Crooked Man: A Hard-Boiled but Humorous New Orleans Mystery (Tubby Dubonnet Series #1) (The Tubby Dubonnet Series) Read Online Free PDF

didn’t tell him what had caused the breakup exactly, but she had packed her suitcase and grabbed a Greyhound for New Orleans, looking for work. Tubby got the impression that her husband, or ex-husband—she was a little vague on that—could be in Texas, Louisiana, or Washington State for all she cared, but that she was apprehensive he might show up on her doorstep. Tubby did know that Cherrylynn kept her phone number unlisted.
    Tubby had hired her, while Reggie was out of town, on the basis of her enthusiasm and desperation, not her experience, and he was real pleased with the way it had turned out. Admittedly, Cherrylynn was taking her time mastering legal secretary-type things like preparing mortgage certificates, but she attacked filing, billing, and updating the Rolodex with a vengeance. She was also cute as a button in a windblown, wide-eyed, Puget Sound sort of way, and she made the clients feel at home.
    Cherrylynn had already fixed her makeup and had her purse in her hand ready to leave for the day when Tubby walked in, but she immediately sat back at her desk.
    “Here are your messages, Mr. Dubonnet,” she said, handing the slips to Tubby. “Mr. Whiting called several times and said it was urgent. I put your letter to Mrs. Prado on your desk. Do you need me to stay?”
    Jynx Margolis walked in just behind Tubby. She said hello to Cherrylynn and marched right past her into Tubby’s office. Tubby smiled at Cherrylynn, who was not amused, and followed.
    “I’d be glad to stay,” Cherrylynn pleaded. Tubby waved goodbye to her and closed the office door.
    His office was spacious, but the floor and most of the other flat surfaces were cluttered, as usual, with stacks of files. The walls were a soft pink, sort of a subdued violet, courtesy of building management, and a Persian rug covered most of the parquet floor. Two walls were glass, providing views of the French Quarter and the crescent of the Mississippi River. The third was covered by a bookcase, and along the fourth was a sofa nobody ever used except Tubby when he sometimes slept in right before trial. The furnishings were north Louisiana—a wide cypress desk from the office of a now defunct cotton compress, and comfortable upholstered chairs, purchased from a Shreveport undertaker when he retired. There were enough law books on the shelves to put new clients at ease. The rooftop swimming pool and tennis courts of the Fairmont Hotel were directly below. Tubby kept a telescope by his window focused on a well-positioned lounge chair by the pool.
    Mrs. Margolis settled into one of the upholstered chairs facing the desk and began cooing over a framed photograph of one of Tubby’s daughters.
    “That’s Debbie. She just turned twenty. Has her own apartment and everything. It’s really great to see you, Jynx. You’re looking just fantastic,” he made a little contact with her bright eyes, “but I’ve got to be leaving soon.” This wasn’t really true, and Tubby wondered why he said it. Maybe because it made him sound important or maybe because the woman radiated a strong magnetic field that he instinctively tried to shield himself from for fear of getting helplessly polarized.
    “Tubby, I think I’m going crazy. He’s calling day and night.”
    “What does he say?”
    “He curses at me. He says things like I’m a rotten mother, that I’m a cheap whore, that I’m sleeping with his best friend—what a joke that is—that he’ll take the kids away. He only does it when he’s been drinking, which he seems to be doing a lot of these days. I really should tape-record him and send it to the Boston Club.”
    “Maybe that’s not a bad idea.” Tubby looked at his watch but felt the pull. “Would you like a little drink yourself?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she said emphatically. She crossed her legs and found a cigarette in her purse. Tubby came around the desk and lit it, and then went to the miniature side bar concealed behind a closet door next to