They made a date for Saturday afternoon. She lived off Route 40, near Folsom.

* * *

After lunch they walked back to her parking spot near the Contemporary Arts Center, where they said goodbye. Strolling alone down Camp Street, Tubby was mentally flying, and he imagined how nice it would be to spend the rest of the afternoon out on the lake on his boat. That was way too complicated to make happen, however, since the boat, Lost Lady II, was on a trailer in his driveway and probably out of gas. He considered dropping over to his old bar, Mike’s, on Annunciation Street in the Irish Channel. His Camaro, however, was parked at his office building, so that’s where he ended up.

Once there, his mind inevitably shifted back to work. Cherrylynn gave him some messages, but nothing was as vexing as his lack of understanding of his police officer client, Ireanous Babineaux, and his apparent involvement with not just the union boss he had slugged but also with the mobster scion, Trey Caponata.

* * *

It took two or three tries, and in the intervals Tubby read a motion to dismiss his federal case— a motion he considered repetitive and frivolous— but finally Babineaux called back.

“Have you heard anything further about Archie Alonzo, the guy you hit, bringing up any charges?” the lawyer asked.

“The word is out he’s going to charge me,” Babineaux said, “but I haven’t seen anything so far.”

“You told me he provoked you. Were there any witnesses to that?”

“Yeah, Rick Sandoval. He’ll say I was provoked.”

“By touching your chest with his finger?”

“That’s right.”

“Did anyone else see this? I mean, Sandoval and you worked together and might be seen as friends. Were there angry words? Did anyone else hear them?”

“The only other person in the room was Alonzo’s suck-up vice president, and he’ll say whatever his boss tells him to say.”

“Got it. What was the argument about?”

“I told you. Alonzo didn’t like me operating the off-duty officer job referral service. He wanted it all for himself, so to speak.”

“You told me that your so-called service was being replaced by an official central dispatch for the whole department.”

“Yeah, but under the union contract, that dispatch is operated by the police benevolent association, which is run by Alonzo. It takes a percentage, and that ends up in Alonzo’s pocket.”

“That makes things a lot more clear. I didn’t understand that Alonzo had a personal interest in cancelling out your deal. But tell me, how did Sandoval happen to be there when the argument broke out?”

“Rick was my partner in the business. You need a black guy and a white guy for everything in New Orleans. I’m the black guy. He’s my white guy. That’s the way it is.”

“That’s the way it is?”

“That’s the way it is.”

“How did you get to know Sandoval?”

“We actually injured each other in high school. I was playing for St. Augustine and he was playing for Jesuit. He tackled me and broke my collarbone. I rolled over on him and broke his ankle. We were both in casts for the rest of the season, making faces at each other from the sidelines.”

“How did Trey Caponata become a part of your arrangement, or was he a part?”

After a pause, Babineaux asked, “What makes you want to know that?”

“It’s an odd coincidence that you worked for Caponata, and that Caponata is a good friend of Alonzo. You didn’t tell me that Caponata and your victim were such good friends.”

“Once upon a time we was all good friends.”

“Not anymore?”

“Trey is siding with me for right now. He and I go way back together, too. I’ve saved him from getting into a lot of shit he couldn’t handle.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“I see you may have been covering up for a criminal.”

“Trey is legit.”

“Then he’s the first Caponata that is.”

Babineaux didn’t respond. He wasn’t giving anything up.

“I’m just wondering,” Tubby said, leaning back from his desk as if the client were actually in the room, “might there not be a business solution to this whole thing?”

“What’s that mean, ‘business solution’?”

“Maybe I don’t have a full enough appreciation of what your business was, or is, but in general terms it sounds like you and President Alonzo are fighting over a particular pot of money, and Caponata, whatever his relationship to this business might be, has ties to you both. Like I say, in big-picture terms, I’m wondering if there might not be a dollars-and-cents solution that could be worked out among all concerned.”

“Not while that prick Alonzo has me working over in the Fifth District. I think he wants to get me shot.”

“Tempers are high,” Tubby said. “But maybe it’s a good time to offer a compromise. After all, you got in a pretty good punch.”

“He has pins in his jaw,” Ireanous said with satisfaction.

“Give it some thought,” Tubby counseled. “Time heals all wounds. You say you haven’t received a hearing date for your grievance?”

“No. Not a peep.”

“I could call someone and see what’s happening.”

“No. I’m not sure what having an attorney butt in right now would get me. They might want to shuffle this whole thing under the rug.”

“That’s what you hope?”

“I guess I do. I need to get Internal Affairs out of this so that I can make my own arrangements. But I do want to have you in the wings for when I need you.”

“Think about what I said. Maybe there’s a business solution.”

“I will. Listen, if I get out of this shit hole transfer, maybe I can get your quality of life officer Jane Smith sent somewhere far away, too.”

“I wouldn’t want you to impact her career negatively.”

“What career?” Babineaux spat out. “The Fifth District is a dumping ground. Officer Smith is only here because she got in trouble for dating our chief’s daughter.”

“No! She’s gay?”

“Call it what you want. But from what I heard, Smith wouldn’t put a ring on it, so she fell out of favor.”

“Your police department sounds like some old-world duchy or Russian oligarchy…”

“You lost me. I gotta go.”

Tubby could hear the policeman’s radio squawking in the background.

The connection broke.

XVII

“What’s some lawyer named Tubby Dubonnet doing screwing around in my business?” Carlos Pancera demanded.

He had Jason Boaz pinned down in a small office in the basement of a church.

“What? Who?” Jason fumbled for an answer. Carlos and his moral rectitude had always intimidated him.

“He’s your lawyer, isn’t he?” Pancera yelled. “I’ve heard about that for years. You want some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Jason said.

Carlos rang a bell and a pretty brown-skinned girl, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, entered from behind a curtain.

“Bring us each a coffee,” Pancera told her and she disappeared.

“I got a call from a policeman I know,” Pancera resumed. “Your lawyer is inquiring about me in connection with a shooting that happened to some nameless hippie decades ago. Decades ago! What’s all that about?”

“Carlos, you may remember…”

“I remember nothing. What do you remember?”

“Nothing,” Jason said helplessly. “I wasn’t there.”

“You were one of us then. You came from a good family. What happened to you?”

“I make substantial contributions every year. Leave me alone.” Boaz was defending himself.

Pancera held up both palms to stop such nonsense. “You’ve drifted away from us.”

“I don’t remember Cuba,” Jason whined. “I have never met a Communist. I have other concerns that are far more important to me.”

“Like what? Global warming?”

“Actually, yes. Coastal subsidence is another one. Did you know that the Louisiana coastline is disappearing at the rate of a football field an hour…?”

“Oh, shut up!” Pancera thundered. “Your family’s home, your inheritance, was stolen by a filthy maniac who is still a dictator and the champion of world-wide socialism. His cancerous ideas are still taking root every day right here in the United States.”