Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 07 - Tubby Meets Katrina Read Online Free PDF Page A

luggage so he shuffled along with the other pilgrims arriving at the cavernous station built for trains. He stopped for a second, pretending to gaze at the wall murals, while he got his bearings and checked for exits. He ran his eyes over the people waiting on the benches and then focused on two men coming toward him. One got right in his face and held up a badge.
    “New Orleans Police! You’re under arrest, dude,” the man said.
    His partner crouched, holding a pistol in two hands which he pointed at Bonner’s face. “Hit the floor, sucker!” he commanded.
    Bonner licked his lips and spun around. He bolted toward an exit sign, in a direction that put the man with the badge between Bonner and the gun. He might have made it but for an old codger in a wheelchair who was traveling fast across the floor chasing after a wayward toddler. A second’s detour was all it took for Detective Johnny Vodka to make the tackle and officer Daneel to slam his gun into Bonner’s forehead.
    “You’re busted, asshole,” Vodka breathed into his ear, twisting Rivette’s arms around and clamping on the cuffs. “Score another one for the good guys.”
    While a dribble of blood caked in the cracks above his right eye, Rivette cursed the cops. They on the other hand joked during the whole ride in the squad car to the Parish Prison that it was just like a dumb bum escapee to grab a Greyhound bus, when his description was all over the state. Just like a stupid recidivist to come to New Orleans where he had lived and been arrested twice before.
    “Isn’t that right, excrement for brains?” Vodka laughed. “Weren’t you busted here for assault? See you in court in six months. Or maybe I don’t have to go to court for you. Maybe they’ll send you straight back to Angola.” The cops were happy because they had made a collar of an escaped felon, and no one had gotten hurt in the process.
    They took Bonner to Central Lockup and turned him over to the Orleans Parish Criminal Sheriff’s Department.
    Tubby didn’t stay long at Igors. His longest conversation was with the former prosecutor who insisted he had been good at his job because he looked the other way at minor offenses where the accused could make a contribution to the community or was represented by one of the DA’s trusted friends. “Today, nobody’s got any ‘discretion,’” he said, taking care to get the word past his thick tongue. “Just like robots. No ‘discretion’ at all.”
    Tubby discreetly departed. He greeted the dusk with bravado. He was only about twenty-five blocks from home.
    It was late afternoon now, about five o’clock if his watch could be believed. He had reset it so many times crossing time zones it wasn’t always right. The wind was blowing steadily now. A big storm was definitely on the way. Anybody could feel that now. Hurricane weather felt good.
    He followed the streetcar tracks running down the grassy middle of St. Charles Avenue. The branches of the crape myrtles on the neutral ground and the live oaks on the sidewalk side swung wildly away from each sudden gust. When the tempo slackened again they waved gently to and fro, waltzing to a tune only they could hear.
    Other than the trees there wasn’t much action on the street. It was really far too quiet. Tubby noticed that he could hear his own breathing, audible from the exertion of trucking along block after block. There weren’t any cars. He began to hum, and then to sing softly. He saw some young kids, hooded sweatshirts over their heads, running down the block. He felt relieved when they darted down a side street. He passed the K&B—sorry, Rite Aid—at Louisiana Avenue. It was locked down tight. A couple of men were drinking beer in liter bottles hidden by brown paper bags in the parking lot. Tubby gave them a loud “Good evening.” They nodded back.
    It was hard to get reacquainted with one’s town when there was no one was around. In fact, New Orleans seemed forlorn and