Fat Man Blues: A Hard-Boiled and Humorous Mystery (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 9) (13 page)

“It won’t show you anything,” Mathewson warned them ahead of time.

It was indeed very grainy footage of the Prima beating. The lawyer and his secretary peered over the detective’s wide shoulders while the video played on his computer screen. They could see an automobile passing on a gray street. A man on a sidewalk advanced toward the camera.

“That’s Oliver,” Cherrylynn said. Tubby couldn’t even be sure of that.

From the left, two figures appeared and crossed the street, their steps made jerky by the camera. Silently they bracketed the man, knocked him to the ground, kicked him and ran back as they had come, out of the camera’s sight. Their victim was curled up on the sidewalk motionless.

“Want to see it again?” Mathewson asked.

Cherrylynn sucked up her gut. “Can you blow it up?” she requested weakly.

The policeman made it larger and ran it again. You could see the hint of a face on the bigger of the two thugs. Black chin whiskers. It was possible to make out a profile. The other assailant was just a blur, though he might have had dark hair.

“Can we get a shot where we could make a still photo of these guys?” Cherrylynn asked.

“I don’t see why not, but you won’t see much.” Mathewson froze the screen and blew it up.

“What’s it say on the big man’s T-shirt?” Tubby asked, pointing.

“I see what could be ‘Friends’,” Cherrylynn said.

“I see ‘Friends of the P— something.’ Maybe ‘Public.’ Could it be a political group?”

“There’s a ‘Friends of the Public Library,’ ” Cherrylynn suggested.

“It could be that,” Mathewson acknowledged without much enthusiasm. “I think it’s a dead end.”

“I’ll run with it,” Cherrylynn offered.

The policeman seemed bored. He shrugged. “Hell, maybe the perp is a booklover.”

Cherrylynn was a booklover, and she had seen T-shirts like that one for sale at the downtown public library when she was doing research on one of Tubby’s more esoteric cases. She took her photograph there first and showed it to the check-out ladies.

“Not much to see,” one of them commented. That was certainly true. All that could really be made out was that one of the men was big and the other wore a baseball cap. On the bigger guy, a scruff of black hair and a tiny slice of a profile suggesting a prominent chin were visible. Also, that snatch of a red T-shirt. The more Cherrylynn studied it the more she thought that maybe the shirt wasn’t really such a great clue. It could be advertising the “friends” of almost anything, any place.

Nevertheless she asked for and got Tubby’s okay to drive around town to some of the smaller library locations. After all, it was Saturday.

At the Mid-City branch on Orleans Avenue she received the same blank stares— until she showed it to the librarian at the circulation desk. He was a young man with lush brown hair, heavy eyebrows and a full beard which hid his chin. She found all that hair somewhat intriguing.

“I can’t tell you who that man is,” the librarian said, “but that T-shirt is not one of ours. Looks to me like it’s ‘Friends of the Pub’. They sell them at an Irish bar on Bienville called Paddy’s.” Even though Cherrylynn’s interpretation of the T-shirt’s message seemed to be incorrect, this was still a great result. The librarian helpfully provided directions and said maybe he would see her there later. He got off at five. It wasn’t very far away— up near Delgado Community College.

Cherrylynn zipped down Canal Street. It was so nice to be out of the office, not at school, not at home, and doing detective work on a Saturday. Through her cracked car window she took in the intoxicating brisk air of the soon-to-be-forgotten winter. Screeching to the curb under a huge live oak tree she faced the tavern, a classic neighborhood joint painted blue as an Easter egg. She bounced out of the car with her photograph in hand and stepped gingerly over the broken concrete sidewalk. It was just after three o’clock in the afternoon.

Abandoning her normal caution about being an unaccompanied woman in an unfamiliar bar, she rose to her full five-foot-two inch height and assertively opened the door. She found herself in a smoke-flavored space lit by a Creature From the Black Lagoon pinball game and by the dim fluorescence of a wall-length beer cooler standing behind a long bar that was decorated with Christmas stockings and Saints banners. Two guys in jeans were playing darts and gave her the onceover. A couple of promising young men sat at the bar, on either side of a woman with jet black hair and lavender eyelids who was wearing a purple party frock over her black fishnet stockings and sequined high heels. They all shot warning glances her way.

