Big Easy Bonanza

assassins may have met secretly to plan his death.
    It was orderly and sedate, a nice contrast to his office, which he had spent the afternoon helping to reorganize. Nothing had turned up missing. That was probably because what the burglars were looking for was in the trunk of his car.
    Sazerac’s was the bar off the lobby. Tubby usually avoided it because it was likely to be full of conventioneers, but tonight, except for a couple of cigar chompers and the bartender, the place was dead.
    He recognized Clifford Banks sitting at a round table in a dim corner beneath an orange mural, painted by a WPA artist, of vegetable and fruit vendors in the French Market. Banks was smoking a cigarette, but he stubbed it out as soon as Tubby entered the room. He placed the ashtray surreptitiously on the adjoining table like he was ashamed of it. When he stood up to shake hands, Tubby had to acknowledge that he had a commanding presence. With streaks of silver at his temples, and his wide, clear blue eyes, he was a distinguished figure.
    “Hello, Tubby,” he said. His voice was generous and friendly. “Thank you for joining me.”
    “My pleasure, Clifford.” Tubby fitted himself into one of the soft black leather chairs. They contrasted with the rug, the curtains, and the base of the bar, which were red, like dark blood. A waiter appeared. Banks ordered a martini, straight up, please, dry with an olive. Tubby said he would have the same. A speaker hidden somewhere emitted Stravinsky. Or maybe it was drifting in from the symphony playing at the Orpheum across the street.
    “I don’t think I’ve seen you since the Bar dinner a year or so ago,” Banks said. “But I’ve heard you have been doing very well.”
    “I’ve been staying busy.” The waiter brought mixed nuts.
    “That’s certainly better than the alternative.” Banks chuckled. Tubby smiled. They smiled at each other.
    The drinks came. Banks fiddled with his red plastic swizzle stick. It was imprinted with the Fairmont Hotel crest and would have been something to grab for if it was tossed from a float at Mardi Gras.
    “Tubby, you may be able to help me,” he began. Tubby didn’t say anything but raised his eyebrows and tried to look cooperative. It was an effort to avoid staring at Clifford’s tie, a collage of purple plums on a cloudy pink sky.
    “I’ve got a client who is interested in certain assets of Darryl Alvarez. Would you have any idea what I’m talking about?”
    “Why don’t you tell me,” he said.
    Banks seemed to ponder this and took a moment to respond. He tried again.
    “I believe it’s cash, Tubby, a sizeable amount of cash.”
    “Where did you get the idea that Alvarez had a sizeable amount of cash?” Tubby asked.
    Banks nodded. “It could have been in a blue gym bag, Tubby. Alvarez didn’t give you anything like that, did he?”
    “Whose money was it?”
    “My client’s. And he is very anxious to have it back.”
    “Why doesn’t he go to the police?”
    “He would prefer to leave it a private matter.”
    “What does that have to do with me?”
    “I hoped, Tubby, that you would help us find it, and give it back.”
    “Why in hell should I do that?”
    “Because in fairness, and as compensation for your efforts, you would be entitled to be rewarded for your time, and because you could help us to avoid an unpleasant situation.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “I suppose I mean the unpleasantness of my client not getting his money.”
    “I don’t see how I can help you unless you tell me whom you represent or who claims the cash.”
    Banks again paused before he spoke. He consulted his cocktail napkin and mopped up a ring on the table. “Tubby, give it back,” he whispered. His eyes came up and latched on to Tubby’s.
    “I don’t think I want to continue this conversation. I’ll be leaving now.” Tubby got up, nodded to Banks, and walked out.
    “Sorry we couldn’t do business,” Banks said to his back.
    Tubby did not see it, but Banks lit another cigarette as soon as Tubby was gone. He asked the bartender for a telephone.
    Tubby walked back across Canal Street to the garage, glad to be outside. Iberville was not a busy street at night. In fact, it was downright deserted. He had to take a tiny elevator to “green,” where his car was parked. As he got on, a tall guy in a T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes glided in with him. Tubby pressed the number of his floor and glanced at his fellow passenger. The man