Big Easy Bonanza

of months.” He pinched a half inch of bills from the envelope and pressed them into her hand. Such joy from soft, green rag paper, smelling of fingers and printer’s ink and leather wallets, a richness like fresh turned soil. Mattie’s mouth formed a perfect O as she stared at the warm pile in her hand. She was moved, deeply.
    “Oh, Tubby, this is not necessary,” like he had given her a present on their first date.
    He gave her the old smile and wink.
    She bent over, and this time the kiss was on the lips. Tubby himself continued to float somewhere overhead, watching it all happen, from his golden balloon.
    “Here’s a little tip.” Gently he slipped a few bills past the open neck of her blouse and tucked them into her bra.
    Her face lit up, on fire. It was happy. She held his hand to her breast, then brought it inside, guiding his fingers to pull aside her blouse and pull down the bra covering her right breast till, pushed skyward by elastic, it pointed at his face.
    “Why don’t you kiss it, sweet little baby,” she said. She pressed herself into his mouth, and he obliged, tasting old flavors. Slowly, with his free hand, he folded another bill and slid it into the band of her shorts.
    The electricity was running full current. With her free hand she undid her eelskin belt and pulled down the zipper. He tucked more $100s into her sheer panties. She yanked his belt buckle loose, pulled her breast from his face, kissed him hard, then knelt on the tile floor. She unzipped his pants and worked him free. While she caressed him moistly, Tubby selected bills, one at a time, touched her delicately about the cheeks and neck with them and let them fall. They formed a ragged green carpet around his horny one-time wife. It really took so little to make everything good, really good.

THIRTEEN
    Tubby left in the morning before she woke up. It was raining lightly outside, and the air was sweet. He expected Mattie would be embarrassed about what they had done. To a certain extent, he was, too. When it’s over, it’s supposed to be over. By pure luck, none of the girls had come home. The last thing they needed was some false hope that their parents were reconciling. It had taken them long enough to adapt to the breakup. He looked forward to taking a shower at his house and then going to work to find out what he had missed during his shopping spree yesterday. There were still living clients to care about, and Tubby’s guiding principle was never screw a client.
    He left the money in the trunk of his car, not being able to think of a better place for it. After packing the smaller presents he had bought into a sock drawer, he showered, then fixed himself a cup of coffee, sliced up two satsumas, and ate the fruit. He locked up and drove downtown. He was in traffic on Claiborne Avenue when his car phone beeped.
    “Mr. Dubonnet, this is Cherrylynn.” Her voice was almost hysterical. “Someone broke into the office last night.”
    “How do you know?”
    “It’s a mess. The files are everywhere. Your desk drawer was broken open. The safe is open. They went through my desk. And Mr. Turntide’s office is torn up, too.”
    “Are the police there?”
    “Not yet. But I called them. Mr. Turntide told me to. They should be here soon.”
    “Right. Some ace detectives, I’ll bet.”
    “Only in the movies. But really, Mr. Dubonnet, you had better come down here. It really is a wreck.”
    “I’m already headed that way.”
    The police had arrived when he got to the office. Or rather, a lone officer in uniform was shaking his head over the carnage. The place was pretty much as Cherrylynn had described it. Files were dumped everywhere—on the floor, on the desks, in the hall. Books had been pulled off their shelves. His globe had been overturned. He was sad to see that his leather chair had been ripped open and the stuffing was pulled out. Mattie had given him the chair for Christmas when he first started practicing law. It was accustomed to his backside now and fit him just right. Worst of all, one of the oil paintings on the wall, an abstract by the local artist Still, had been slashed. The artist was also his client, but Tubby had actually paid money for the painting because he admired it so much. He liked it when people studied it and was proud to say that he knew the painter. It was going to be expensive as hell to fix.
    Reggie and Cherrylynn went with the policeman into the relative normalcy of the kitchen to talk.