The bartender appeared from a shadowy back room where there were sofas, possibly with people resting on them. He had to step over two cats tearing across the floor. The bartender had the same profile as the man in her picture, except that he was clean shaven.

“Your pleasure, ma’am?” he asked, and she was lifted by that smooth voice at least three inches off the vinyl pillow of her stool.

“A beer, I guess.” She blushed because why else would you come into a bar. She hoped no one noticed her discomposure in the dimness. She was trying to be afraid of this man but finding it hard.

“Should I pick one out for you or do you have one in mind?” He was smiling kindly at her.

She came up with, “I guess I should have an Irish beer.” She was aware that her selection was probably being noted by everyone in the place.

“Okay. Well, I like the Harp.” His voice was mellow and sweet as the powdered sugar dust on a beignet.

“That’s just what I want,” she said quickly. “Only I couldn’t think of the name.”

They had it on draft, and it came back to her in a chilled pint mug, which he set upon a square coaster. She noticed that “I Love My Pub” was printed on the cardboard.

The bartender rested his elbows on the bar, offering an ear if she wanted to talk.

“I’m from Washington State,” she said for no particular reason. “Are you from here?”

“Yes, I am. My whole family lives within a few blocks of this bar. But they are from Cuba originally, with a few Hondurans mixed in.”

“So, why? Why are you working in an Irish Bar?”

“Irish is a state of mind, yes? And what brings you in here?”

“Maybe I’m just looking for a good T-shirt,” she said. “Do you sell them?” Her eyes scanned over the walls, the parts not hidden by baseball team photos, dart boards, and drinking party memorabilia.

The bartender stroked his chin and winked. “We used to have some, but they’re all gone. Wait till St. Patrick’s Day and we’ll have them back. You don’t like your beer?”

Cherrylynn took a sip and wiped foam from her lip. “I thought you sold some ‘Friends of the Pub’ shirts,” she said. “Red ones.”

“That we did. It was for our anniversary not very long ago. Not sure which anniversary it was. Excuse me.” He moved away to the trio who had raised empty glasses. This was the place! He was the guy! She should probably put in a call to Tubby, who had no idea where she was. But she didn’t, yet.

Cherrylynn considered other conversation topics. The décor suggested many, with its posters of dead rock stars and an old Pac Man machine. The bartender came back.

“Do you ever have live music?” came into her mind.

“Usually on Fridays. Last night we had an Irish special, John Williams from Chicago. He’s a legend.”

“I’m sorry I missed it. Maybe next week. What’s your name?”

“Victor Guerrero.”

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Could be. Or maybe my brother José. We’re twins. Where was it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I go to Loyola, so maybe around campus.”

Victor shrugged and polished a glass. He didn’t look guilty. “Most likely José and not me. He’s the smart guy. I’m just a down-and-out musician trying to make a buck. José sells insurance. He’s already finished with his college, but maybe he was at Loyola on business.”

Cherrylynn slid off her stool and made her way to the tiny ladies’ room in the back. She called Tubby.

She reported in a hushed voice. “The man in the red T-shirt is named José Guerrero.”

“Are you sure?” Tubby asked.

“I’m almost positive. I’ve got his brother here and he’s nearly a dead ringer.”

“That video didn’t show much,” Tubby pointed out.

“Well anyhow,” she said exasperated, “I have a feeling.”

“That’s good enough for me. I’ll see if I can trace him. Consider yourself done for the day.”

“Works for me,” Cherrylynn said and rang off.

“Did you like your beer?” Victor asked when Cherrylynn returned.

“It’s very Irish. I think I’ll have one more.” Victor was cool. Hey, maybe the reference librarian would show up. Suddenly, she remembered the pain being suffered by Oliver Prima, and gave herself a deserved mental slap on the cheek.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Cherrylynn left the bar. Fortunately, her car was parked under the tree right out front. The bearded librarian, whose name might have been Luke, had shown up and entertained her for hours playing darts, and they had even slow-danced to Irish music on the juke box. It was research, she told herself, but as the night wore on thoughts of poor Ollie Prima lying in his hospital bed weighed upon her more and more.

Yet, it was her drinking companion who announced at last that the party was over. The library was open on Sunday afternoon, and he needed to get some sleep.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked. “I live close by.”

