Night Watchman

The scene took him back to his own street-people period. All 72 hours of it. These kids had energy, like he once had, and were undoubtedly more clear-headed than his youthful friends had been. They looked like they were headed somewhere to apply themselves and pick up a paycheck. He found a place to park in front of the abandoned Toledo Iron Works.

Opening the door of the café he almost got run over by a tall woman wearing a spotless white polo shirt and black slacks, both of which hugged her trim figure. She looked like a prep school gym teacher and had a phone pressed against her short brown hair. Tubby got an apologetic smile as she brushed past. She had no obvious lipstick. Her black eyes were spaced far apart.

The restaurant was full, and it was lucky that the police officer was already seated and noticed him, which wasn’t hard. He was the big lawyer wearing a tie. The cop waved Tubby over. The décor was striking, walls covered with cryptic sayings like, “Don’t Tread on Me,” written in splashes of color, Dr. Bob’s version of folk art in wooden frames outlined in bottle caps.

“Ireanous?” he inquired.

“Close enough,” the cop said. His blue uniform shirt was crisply pressed, and his badge shone brightly on his broad chest. His skin, exposed above the neck, was nearly black. He wore a heavy mustache, but his head was shaved smooth. “Have a seat,” he directed.

Tubby did. “Thanks for meeting me, Officer. I hope I can buy you some breakfast.”

“Already ate, but I’ll join you for another cup of coffee if you like. The Redneck Eggs are good.”

Tubby shot him a glance to see if he meant something, but the ebony-toned policeman stared impassively back. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Dubo

“Rhymes with ‘Make my day’?”

“That’s it.”

A waitress appeared, a dainty girl in a pink frock. Tubby pointed to the first special on the menu.

“So what’s up?” Ireanous asked. “Your man Flowers didn’t say much. ’Course I hardly know him.”

“There’s really not a whole lot to it. I represent the lady who owns the Monkey Business club over on St. Claude, and apparently she’s run afoul of some local ordinances.”

“Yeah? I know where that place is. They get some big crowds on weekends. But I’ve never heard about any trouble there.” Ireanous paused to check his phone. “Of course, I haven’t been in this precinct but a couple of weeks.”

The waitress brought them both coffee and a plate of Eggs Elizabeth for Tubby. They appeared as a pair of perfect little poached eggs on French bread rounds, each with its dollop of golden creamy hollandaise, garnished with parsley and resting on a pea-green sheen of tarragon sauce, with yellow cheese grits on the side.

“Impressive,” Babineaux commented.

“Absolutely,” Tubby agreed, thinking that maybe the dish wasn’t very macho looking. But it was tasty.

“I heard you just got transferred in,” he said to the policeman.

“That’s right,” Ireanous said without expression. He didn’t offer the details. His large eyes, starkly white against his skin, studied the lawyer carefully.

“You like it here?” Tubby asked.

“What the fuck is there to like about it?” the cop asked. “Drugs, guns, and kids who will shoot you just to prove their manhood. Every single person on the street has been to Parish Prison.”

This was in stark contrast to Tubby’s impression. “It doesn’t look that bad to me, just driving around,” he said, “but you make it sound pretty dismal.”

Ireanous shrugged. “Whole city is like that,” he added and took a sip from his coffee. “Take another tour after dark. Believe me, I grew up around here.”

“Anyway,” Tubby continued, “my friend Janie Caragliano runs the Monkey Business tavern and is getting grief for staging live music at night. Apparently there’s a problem with the quality of life officer in this district.”

“Right.”

“Do you know that particular cop and, you know, what my approach should be?”

“As for approach, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Babineaux said. “But I do know the cop. You passed her when you came in. Tall? White shirt?”

“Oh, yeah. So that’s what a quality of life officer looks like. What’s her name?”

“Officer Smith.”

“First name?”

“Jane, possibly. Nothing you’d remember.”

“How would I get in touch with her?”

“Just call the station and leave a message.”

Tubby thought he had gotten about as much help as a cup of coffee would buy. But as long as he was here…

“Here’s another question,” he persisted, though Ireanous checked his watch. “Where would I go to find records about a crime, a murder actually, that happened a long time ago?”

“How long?”

“About forty years ago.”

“You’re going to have trouble with that, buddy. But the place to start would be at Central Records at Tulane and Broad.”

“Do you know anybody there who could help me?”

Officer Babineaux laughed. “It happens that I do. Rick Sandoval. He’s also being punished for being too good of a cop. Central records is police Hell.”

“Sandoval? Listen, I really appreciate this.”

“Hope it helps.” Ireanous must have seen something about Tubby that he liked because he suddenly became more friendly. “What kind of lawyer are you?” he asked.

“I do all sorts of things. Civil and criminal,” Tubby said vaguely. “My clients always seem to have multiple problems.” It was true.

“Well, here’s one you’ll like. What do you think about a cop who breaks a guy’s jaw with just one punch? It’s in the line of duty, you might say. You think that’s an assault?”

“Sure, it’s an assault. But you’re a cop. If the punch was justified, that’s what we pay you for.”

“I was definitely justified. But now my ass is in a crack about it.”

“Don’t you have a union? I thought they would defend you against anything.”

“Not in my case. It’s technically an association, not a union, and here’s the thing, the guy I popped is the president.”

“Oh, that’s bad.”

“Tell me about it. I’m possibly facing criminal charges.”

“Have you talked to a lawyer about this?”

Ireanous ran his palm over his smooth scalp. “I am right now.”

“Hang on,” Tubby said. “There’s more to it than that. You haven’t asked me to represent you, and I haven’t agreed to do it either.”

“Flowers said you’re a wi

Tubby nodded his head. No argument there.

“What’s your fee?” the policeman asked, stroking the holstered gun on his belt for comfort.

“It varies a great deal,” Tubby said. “It all depends on what I have to do.”

“What would you charge for, what do you lawyers say, an initial consultation?”

Tubby made up a number.

“I can do that,” Ireanous said.

Tubby wished he had gone higher. “Can you come to my office?” he asked.

“I guess so. Where is it? I have to go to work now.”

Tubby gave the directions and they shook hands.

“I can give you Jane Smith’s cell phone number,” Ireanous said gruffly as they walked out to the street together.

Outside there was an orange parking ticket on Tubby’s windshield. The cop laughed and waved goodbye.

Tubby tossed the ticket into his glove compartment and pulled out his phone. Jane Smith didn't pick up, but Tubby left his number and asked her to call. Driving slowly , he looked in the recessed doorways of Chartres Street for the mystery meter maid, but she was well hidden.

Next stop was Tulane and Broad, a destination Tubby knew well. He found a parking spot in a pay-lot full of Lincolns and BMWs, dented pick-ups and old Impalas, representing the spectrum of who came to this place. There were those here voluntarily— hustling lawyers— and those who were here against their will— sad and poor defendants. Tubby took a deep breath to ready himself for this world: city blocks packed with jail buildings, sketchy bail bondsmen, the towering criminal courthouse with its bold stone relief of what appeared to be an African-American ca