4 Shelter From The Storm (19 page)

On the first page of the Metro section, he found his story.

“Local Land Company Sold to Graxxon,” the headline read. It was always a little unnerving to realize that on Fat Tuesday, when virtually every governmental and financial institution in south Louisiana was closed, commerce continued in the rest of the world. In this instance, The Great Return Land and Investment Company, owner of approximately 28,000 acres of mineral-rich marshland in Plaquemines Parish and many oil and gas leases across the region, had announced yesterday that it had been acquired by Graxxon in a complex transaction that involved the transfer of all of its stock to a group of local investors and then the outright sale of the same assets to Graxxon. The sale price was not disclosed, but industry analysts speculated that Graxxon had paid cash and stock valued in excess of $125 million.

A spokesman for these same “local investors,” prominent attorney Clifford Banks, who had been this year’s King of the Imbeciles of Abyssinia— one of many krewes unable to parade due to the weather— was contacted at his home. “It was a golden opportunity for local businessmen,” he said. “Old Russell Ligi was ready to sell the Great Return Company, and the investor group was able to acquire it at a reasonable price. The investors already knew, of course, about Graxxon’s interest in the property, so they immediately turned around and sold it.” Banks declined to give further particulars about the transaction or the identity of the local investors. Nor would he comment on reports that spice magnate Noel Parvelle had claimed to be the true owner of The Great Return Company. Reached at his home in Meraux, Parvelle stated, “There will be litigation over this. You can bet on it. I’ve been cheated. I own that company and can prove it.”

Elsewhere in the section there was a piece about a “Major Heist at First Alluvial Bank, Generous Bandit Pleases Crowd,” but Tubby was staring off into space, watching the ceiling fans revolve.

In time, that lost its novelty so he dialed information to get Noel Parvelle’s number. He made his call. Mr. Parvelle was quite agreeable to talking to him and suggested that Tubby drive right out to the parish and, “I’ll tell you some story.”

* * *

The old Creole lived in a big house with vast porches in the middle of a green cow pasture. It looked like open country, but if you knew how close the Gulf of Mexico lay to the backyard you would wish for more elbow room. Parvelle would also have a nice view of the Mississippi River from his verandah, or at least a view of the forty-foot high levee curving in the distance.

He was waiting for Tubby on his front porch, fastened into a wheelchair and highly agitated. He wore a purple checkered shirt and a blanket over his legs, and his round, leathery face was the color of a boiled crab.

Tubby climbed out of his fat Chrysler, and while he was still crossing the yard the old man was yelling that he had been robbed by Russell Ligi. In the middle of his tirade he told Tubby to sit down beside him and let’s hear it.

He didn’t wait but asked, “Do you know that bastard, Ligi?”

Tubby sank down into a worn white oak rocker.

“No, sir. I’ve never met him.”

“What the hell are you here for then?” Parvelle demanded, punctuating his syllables with spit. There were gaps in his teeth. He was chewing a great cud of tobacco, and the corners of his mouth were coffee-colored. He had all his hair though, and reminded Tubby of a wild boar that had almost overrun him in the swamp one time.

“Whoa,” Tubby yelled because he thought Parvelle might be deaf, he talked so loud. “Let me tell you why I called.”

Parvelle’s yellow eyes got bigger as Tubby outlined the events of the past two days. When he described seeing the counterletter that evidenced Parvelle’s true ownership of the Great Return Land and Investment Company, the old man sat back and clapped his hands.

“Russell Ligi is as devious as the devil,” Parvelle whispered in glee. “I’d hate to meet him in hell.”

“Yes,” Tubby said in his most soothing voice.

“Let me tell you about Russell Ligi,” Parvelle continued. “Him and me got political jobs from Earl Long, that shows you how honest Ligi is. A dollar pass into Russell Ligi’s hands and a dime is all that rolls out.

“But he kept his hands off anything that was mine because he knew I’d cut the damn things off at the wrist. I had an interest in several companies that did business with the state. Man we poured some concrete. I sold ’em a ton of school desks. And that’s how I got into the spice business. ’Cause a lot of my family owns land, and LSU Agriculture School set ’em up to grow tomatoes and peppers and bottle that stuff.

Parvelle rocked harder.

