Big Easy Bonanza

like a communion cup.
    “Here’s to filthy lucre,” he said, and they drank.
    It was good to be among friends. Jason rose up, exposing himself to fire, and sprayed the enemy with clouds of flame erupting from his hose. But the wind blew it back on them. Everything, the rice fields, all his friends, were burning up. He had to get them out of there alive, or else he’d be all alone.

SIXTEEN
    Tubby woke up alone, uncomfortable and chilly in an armchair in a strange room. He checked out, a wrinkled, unshaven version of the guest who had arrived, and got a sniff from the desk clerk. Tubby was feeling groggy and painfully stiff, and he paid no attention. He took a taxi back to the Holmes garage and asked the driver to take him all the way to his car. The man obliged and got a little something extra for his trouble. He watched until Tubby got his car started, then followed him out. Nothing bad happened.
    Tubby waved the taxi away and drove home. Everything looked normal from the outside. The morning paper was on the steps. Tubby picked it up and went inside. Nothing seemed to be out of place. He showered and shaved, took some Tylenol, and wandered around the house with a towel wrapped around his waist. The housekeeper wasn’t due until around eleven o’clock, and he would be dressed by then. He poured some tomato juice and swallowed his vitamins.
    He thumbed through the white pages, then used the wall phone in the kitchen to place a call.
    “Hello. This is Tubby Dubonnet. Is Clifford Banks in, please?”
    The secretary doubted it, but she was wrong.
    “Why, hello, Tubby. How are you?” He seemed genuinely concerned.
    “I’ll survive. I’ve located the asset you were looking for.”
    “That’s wonderful. I was afraid I wouldn’t hear from you.”
    “Yeah, and I’d like to turn it over to its rightful owner. Is that you?”
    “Absolutely not. I just represent the owner.”
    “I’ll bring it to you, then. I have to be in court for a couple of hours, then I’ll come to your office.”
    “No, that’s not a good idea. I think my client will have to handle that directly.”
    “Okay, where can I meet him?”
    “Let me call you back on that, Tubby.”
    “Let’s make it soon.”
    “Time is always of the essence, isn’t it?”
    Tubby hung up. He stared into his tomato juice for a moment, considered fortifying it with vodka, but he did not. He had to see a judge, and one of his little rules was always do that sober.
    Eddie Rodrigue and George Guyoz were killing time in the narrow hallway leading to Judge Maselli’s chambers. Between them and the door was the judge’s secretary, an ancient gray-haired lady with the eye and carriage of a vulture, generally regarded by lawyers of all sexes as one of the biggest bitches in the courthouse. Behind her back you could refer to her as “The Bitch” and everybody knew who you were talking about, but to her face you called her Mrs. Maselli, since she was the judge’s mother.
    “Tubby, howya doin’?” asked Rodrigue in a syrupy singsong that was his trademark. He was a soprano on the “Howya” and a baritone on the “doin’.” Eddie was a state representative from Westwego, and one of the friendliest men in New Orleans. He had a lot of silver hair, which he wore combed up bouffant-style like Liberace. His role in the Sandy Shandell lawsuit was zero. He represented Dr. Feingold’s excess insurer, the insurance company that would have to pay off any claims over $10,000,000. There was no way that Sandy was ever going to win that much, but Tubby had sued all of Dr. Feingold’s insurance companies on the theory that the more bags of money you got together, the more chances that one of them would spring a leak. It meant that Eddie was getting paid to come to court and shake hands, which suited him fine.
    Guyoz, by contrast, represented Feingold’s primary liability insurer, and his company would have to ante up whatever the jury awarded, minus the doctor’s deductible, of course. Guyoz always looked like there was something sour in his mouth. He had a neat toothbrush mustache, and reminded Tubby of Adolf Hitler. He did not seem to have much sense of humor, and none at all about this lawsuit, which did have comic possibilities.
    “All right, Eddie. How you been?”
    “Very fine, Tubby. Everything is just fine. Business is good.”
    Tubby said hello to Guyoz, and got a nod and a throat-clearing in reply.
    “Where’s the judge?” he asked