Big Easy Bonanza

days.”
    “I don’t know if they’ll take that. You need real insurance.”
    “It’s hard to get insurance on the Rolling Boiler,” Adrian lamented. He was speaking about a chopped-down Ford Escort chassis he had decorated with papier-mâché and sheet metal to look like a huge crawfish pot. He had girls, pretty ones if he could get them, dress up like crawfish and jump around in the pot. He used it for parties and parades and was trying to get recognized as a local character.
    “I’ll bet the Moss Man doesn’t have insurance,” he complained.
    “I know the Moss Man, and he does have insurance,” Tubby told him. “Plus he has a brake tag, too.”
    “I’d like to know where he gets it. They’d just laugh at me if I pulled into a brake tag station. Can you imagine?”
    “Give me your certificate of insurance and I’ll see what I can do.”
    Adrian sat on the bench while Tubby squeezed through the crowd to the hallway behind the courtroom where whatever assistant city attorney had the duty that day met with lawyers and regular folks to conduct the real business of the court, which was to hammer out guilty pleas. Today he found Risi Shexnayder, a young lawyer he had seen before over at the law school, sitting behind a little desk, interrogating a fat black teenager while a policeman, lounging on a folding chair in the corner, picked his teeth with a wooden match.
    The teenager was telling a story about why he ran a stop sign. The cop interrupted to say he didn’t believe the kid then and he didn’t believe him now, and, in any case, running a stop sign was against the law, so why not cut the crap. The kid finally agreed to pay a fine, but he was mad about it. He collected his papers and strutted out. Shexnayder waved Tubby toward the empty chair. She was in her twenties but was already getting the worn-and-tired appearance that comes from spending too much time cooped up in windowless rooms with petty offenders and cops.
    “Hey, Mr. Dubonnet, where y’at? I know it must be a major bust for a big shot like you to be down here.”
    “No, this is not a big deal, Risi. Today I represent Monster Mudbug. Grabbed for no insurance, tag, or title on his way to the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade in the Irish Channel.”
    “Yeah. I saw him in that parade. He wears this big chef’s hat and was throwing boiled crawfish and potatoes, right? That’s a crazy guy. Is that stuff legal? It must be a health-code violation. So what do you want me to do?”
    “Forget the whole thing. No one gets title or tags on something like that. I mean, it’s a float, really. And anyway he’s got insurance.”
    The assistant city attorney inspected the insurance certificate Tubby pushed across her desk.
    “This is from Blue Streak Insurance Company,” she said. “They’ve been out of business for months. This is no good.”
    Tubby looked at it again. “So, you’re right. But that’s not the kid’s fault. See, he paid the premium.”
    “I hope he can get his money back. Judge is hard on no insurance, but I guess maybe this counts for something. Monster Mudbug has to have a license tag, though. If it runs on gas and rolls down the street you gotta put a tag on it. We’ll throw everything else out if he pays a hundred and twenty-five dollars plus costs.”
    “Okay,” Tubby said. The prosecutor scribbled some notes on the tickets and handed them to Tubby.
    “Take these to the clerk, and it’s all taken care of. And say hello to Reggie Turntide for me.” Reggie was Tubby’s partner.
    “You know Reggie?” Tubby was surprised because Reggie had probably never ventured into Traffic Court.
    “I met him at the fish fry my boss, the City Attorney, has every summer for all of us and the politicians. Reggie was really sweet. He played with my little boy for about two hours.”
    “Yeah, Reggie really likes kids.”
    “He seemed to. You can tell Monster Mudbug I think his whole, uh, presentation is outasight. People go crazy trying to catch those crawfish. They had a good flavor, too.”
    “You ate them?”
    “Sure, I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time.”
    “I’ll tell him he has an admirer in Traffic Court.” Tubby grabbed the tickets and was out the door. The next lawyer in line stepped forward quickly and sat on the chair. One more man with a story to tell.
    Adrian had found some friends in the courtroom, and they were all talking to each other in whispers, out of respect for where they were, but there was