Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 07 - Tubby Meets Katrina by Tony Dunbar Read Free Book Online Page A

more than two decades to the law. The speed with which he was now reverting to self-protection surprised even him.
    A few minutes later, as he neared his own neighborhood, another boat, a flat-bottomed pirogue better suited for duck hunting in marsh grass, came wobbly out of Cuculu Street manned by two young studs, and it steered right at Tubby.
    He opened up the throttle on his motor, but even one enthusiastic paddler could beat him, and the pirogue angled to cut him off.
    The boy in front displayed a weapon with a black barrel and a plastic stock that could have been an AK-47 for all Tubby knew. The lawyer showed off his own handgun, pointing it at the sky. The boy on the back seat stopped paddling, and the two boats passed each other, stern looks all around. No words were spoken though Tubby had a few he felt like saying.
    He kept an eye on the pirogue as it receded into the distance and cut left onto a side street. They wanted my boat, he thought to himself. He felt a branch scrape the hull. “Heading home,” he said out loud and made a bee-line for his soggy hearth.
    That night found Tubby mixing up strange concoctions. Always a fan of inventive New Orleans cuisine, he first tried, then rejected, cold canned mushroom soup mixed with club soda. Inspired by a can of artichoke hearts, he took his time and made a remoulade sauce. He mixed the horseradish from the jar with the mustard and paprika and salad oil, Worstershire sauce, and Crystal hot sauce, and a little vinegar, the black pepper, the white pepper, and he had it. He poured this over his artichokes and ate with satisfaction.
    Later, he sat on his upstairs balcony in a rocking chair, trying to sleep while mosquitoes buzzed, cradling his .45 on his lap. Clouds were finally giving way to stars, whole constellations of them. He could see the muses. The City of New Orleans was that dark.

8
     
    Bonner the criminal was as happy as a kid with an ice cream cone when he reached the Broad Street overpass and dragged himself out of the water. First off, there were helpless women and children on the bridge, huddled around small fires and swatting bugs. The couple of men he saw looked old and weak, and they also had clothes that might fit him. Even ragged jeans would serve him better than the orange prison jumpsuit he had on. Anyone with a brain could figure out where he got that. Best of all, there were no cops in sight.
    “Howdy ma’am,” he said to one old crone bent over a trash fire with two mournful looking kids sitting beside her.
    “Howdy yourself. You got anything to eat?”
    “No, I don’t,” Bonner admitted.
    “Here’s something if you want it.” She poked a granola bar in Bonner’s face, and he accepted it gratefully.
    “Guess I’ll look around,” he said and stood up.
    “Ain’t much to see,” she told him.
    He walked to the top of the bridge, which spanned Lake Interstate, and down the other side where the roadway sank beneath the flood. Just ahead, though Bonner couldn’t have identified it, was the Melpomene Street Pumping Station No. 1. It was silent as a tomb, its 2.6 million gallon per minute screws under water and powered off for the duration. Bonner noted several other campers. There were about twenty all told, he figured. Nobody was overtly friendly or curious. It was dark. Everybody was wet and miserable. Bonner found a spot by himself and lay down, his back propped against the concrete guard rail. His sleep, occasionally interrupted by helicopters flapping overhead, was fitful.
    He woke up hungry. The sun was coming up over the parish prison, and the silhouetted guard towers reminded him of the urgency of travel. The other bridge-dwellers were stirring about. Of course they would notice his clothes, and somebody might have the bravado to say something about it. He wondered which way to go. He watched two kids swim toward him to the overpass. They got out dripping, clutching plastic bags, and walked among the groups of refugees offering