Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8) Read Online Free PDF Page B

interrupted.
    “I know, it doesn’t make sense,” Janie said sadly. “But now you know my problem. And this comes when for the first time in my life I’m making lots of money.”
    A paying client? Tubby sat back in his rickety chair and cleared his mind. He brushed the crumbs off his chest. “Tell me all about it,” he said.
    * * *
    There had been a time when Tubby had been much better connected to the police force. He had been pals with Homicide Detective Fox Lane, a five-foot-ten inch, 105 pound, marathon-running dedicated cop. About the time of Katrina, however, she had taken a bullet in the chest in the line of duty, accepted her pension, and now was chief security officer at Alluvial Bank. Chasing white-collar embezzlers and money launderers was a lot safer than chasing Seventh Ward narco gangs.
    So he called up his own private investigator, Sanré Fueres, who called himself Flowers. He was still in his prime, still single, and was still going down dark alleys.
    “You been out of town?” Flowers asked.
    “I was down in Florida for a couple of weeks working on my tan.”
    “With Marguerite?”
    “How’d you know that?”
    “Right.”
    “I need a little help with New Orleans finest. Have you ever heard of something called a quality of life officer?”
    “Sure. I don’t think I know any of them, but those are the guys who check out convenience stores selling vodka to minors, loud music, vacation rentals by owner, things like that.”
    “Really? Well it’s loud music I’m concerned with. Out on St. Claude Avenue in the Ninth Ward.”
    “On this side of the Industrial Canal?”
    “Exactly.” The other side of the Canal was a flood-ravaged wasteland dotted with new experimental houses financed by Brad Pitt. Maybe it would be the next target for hip rejuvenation, depending on how you read the cards. Today’s leaky-roofed and abandoned fixer-upper was tomorrow’s organic juice bar or sexy clothing boutique.
    “You’re going to be in the Fifth Police District. I don’t actually know any cops over there. No, wait, I know about one guy. He’s being punished for something and got transferred out there. You want to talk to him? Or do you want me to?”
    “Why don’t you call him and see if he’ll talk to me? I’d like to get to know some of the police working in that area.”
    “Okay. I’ll take a shot and get back to you.”
    “Thanks.” Knowing Flowers, that would take about twenty minutes.
    It took fifteen.
    “Guy’s name is Officer Ireanous Babineaux.”
    “Jesus, that’s quite a name. What do they call him?”
    “Officer Ireanous Babineaux.”
    “Fine.”
    “I got his cell number. We swapped texts. He’s willing to meet you for coffee and a doughnut if you like tomorrow morning at Elizabeth’s Restaurant on Gallier Street.”
    “I’ll have to look that one up.”
    “It’s by the river. He says eight o’clock.”
    “Thanks. I’ll be there.”
    * * *
    That frightened, scared place was buried far down in the young man’s mind. Deep, but always there. Even when he wasn’t so young anymore it was still there. His proximity to the shooting affected him in ways he didn’t fully know about. He never got married, for instance, possibly fretful of being too candid with another living soul.
    Steady jobs held no allure, though with a business background and all the engineering courses he’d taken he was certainly qualified for one. He took no interest whatsoever in politics, or in the causes his parents espoused, and he kept an extremely tight circle of friends. Not that he liked solitude, because he didn’t. But instead of community engagement he took to the horses.
    The Fairgrounds Race Track was the best place in the whole world to him. The Racing Form meant more than the chemist’s periodic table, the broker’s NASDAQ index, the entertainer’s score or the gambler’s dice. He worshipped the odds calculator on his iPhone app, and he was working out ways to improve it— twists