Cherrylynn got the silent invitation, and declined— though it took more resolve than she cared to admit. Anyway, leaving Professor Prima out of the equation, it was against her principles to sleep with bearded men on the first date when she was a bit tight and actually quite worn out. However, it had been a fun night. They exchanged phone numbers and he walked her to her car.

Once she was behind the wheel, he rambled away. Absorbed by fishing for her keys in her purse, she didn’t see the man approach from the shadows until he jerked the door open and slapped her hard.

Her hands flew up to ward off another blow, and she screamed. It was stifled by a coarse hand clamped over her mouth.

“You’re causing me no end of trouble,” the man’s voice rumbled in her ear.

Wide-eyed, she looked at his lined, pock-marked face and crew cut hair; it was a scary cop’s face. Maybe she had seen it before.

“You’ve heard about the Night Watchman?” the man asked, saying each word slowly to be sure she got it.

She nodded as best she could with her jaw in the vice of his strong grip.

“You and your asshole boss need to back off. Now! None of you are safe from me.”

“None of who?” she tried to say through his fingers.

“Boyfriends, girlfriends, kids. None of you. Deliver the message.”

She tried to nod again. He pushed his face close to hers. “And leave Father Escobar alone,” he whispered. She felt his hot breath.

“Hey, what’s going on?” There was someone outside.

The hand over Cherrylynn’s mouth disappeared. She tried again to scream, but nothing would come out.

There was a scuffle on the sidewalk. She saw her rescuer go down and her attacker run away.

As she regained her senses she could see the man on the sidewalk rising to his knees, coughing for breath.

“Oh, Luke!” she cried.

Her bearded librarian had returned to save her.

This time, after calling 911 and hugging each other for twenty minutes waiting for police who didn’t come, they split the scene and drove a few blocks to the safety of his bed.

Tubby made plans with Peggy O’Flarity to have lunch at The Blue Crab. She had resisted at first. Apparently she had been there before, perhaps with some other man. “I’m not in the mood for shrimp tacos,” she said sourly.

“No, no,” Tubby corrected. “I’m not talking about the bar downstairs. We’ll eat upstairs in the dining room. No bar food. They’ve got everything, BBQ Shrimp, Soft Shell Crabs, you name it. Come on. It’s good.”

“Do they have anything Italian?” she asked doubtfully. “I’m in the mood for Italian.”

“Sure they do. You like Shrimp Scampi? That’s on the menu. Think about it. Big ol’ shrimp, sautéed in garlic and oil and tomatoes, and the linguini, oh boy, and the parmesan cheese, and…”

She was sold and agreed to meet him there, after she was “decent.”

Killing time, Tubby decided he might as well drive to N. Hennessey Street in Mid-City, where Frenchy Dufour maintained his “New Orleans Smooth Deals” enterprise, whatever that was. This mysterious individual had dropped a card in Angelo Spooner’s shed, and perhaps he might yield a clue about one of the axe murders or, at least a clue about where Angelo had disappeared to.

Tubby knew the neighborhood well since it wasn’t too far from a popular sweet shop, founded by cops and famous for its maple bacon doughnuts, and it was near Ricca’s architectural antiques, where over the years he had bought all manner of rescued door knobs and cypress cabinets. He drove onto the narrow street slowly. It had crumbled sidewalks with no pedestrians, and it was bordered by car repair shops, and anonymous, bleak, one-story concrete buildings, interspersed with vacant sandy lots for sale.

He saw the number 400 nailed above the door of a nondescript storefront. Someone incongruously had hung a new banner advertising the Frenchy Dufour company’s “Smooth Deals” name and logo. The banner covered up most of a large glass-brick window. The door itself also seemed out of place on the dreary block because it was solid oak and on its ornately carved panels was a bright golden latch.

But it didn’t open. Tubby rang the bell and got no answer. Knocking loudly produced no results either. He couldn’t see any lights on inside the building.

He noticed a man watching him from the other side of the street, and Tubby crossed over to see what for. The citizen was tall, square-chinned and had blond hair cut short. Despite the warm day, his collar was buttoned tightly around his thick neck and he was wearing a plaid jacket.

“Howya’ doing?” Tubby inquired politely.

“Help you?” the man asked, taking a step backwards and straightening his arms at his side as if preparing to defend himself. Tubby noted a heavy golden wedding ring.