the clock on the dashboard said 4:03 A.M. He parked outside Grits Bar, and he could see Janie, the barmaid, through the wire mesh that covered the smoky takeout window. She was pouring drinks for some pool players who wouldn’t go home. It looked warm and comfortable there. Too comfortable for his angry thoughts. He drove on to the all-night K&B— for a bottle of Maker’s Mark and a plastic go-cup he got for a quarter. Then he made his way to the river.

Sitting in the sand and straggly weeds, legs dangling over the bank, he drank his whiskey straight and watched dark oil tankers and grain barges moving slowly upstream toward Baton Rouge. Their rigging lights looked as delicate as fireflies. Across the wide black void of the Mississippi River, shipyards and power lines glowed like fairy castles.

Even for Tubby, sitting in the woods drinking straight whiskey while the dew soaked his jeans was bad form. He was too downhearted to care.

“You were a hell of a dude, Dan,” Tubby yelled at the river and hoisted his cup. Tree toads croaked.

A scruffy mongrel, black hairs spiked in stiff clusters on his nobbly back and with a scrap of chain fastened to its scabby neck, circled the morose figure with his intoxicant, sniffing loudly and warily.

“C’mon in,” Tubby yelled, spooking the animal back into the shadows and brush. Eventually, however, it came to sit quietly beside the lawyer, wild eyes intent on the shadowy vessels straining against the current. At some point Tubby reached over and gently unclipped the rusty chain. In time, his eyes closed. So did the dog’s.

In his dream Tubby saw the faces of the dead. So many of them, he could not count. They stared at him through the portholes of a ship caught between the stars and the swirling black water. Some like Dan he knew, and tears squeezed from between his tight eyelids. Others, ghostlike, Oriental, dark-skinned, were strangers. Nearer and nearer they came, calling to him and singing words he could not understand. Arms, emaciated, reached out for him. He twisted and shook and cried out in his sleep.

A wet nose in his ear woke the lawyer up. His nighttime companion was hoping for food. A man in running shorts up on the distant levee was staring down at them. Tubby waved the dog away, and it loped through the wet grass toward the new candidate. Behind him the sun was coming up, and birds were chirping in the willow trees sprouting from the riverbank.