5 Crime Czar by Tony Dunbar Page B

sounded disappointed.
    “No, I’m here by myself.”
    “I know. I already checked.”
    Tubby went to the cupboard and found a mug. He got his pitcher of cold-drip coffee out of the refrigerator.
    “How did you get in?” he asked.
    “Backdoor.” It was disconcerting that, while LaRue’s hands stayed on the table and his body did not move, his head rotated to track Tubby around the room.
    The homeowner was depressed to see that a pane of glass had been busted out of the door. The shards were in the backyard.
    “I guess I should complain to my alarm company,” he said.
    “It’s not exactly a state-of-the-art system,” LaRue remarked.
    Tubby poured his coffee over ice and sat down at the table to face LaRue.
    “So what do you want?”
    “You tell me. You said you wanted to talk.”
    “Not to you. To your boss. Whoever put together the bank robbery, which I know was just a cover-up to steal a counterletter from one Noel Parvelle’s safe-deposit box. The purpose of your whole robbery was to get that one document to set up an oil deal. I’ve got a deal of my own, and I need a partner. I think your boss is a likely candidate.”
    “Then let’s go. He’s waiting for us right now”
    * * *
    So, twenty minutes later, Tubby was riding in LaRue’s blue Ford Taurus up Carrollton Avenue. LaRue drove with the same exterior calm and interior intensity he conveyed when he conversed, or when he attacked, as though the reactive part of his brain functioned on a precise automatic pilot.
    “No blindfold?” Tubby asked, trying to get a rise.
    No luck. LaRue’s response was a tick of his cheek that might have been one ingredient in a smile. It was just as well because Tubby needed the time to figure out what he was going to say to LaRue’s boss. That part of his plan had not yet gelled in his mind. He had been too busy fantasizing about finding the guy. When they cruised past the College Inn, where in more relaxed moments Tubby had enjoyed many a sloppy Reuben sandwich, he still had no clue about what he would say. It began to dawn on the lawyer that he might be in some danger.
    “Where are we going?” he asked when they passed under the interstate.
    “You’re going to get some breakfast.” This normally inviting sentence sounded menacing coming from a man whose pointy jaw didn’t seem to move when he talked.
    Tubby pursed his lips. He looked out the window at the familiar restaurants they were passing— Angelo Brocato’s, Lemon Grass, Jamaican, Venezia— and tried to think. How had he imagined this part when he explained things to Flowers?
    Without bothering to signal, LaRue hooked a right into the parking lot of Shoney’s in Mid-City. He put the Taurus between the yellow lines and cut the engine.
    “Are you kidding me?” Tubby demanded.
    “Time to eat,” LaRue replied, stepping into the sun.
    “I’ve never eaten here in my life,” Tubby protested, climbing out with less gracefulness than LaRue had shown.
    “Good morning. Smoking or non-smoking?” their perky waitress chirped. Tubby wrinkled his nose trying to identify the odor wafting in the chilled air. Hash browns? Lots of them.
    “We’re meeting the man sitting in the booth over there.” LaRue brushed past her. Tubby smiled and followed.
    On a plush red upholstered seat, framed by a picture window with a view of the palm trees in the parking lot, was Sheriff Frank Mulé.
    He was by himself, hand on a cup of coffee, smoking a plug of a cigar, watching their approach.
    “Oh, Mr. Mulé,” the hostess said enthusiastically, since everybody knew the sheriff. She trailed her new customers closely, carrying a pair of menus the size of checker boards.
    “Howdy, Sheriff,” Tubby said. He slid into the booth across from the portly elected official. LaRue snuggled in next to Tubby.
    “Do you know how our buffet works?” the hostess asked.
    “Not now, dear,” Mulé said, waving his cigar at her.
    “I’d like to hear about it,” Tubby said, being