Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 07 - Tubby Meets Katrina Read Online Free Page B

with a “Not in Service” sign on the front. He knew it was going to the Carrollton barn. The old green Perley-Thomas streetcars must already have been put away. It was always prudent to protect the antiques. A hot wind picked up as he proceeded. The Please-U cafe had a “Gone” sign. So did the St. Charles Tavern. That was a bad omen because the $8.95 steaks-and-full-bar tavern never closed. Tubby had hoped to buy a belt there. Maybe walking was a bad idea. His stomach growled.
    But Igors, “Free Red Beans on Mondays,” was open. Only it was Sunday.
    He saddled up to the bar and dropped his green bag on the floor. The clunk reminded him he was carrying precious ounces of whiskey and a .45. Igors was a dark and smoky place, but a little less in each category because the double-wide French doors were open to the street.
    A seedy-looking guy—Tubby thought he might be a former federal prosecutor—was nursing a Budweiser.
    “How’s it going?” Tubby inquired politely, looking for the barmaid.
    “Magnificent,” the man burped. “Absolutely magnificent.”
    Further inside he could see some fellows playing pool. There was also a washing machine flopping clothes around behind a sudsy window. Beyond that the bar became too obscure to see what was going on.

4
     
    Bonner Rivette rode into New Orleans on a Greyhound from Port Allen with a short stop in Baton Rouge. When he boarded the bus, the driver mentioned that this would be the last trip of the day. Everything else into New Orleans was cancelled for the duration of Hurricane Katrina. That was fine with Bonner. Just so long as he got there.
    He thought the driver looked at him funny, but what the hell. Everybody else on the bus was stranger than he was. The students talking in a foreign language wore black pantaloons and had tattoos on their wrists. The lady with the baby behind him had eyes popping out of her sockets like a smoked mullet. The fat boy across the aisle took surreptitious drinks from a green medicine bottle and wagged his tongue at Bonner after each swallow. Pretty much the same sort of folks he had endured for two months and three days in the Pointe Croupee Parish pigsty jail.
    “There’s a hurricane coming to New Orleans, folks,” the driver lectured them from the front of the bus. “For those of you going through to Hattiesburg, Meridian, Birmingham, and points north to Atlanta, our layover will not be the forty minutes as scheduled. Instead of that, we are dropping off our New Orleans passengers and then getting right back on the road. You will have just enough time to use the rest rooms, if you like, and stretch your legs. We’re only gonna be there about ten minutes, max, so stick close to the bus. This will probably be the last bus into or out of New Orleans.”
    Bonner got comfortable in his seat. He liked the excitement in the air. The spirits were alive. Here we go, he thought and winked at the passenger across the aisle with the wiggling tongue.
    He just stared out the window, watching the trees go by, all the way to New Orleans. The bus got off the Interstate at Gonzales and grabbed Highway 61 south. The driver told them that he was taking the old road because the eastbound lanes of the Interstate were closed by the State Patrol all the way into the city. Everything going toward New Orleans had to take Airline Highway.
    The bus made good time, considering the circumstances. It raced past crab shacks, trailer lots, signs for swamp tours and decrepit strip shopping centers, while the oncoming lanes, those heading out of New Orleans, were stalled with too many cars. The bus driver had a radio which he used constantly, speaking into a mike, getting traffic updates. Bonner heard him say that everybody who got on the bus was accounted for.
    Once in the city proper, the streets were all virtually empty, and the bus rolled down Tulane Avenue and straight into the terminal. Bonner was in the middle of the crowd getting off. He didn’t have any