Free Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 07 - Tubby Meets Katrina by Tony Dunbar

didn’t know where she was or what she might do. Still, this was fun.
    “This is Joe, building security. Mr. Dubonnet”—he got it right this time—“slipped and fell on the stairs. He’s hurt bad. He probably should go to the hospital, but I don’t think there’s one open. He told me to call you. Then he passed out.”
    “Oh goodness,” Christine wept.
    “So, is it possible for you to get over here and take a look at him?”
    “Yes. I’m all by myself, but I can come.”
    Bonner grinned. “Listen,” he said. “I think part of your father’s problem may be that he needs food. Could you bring some?”
    “Like what?” she was getting hysterical.
    “I don’t know. Cold cuts, ham. A loaf of bread. Cheese maybe. And hurry if you can.”
    “I will.”
    “I’ll let you in at the freight entrance beside the building. All the front doors are locked.”
    “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
    “You’d better hurry,” Bonner said, and he hung up.
    Christine was indeed alone. She had decided to stay in New Orleans instead of evacuating with her Tulane classmates. The allure of remaining behind with her boyfriend had been too great, even if they were going to stay at his mother’s apartment near the French Quarter. But the mother had started to go nuts after the power went out. She had screamed at both her son and at Christine, accusing them of not understanding that they were all going to die. She wanted to go to Montreal, where her brother lived. Canada was immune to hurricanes. She wanted to go now!
    Christine and her boyfriend got into a big fight, too, made worse because this was all taking place in a one-bedroom apartment and the mother kept jumping in and adding her own comments. Christine got exasperated and ultimately refused to go anywhere with these people. The mother refused to stay. Christine said she would sleep on the streets and take care of herself. The boyfriend slammed the apartment keys in the dinette and said she should at least stay where it was dry. He drove his mom away in her 2003 Volvo, packed to the roof with her macramé dolls.
    So Christine had the place to herself. The street outside was littered with debris but dry. The whole neighborhood, built three hundred years before along the banks of the Mississippi River, had escaped the flood. She had no car, but she did have a bicycle.
    Yes, there was a mandatory evacuation, but she had not seen a vehicle or a policeman for at least twenty-four hours. She dragged the bike outside and, cotton blouse flapping in the breeze, she peddled down Chartres Street into the French Quarter headed for the Place Palais. In her school backpack she carried French bread, olives, Brie cheese, a tomato, and a hunk of aging roast beef.
    Tubby got his motor boat, the policeman, the baby-in-the-ice-chest, and two women as far as St. Charles Avenue before he ran aground. They were still about ten blocks short of the Convention Center, but the streets looked friendlier. There was a police car parked where the water stopped. Tubby tied the Lost Lady to a traffic light pole.
    Officer Jones clambered out and got his comrades’ attention, and he and his family got into the squad car and drove away. Tubby got another officer who was pacing around trying to get his phone to work to take a look at the sick woman Tubby had brought along, who was now conscious and sitting up. Some color had returned to her face, possibly as a result of the psychological lift of getting off the bridge. The policeman offered her a bottle of water.
    He said if they waited here someone eventually might drive them to the Convention Center where medical attention might be available.
    “Can I leave my boat where it is?” Tubby asked.
    “We’re going to have to requisition that, sir.”
    “Yes, well it’s already been requisitioned. But who should I turn the keys over to?”
    “Leave them in the switch. Your boat has been taken by the First District Police.” The officer became