Free 4 Shelter From The Storm by Tony Dunbar Page A

the second bag of booty riding on top, kept getting hung up on things hiding under the water. The three men, despite the limited protection of the tall buildings, were taking a pounding from the relentless rain. Their mission became manifestly senseless when they rounded the corner and saw that their van was gone. What they would never learn is that it had been towed for the difficult-to-foresee offense of parking on a parade route two hours before a parade. The robbers, however, had no idea whether their getaway vehicle had been stolen or had washed into Lake Pontchartrain, but it was gone.
    LaRue looked helplessly at the sodden office workers who had waited too long to go home and were now huddled for shelter in doorways up and down the street. Some pointed and laughed at them, amused by the idiocy of moving machinery and packages in a deluge. Two young guys and a girl, pants rolled up above the knees, splashed happily down the middle of the street. All of the traffic lights were red. The robbers were calf-deep in water, and the heavens were wide open, joining earth, sky, and the nearby Gulf of Mexico into ecstatic congress.
    A stubby pirogue piloted by a bare-chested man with a gray beard sailed past them, navigating the center of Carondelet Street. He waved at them amicably, paddling with graceful strokes.
    “Let’s get the hell out of here. Screw the generator and the tools,” LaRue shouted. “Help me carry this bag.”
    Big Top helped and ended up with the whole sack on his shoulders. Monk got the other one off the tool chest. “I sure do hate to leave the tools here,” he said.
    “You can buy plenty more tools once you get back to the sticks,” LaRue told him angrily. “Let’s go.”
    Safari-like, the party sloshed off down the street.
    “Here comes another boat,” Big Top pointed behind them.
    Two college boys in bathing suits were zipping down the street in a shiny aluminum canoe. They were doing acrobatics with their paddles and yodeling with their mouths open to drink in the rain. They had a case of Abita Beer between them, and they were looking for adventures and girls to save.
    “Don’t lose the damn bags,” LaRue screamed and left Big Top and Monk on the sidewalk. He struggled into the current and waved his arms like a windmill at the canoe. Obligingly the boys steered at him and dug in their paddles to come alongside.
    “Need help?” the one in front called.
    LaRue didn’t answer. He just grabbed the boy’s ears and hair and pulled him headfirst into the water.
    “Steal the boat!” he yelled at his cohorts. While they splashed into the deep water to comply and to stow their treasure aboard, LaRue advanced on the boy in the canoe’s stern. Alarmed by the loss of his mate, the young man raised his paddle in defense. LaRue grabbed it and yanked hard and tumbled the boy over the side.
    The dethroned sailors struggled to regain their footing while Big Top and Monk clambered aboard. LaRue whacked at the bare-backed youths with the flat of the paddle until he had driven them to the sidewalk. Then he jumped in gasping and started stroking. Helplessly, the boys watched their vessel disappear toward Canal Street.

CHAPTER X
    Hossein heard the call on his radio. He was parked in the K & B lot on Napoleon trying to decide if he should just quit for the day and try to get home to Harahan or whether he should roll down his window and acknowledge the fat lady with a plastic bag on her head who was thumping on the glass demanding that he give her a ride. He didn’t want anyone that wet getting into his cab, especially because he thought she was probably only going a block or two anyway. Cab needed on Versailles Boulevard, his radio informed him, and he snatched the microphone.
    “Three-two-oh. I can do the pick-up on Versailles in five minutes.”
    “It’s all yours three-two-oh,” the dispatcher replied.
    It could be a trip to the airport. Rich people lived on Versailles Boulevard.
    He gunned the