“So the folks in Baton Rouge were gonna auction off all these oil leases. You know the state owns all these water bottoms out here.” Parvelle stopped moving. His wrinkled arm stretched out and made a slow sweep of the horizon.

“It’s all around us. You could hit oil or gas right under this house. You just got to drill deep enough. I wanted those leases, and Ligi knew the guy who could let me know what to bid. Only it had to be in Russell’s name.” Parvelle reached out and dug his fingernails into Tubby’s wrist. “I did too much business with the state, and it would have looked bad. Russell got his income direct from the public. So that’s why we formed the”— Parvelle almost sang— “Great Return Land and Investment Company, owned by Mr. Russell Ligi. And I put up every penny of the money— including paying Ligi plenty for the use of his name.”

“And you got what?” Tubby asked.

“I got that damn letter.”

“Well I guess you ain’t got it no more,” Tubby said. “Is there a copy?”

“Hell, no,” Parvelle exploded. “Are you an idiot?”

“Who was the lawyer who prepared the letter? Maybe he’s got a copy.”

Parvelle shook his head. “That was ‘Skinny’ Wormser. He went to prison. He’s been dead for years.”

“Did you get any money from the company in all this time?” Tubby asked.

“No. Me and Ligi went our separate ways.” Cruel memories crossed Parvelle’s face. “We never put the land into production. We— hell,
I
. I was saving it. I told him any time he asked— I’m leaving that land to my children as their inheritance. He didn’t have any say about it because I owned the company. He never would have dared pretend otherwise. He knew what I’d do to him.”

“So why did he screw you now?”

“Because of this!” Parvelle pounded his fists on the rails of his wheelchair. “I can’t get out of here to kill him. I’m stuck on this damn porch. I’d pay good money for the job.”

“No, no, no,” Tubby said quickly. “Not interested.”

“I’ll find somebody else,” Parvelle said. “How are you going to make a buck off this then?”

“Well, uh, I don’t know if I can.”

“Someone made Russell do this,” Parvelle said, staring past Tubby’s head. “Somebody he’s more afraid of than me. Because he knows I will kill him. Russell never would have thought about a bank robbery, either. He doesn’t have the brains or the balls. I’ll pay you to find out who that somebody is.”

“Maybe it’s the local investors the newspaper wrote about.”

“Yeah? And who are they?”

“The newspaper didn’t say.”

“And that’s the way it’s gonna stay. They going to be hard to find,” Parvelle said.

Tubby left him soon afterwards. Driving back to New Orleans he was thinking how fragile a handshake is. Even a handshake backed up by a legal document safely stored in the vault of a bank.

* * *

Tubby took a ride on his Harley to clear his head. In a moment of lunacy he had ordered the motorcycle months before, and he had only ridden it a couple of times.

He didn’t feel he deserved it. It reminded him of a bad episode in his life, and truth was, he thought he looked funny on it. But then the governor got one, and even a television judge. By the time he hit River Road, speeding beside the grass-covered embankments of the levee, he didn’t care. Swooping around a long curve, flying under the Huey P. Long Bridge, what came to mind was a pretty face wrapped in straw-colored hair, a woman lying on a hotel bed, trying on his black boots, waving her legs in the air to admire them.

Marguerite stared past the long silver wing of the jetliner. Snow covered the ground as far as she could see. The pilot had announced just a second ago that they were on a path to land at O’Hare in thirty minutes. She had slept through most of the flight and dreamt about the man called Rue firing point-blank into the poor bellhop’s stomach. A stewardess had noticed her squirming around and had shaken her gently awake.

Marguerite had smiled weakly and accepted the offer of a ginger ale.

There was a canvas bag in the hold of the plane with her claim check on it. Unless the thieving baggage handlers at O’Hare stole it, Marguerite would soon be collecting a fortune. She would tip a redcap to cart the sack to a taxi. She had not yet figured out where she would hide her bounty once she got the bag home, but if they left her alone for even a couple of hours, she would come up with something. She always had been resourceful. One thing you learned in the commodities business was how to live on the edge.

