Night Watchman

“That’s right. Sandoval located an old police file for me, about a shooting that happened in the 1970s. He didn’t find much.”

“Closed file, huh? A lot of those are very skimpy. Officer Babineaux also texted Alonzo and told him to stay out of the business, by which I think he meant the off-duty patrolman referral service. It was a racket that Babineaux and Sandoval were ru

“I didn’t know it was a ‘racket.’ ”

Officer Argueta chuckled into the phone. “It was a way to make lots of money off cops who need to make a little money. But I guess it was probably legit. Alonzo has it all to himself now.”

“What does that tell you?”

“I got two dead cops. Ireanous Babineaux and Rick Sandoval, both of them twenty-year veterans, like me. And one thing that links them together is Archie Alonzo.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I think so. But guess what? The other thing that links them together is you.”

Tubby couldn’t argue with that.

But he wasn’t ready to spill what he knew about the youth group, Pancera, and all those old records. Not to a stranger on the telephone, and not while those papers were still in his house.

He placed another call to the Tulane historian, but he got the same voice mail.

“These university guys work less than I do,” he muttered to himself.

He decided to devote a few more hours to going through those bins. His initial foray had taken him up to the fall of 1963.

He fixed another cup of coffee and opened the folder identified as “November 1963 to December 1963.” The first papers in it were minutes of a meeting on November 1, 1963. As usual, the meeting was called to order by “the Leader” and there was a quick report from “Security” to the effect that no new subversives had been identified in New Orleans, other than the usual outside agitators and the fact that a lawyer had arrived from New York City to staff the “Committee for Civil Rights” office on Magazine Street. She would be watched.

Then came a financial report from the Recorder. There had been new income of $35.25 as a result of “paper sales.” Then there was a note that “$100 delivered to J. Ruby for Dallas travel plans.” Tubby jumped up and began to pace the room. There was only one Ruby he could think of— the anonymous man who had shot to death the president’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in the basement of the Dallas police station, before Oswald could talk.

When he calmed down, Tubby read on.

* * *

“Should I pick you up?” The voice was Peggy’s, and it broke Tubby’s spell. He tried hard to remember what she was talking about.

“The wine and cheese?” she prompted. “The gallery opening? Dinky Bacon’s exhibit on Julia Street? Five o’clock?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I did sort of forget. I’ve got to grab a quick shower. How about I meet you there?”

“At five,” she repeated.

“Right. I’ll be there.”

* * *

He made it to “Gallery Row” just a few minutes late, wearing a blue linen jacket over a natty white shirt and khakis. After cruising two blocks in both directions he reluctantly accepted valet parking and handed over his keys to a teenager with styled yellow-blond hair. A number of the art galleries were apparently having functions at the same time because the sidewalk was packed with pedestrians, all dressed in good taste and all looking like they had some money to spend.

Through its expansive windows one could see that “The Gallery Z’Herbes” was popular tonight. Tubby adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, and plunged in.

More people than legally allowed were crowding the center of the narrow space, waving glasses of wine and laughing at each other’s wit while not paying a lot of attention to the art. Tubby, however, found it hard not to inspect the work, partly because it seemed so inartful. The pieces were smaller than those displayed at the Contemporary Arts Center, but they were of the same genus. The first to catch his attention was an irregular construction of white plastic water pipes from which was suspended a rusty wrench and three framed black-and-white photographs. They depicted what appeared to be old-time Bourbon Street burlesque shows.

Peggy found him studying one of these pictures— girls in a can-can line.

“My forgetful date appears,” she said and lightly kissed his cheek. “Our artist is in the back room. He asked if you were coming.”

They picked their way around two diminutive men with identical goatees and chartreuse turtlenecks to the next display. “Is his filmmaker with him?” Tubby asked.

“I didn’t see him,” Peggy said, which was a disappointment to Tubby. He leaned over to admire an ancient cast-iron water heater repurposed as art. A number of framed photographs had been fastened to it with solder. One picture in particular caught his eye.

“This is interesting,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Here, take a look.”

She bent over, careful not to spill the contents of her plastic cup.

“It’s some old building?” she ventured.

“Doesn’t that look familiar to you?” They were cheek to cheek. “See that door? See that window? I’m pretty sure that’s an old photograph of Janie’s bar, the Monkey Business.”

“You could be right.”

“Look over the door. Doesn’t that say ‘Club Caragliano’?”

“It could say that. I’d need my glasses.” Tubby didn’t know that Peggy wore glasses, but never mind.

“And there’s a poster on the door.” Tubby pushed his nose up to the picture. “I think it says ‘Vince Vance and the Valiants. No Cover’.”

“Okay. So?” Peggy wasn’t getting it.

“What it means,” Tubby shouted in his excitement, “is that there was live music in Janie’s bar back in the days of Polaroids. She’s going to win her case. Let’s go find Dinky before he sells this contraption to somebody.”

XXX

Cherryly

“Use the time for studying,” he said. That was nice, since she was on the clock, but not so nice because studying for eight hours was going to be extremely boring. The ringing telephone gave her hope.

The man’s voice at the other end said, “My brother got a call from this number, asking about a boy who disappeared back in the 1970s.”

All boredom vanished.

“That was from me. Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Mister Haggarty. To whom am I speaking?”

“My name is Cherryly

“Shooting, huh? That’s what my brother said.” The voice was unemotional.

“Yes, a boy who was killed in a demonstration.”

“Was it some kind of civil rights protest?”

“No, I think it was against the war.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Parker. He was a troubled youth, not like his kid sister. He didn’t seem to want to get along here in Muncie. As soon as he turned seventeen, he hitched a ride out of town. We got one postcard from him about a year later, and it was from New Orleans. After that, we ain’t heard a thing.”

“Are you his father?”

“Yes, that’s right. Spencer R. Haggarty.”

“And his name was?”

“Parker M. Haggarty.”

“I’m real sorry to say that this could be the same boy. I hate to be the one telling you this news. I can have Mister Dubo

“No need for that. Parker never wanted us to know his business, and if he’s dead, he’s dead. If his sister wants, she can call you.”

Cherryly

“Well, you be good,” the man said, and he hung up.