Big Easy Bonanza

to be sure he was there, took a long look at him, and shook his head at Tubby. That was that. Trial date in October.
    Tubby turned aside to let the lawyer who was pushing in from behind have some room and saw the bailiff waving him over. “Hi, Janelle,” he said to the black officer leaning against the jury rail.
    “Good morning, Tubby. I’ve been keeping an eye out for you. Sheriff Mulé wants to see you.”
    “Me, what the heck for?”
    “Couldn’t tell you. He saw your name on today’s docket and said ask you to drop by if I saw you.”
    Tubby had no idea what that was about. He contributed nothing to the sheriff at election time. They shook hands when their paths crossed at testimonial dinners and such, which was not often, but he had never actually had a meeting with the great Mulé. Tubby went back to where Sandy was sitting and told him to go stand in line at the rear of the courtroom and wait till his name was called. They would give him a notice telling him to come back for trial in 0ctober. It would take about an hour, and Tubby would see him later.
    “And let me collect the fifty dollars for today, as long as you’ve got it with you.”
    “Sure, Tubby, but I’ve got to take a cab home.”
    “Well, make it forty-five.”
    Sandy pulled crisp bills from her purse, and Tubby accepted them with dignity.
    “All square,” he said.
    Sheriff Mulé’s office was in the Community Correctional Center across the street. The heat smacked you as soon as you emerged into the sunlight, radiating off the white concrete of the jail. One of the nondescript buildings across the way had been painted over with a mural tracing the signal events in American history—the Revolutionary War, the Indian Wars, the Civil War, the World Wars, and Vietnam. It was signed “Sheriff Mulé’s Art in Prison Program,” but in truth it had been started by Mulé’s much admired predecessor, a Mediterranean lawman who, in New Orleans fashion, had retired to run an Irish pub in the French Market. Looking at the painting, Tubby reflected that nobody ever seemed to remember Korea.
    Beneath the exploding cannon shot, screaming eagles, and painted flags was a praline lady sitting on a metal folding chair. She wore a red bandana on her black head in the traditional way, and had on a double-breasted pink raincoat pulled tight around her despite the temperature. Her wares were on a cardboard boxtop on her lap. Tubby crossed the street to admire the round candies she had arranged neatly on a sheet of wax paper.
    “How much are they?” be asked.
    “Yes, sir, one dollar,” she said. “And they’re the best in town. Just take your pick.”
    Tubby studied his choices. “How’s business?” he asked.
    “Business isn’t never much good. I’m getting whooped by them vending machines inside.”
    “Why don’t you move up by the bus stop?”
    “They run me off up there. Or them kids try to steal whatever little I got. Down here they leave me alone. Besides, I got a godson in there.” She pointed across the street. “I think maybe he can see me.”
    “Your godson’s in jail?” Tubby picked out the one he wanted.
    “Yes, I’m sorry to say it.” She handed Tubby a caramel-colored praline, thick with pecan halves coated with sugar melted in cream and vanilla.
    “How long has he been in?”
    “Oh, I’d say better than a year.”
    “And he’s still here? I didn’t think they stayed that long in the jail. Maybe he’s been sent to one of the prisons.”
    “I couldn’t say. That’s where he went in, though, and he hasn’t come out.”
    Tubby bit his praline. A piece cracked off and Tubby grabbed at it and missed. He sadly watched it hit the sidewalk.
    “What’s your godson’s name?” he asked.
    “Jerome, Jerome Cook,” she said.
    “Well, I hope he gets out soon.”
    “I sure hope so, too,” she said.
    Tubby nodded to her and walked back across the street. Going up the wide steps to the Correctional Center he passed a group of guards standing around eating candy bars together. Their black uniforms made him nervous. They herded, washed, fed, and processed the five thousand or so prisoners, more than most countries confined, which Orleans Parish held on a daily basis, rode in Mardi Gras parades on horseback, and campaigned for Sheriff Mulé every four years. The sheriff reigned over them, dozens of public buildings, tent cities full of inmates, and millions of dollars. Mulé was a man to be reckoned with.
    The guard