The handsome lawyer with the broad chest came to mind, and she smiled to herself. He definitely rated as unfinished business. Her race to gather her belongings from the Royal Montpelier and to depart New Orleans had prevented any good-byes. If she managed to stay out of jail, however, she would look him up again. Meanwhile, Marguerite could imagine many wonderful things, like how her mother would cry for joy when her mortgage was finally paid off. Like her boss’s expression when Marguerite said see you later, sucker. Straightforward as Marguerite was, it would be difficult not to tell her mother, or Rondelle, about the treasure, but change is what life is all about. A smart lawyer had told her that.

* * *

Edward and Wendell were strolling on Bourbon Street, drinking good beer from plastic cups.

“Can you believe how everything’s changed? It’s like there was never a flood, or anything,” Edward said in awe.

The faces they passed were smiling. The sun was shining.

“It’s like the whole city has been born anew,” Wendell agreed.

“I just love it here,” Edward said, pausing to look through a store window at the framed Jazz Fest posters being hawked for sale.

“It’s been a great adventure,” Wendell agreed. “You couldn’t ask for a better Mardi Gras.”

“We ought to think about moving here when we retire.” Edward laughed.

“We could do that soon,” Wendell said. His pockets were heavy with other people’s trinkets.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to give you a ticket,” a pretty young woman said, blocking their path.

“What do you mean,” Edward asked, highly alarmed.

“I have to give you a ticket for having too much fun.” She winked. “And the ticket entitles you to a free gourmet lunch and a brand new VCR.”

“What?” he exclaimed. Edward was relieved beyond belief not to be under arrest.

“Honestly, all you have to do is take a tour of the Pirates Mansion. It just takes half an hour. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“Exactly what are you selling?” Wendell asked.

“Great, affordable, vacation apartments in New Orleans. We have weeks available all year round. And the accommodations are just beautiful.”

“Time-shares,” Edward said, grasping the proposition.

“Our van is right around the corner,” the smiling lady said.

“Should we?” Edward asked.

“I think it might be fun,” Wendell said.

Fox Lane called Tubby from the hospital to say that Monk was ready to talk, but only with a lawyer present. He had designated Tubby Dubonnet, who told the police detective he could meet her there in half an hour. She said fine, that would give her time to grab something to eat from the fruit man outside. She wouldn’t eat the food at Charity Hospital.

He got held up finding a place to park near the medical center, like he always did, so it was more like an hour before he got off the elevator. He found his former classmate reading an old
People
magazine in the waiting area.

He asked how she was doing.

“Tired,” Fox said, brushing some fragments of orange peel off her Levi’s. “There was a drive-by shooting last night on Jackson Avenue and a five-year-old kid got killed.” She shrugged.

“How do you do it?” he asked.

“How does anybody do their job? Come on.” She led the way toward Monk’s room.

“I’m doing an official interrogation, Tubby,” she said over her shoulder. “You’re here as the suspect’s lawyer.” She was setting the rules.

“I want to talk to him in private for a minute then, to see if I’m going to represent him.” He could set some rules, too. He had not thought of a way he could be a witness, victim, and lawyer in the same case yet, but he wanted those few private moments with Monk.

“Where’s the damn guard?” she asked when they rounded the corner into the hallway. It was empty.

As if to answer her, the deputy in the black uniform appeared at the far end of the hall. He had a red can of Barq’s in one hand and a pack of Cheeto’s in the other.

“Just getting me something to eat,” he said, grinning.

“You’re not supposed to leave him alone,” Fox said sternly.

“He ain’t going anywhere,” the deputy said. “And mind your own business. You work for the police. I work for the sheriff.”

Fox swallowed what she wanted to say. “Go on in, counselor,” she told Tubby. “Please don’t take all day. I’ve got work to do.”

“Right,” Tubby said. He opened the door, stepped inside, and let it close softly behind him. A limp cotton curtain separated him from the patient’s bed.

“Monk?” he said.

No reply.

Tubby pulled back the curtain and froze. The blood was still dripping out of Monk’s neck where his throat had been sliced open. His head hung at an angle off the side of the bed. His mouth was a wide hole, and there was a red stream over his chin, around his ear, and down to the floor, where it made a puddle containing all of Monk’s life.

“Fox!” Tubby cried, and she was stiff-arming him out of the way.

A passerby might have mistaken the slightly disheveled lawyer sitting in the park for a patient at one of the nearby psychiatric institutions and the crisply dressed black woman in earnest conversation with him for his social worker. That would not have been far off the mark.