“Do you want a lawyer?”

“Yes, I think I need one, and Ms. O’Flarity said you were the very best.”

It was hard not to cry.

“Got it. Do they have you booked under the name of Dinky Bacon?”

“No, my real name is on my wristband.”

The lawyer sighed, and waited. Nothing more was forthcoming.

“What is the name on your wristband?” he finally asked.

“Tobias Magnum,” the client said reluctantly.

“Well, too bad, Tobias. This is Friday. There are basically no judges around until Monday. Even if I found a judge and she was willing to release you on your own recognizance, there is no one at the jail with the authority to cut you loose this afternoon. In any case, I am going to be gone for the next couple of days, so whatever I might do will not happen over the weekend.”

“I’m going to miss my sister’s birthday.”

“I’m just telling you my situation.”

“I don’t know anybody else to call.”

“Neither do I. Public Defender?”

“They say next week.”

“There you have it.”

“But there will be a producer from the Arts Channel at my sister’s birthday bash. He’s coming to film me. It’s my big break!” Bacon was distraught.

“Tell you what,” Tubby said. “Give me the producer’s name and number and I’ll call him. I will tell him your plight, and maybe he’ll see a story in it and come over to the jail with a film crew. Wouldn’t that be the lead-up to a great documentary?”

“Man, it sure would. Wait. I’ve got his number memorized.”

He rattled it off, and Tubby read it back to confirm. What sounded like a fight was breaking out around the jail pay phone, and the call ended.

Despite the gloomy picture he had painted for Dinky Bacon, the attorney decided to take a shot and called the Honorable Alvin Hughes, the one judge he knew who might be willing to do something on his holiday.

XXI

Saturday morning came up typical New Orleans beautiful, and Tubby was very grateful that he had been invited to take a trip to the country. He had promised to be at Peggy’s on the Northshore at about 11:30. They would enjoy the air, take a tour, eat some lunch and, if he liked, go riding. He bounded out of bed at his normal 6:30 and donned a pair of new blue jeans and an expensive checkered skirt from the Orvis store in the Warehouse District.

His phone buzzed, and it was Raisin.

“I was out in Janie’s neighborhood last night,” he said.

“Can you tell me about it later?” Tubby asked. “I’ve got some important matters involving a lady I need to attend to.”

“Okay. Did you get that sound meter from your bud?”

“Sure, I did.” Tubby didn’t go over the point where Boaz had threatened him with a gun.

“I’d like to fool around with it if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. It’s simple to operate. You just turn it on and point. Cherrylynn knows where it is, and she can figure out how to get it to you.”

He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to drive the fifty miles into the totally unfamiliar country of the far north. Like a lot of city dwellers, the lawyer simply never had any need to go across the lake. But he was psyched for this trip and he hit the road right after downing a single cup of coffee. First, a stop to fill up the gas tank at the Shell station by the river and check his tires and oil. Can’t be too careful when you’re on a long expedition across a vast body of water. Second, he pulled into Dot’s Diner on Jefferson Highway, a favorite breakfast joint that he rarely visited because it was off his beat.

The special thing was, they were friendly. They also had several different morning papers lying around, and kept your coffee cup full. And they made their own biscuits. He took his time ordering and eating. The diner didn’t sell booze, but there was a bar next door that advertised good Bloody Marys at an attractive price. He was immensely full of high-calorie food, however, so he abstained and rolled onto the highway.

The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway calls itself the longest bridge in the world, at 24 miles, though other bridge builders— in China and Turkey for instance— have challenged the claim. It is, however you measure it, inarguably long, and it crosses the wide, brackish inland sea that makes New Orleans almost an island. It provides an option for urban sprawlers who, if they don’t mind the distance, can spread out into the rolling piney woods of St. Tammany Parish to create gated communities, Christian schools, and golf courses wherever they like. The drive to get to and from the Northshore gives thousands of daily commuters the opportunity to meditate, to explore books-on-tape, or to read all of their text messages while gazing over the long miles of blue crab trap floats running beside the bridge. They could stare at the distant white sailboats, cruising in the sun’s glare and captained by people far more fortunate than the working stiffs behind the wheel.

The morning drive northward was opposite to the commuters’ direction and therefore quite peaceful. There was a light chop in the lake. Its sparkling waters stretched to every horizon. The morning sun was off to the right, not blinding, but golden. White birds searched for trout, and Tubby cranked up Chuck Berry singing “Johnny B. Goode” on WWOZ.

To get to Folsom, once off the bridge, you had to pass first through miles of strip malls and traffic lights, which gave drivers time to ponder questions like who might St. Tammany have been, until at last the Walmarts and subdivisions gave way to “Acreage For Sale” signs. Tubby realized that he was still running a bit early, so he poked along, even stopping at a fruit stand to encourage local food by buying some fresh honey. It would end up in his pantry back home with all the rest of his unopened jars of country honey, craft-fair chow-chow and mysterious jalapeno salsas.

He followed his MapQuest directions to a narrow blacktop road that wound around rolling pasturelands and past the occasional polo club. Tubby had never watched a polo match, but he knew it to be a pastime for the wealthy. Peggy O’Flarity’s driveway was gravel, and he slowed to spare the paint job on his restored Camaro. A large split-level brick home surrounded by hedges and trees with bright flowers appeared, and his hostess was in a porch swing waiting. He suppressed the temptation to fishtail as he came around her circular drive.

“Here you are,” she said happily, rising to greet him as he climbed out of his car.

He gave her the proper kiss on the cheek.

She offered Sangria from a pitcher afloat with orange slices, which he naturally accepted, though it wasn’t his drink. He sat down on the porch rail facing her in the swing— all very much as he imagined a proper country squire would do. The sun was on his back. It lit up her face and brightened her white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Are you hungry or would you like to see my place first?” she asked.

“I’d like to see your place. It’s very nice to be out of the city.”

“Isn’t it? Coming here is just so invigorating. Do you smell the hay?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.”

“They just cut it yesterday,” she said proudly.

“How many horses do you have?”

“Only six. And one is too old to ride.” He thought six was quite a large number.

“What do they all do?” he asked.

She smiled at the question. “Oh, I ride them. I also have friends who join me for what we call ‘expeditions.’ I have a groom who takes care of the stables and all that.”

“Do you have a cook and a butler, too?”

“No,” she laughed. “My horses are cared for far better than I am. I actually have to cook and dress myself.” She was wearing jeans, with the white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a substantial gold necklace with a green stone that fell about where the top button of her shirt would have been.