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

engaged in conversation with a troupe of muddy hikers who wanted to know where they might find a dry bed.
    “Perhaps you could give me some sort of receipt for the boat,” Tubby suggested hopefully. The officer ignored him. In truth Tubby felt guilty saying anything about it. After all, this was a national disaster.
    He and the woman he had saved sat on the curb. Tubby twisted the cap off his plastic bottle of Evian.
    “Name’s Tubby Dubonnet,” he said
    “Hope Lestella,” she replied. “Thanks for getting me this far.” She brushed the hair from her forehead. And took a swig of water. Tubby admired the muscles in her throat. She wasn’t as old as he had thought, and she might even be pretty when she wiped the mud off her oval face with the prominent chin and big nose. He liked big noses.
    Though spared the full brunt of the flood, the block had obviously been struck by a catastrophe. The poles which carried the juice for the streetcars were down on the ground. So was the sign advertising the Great Free Will Mission Pentecostal Apostolic Church, lots of roofing slates, and plenty of trash. The street also smelled.
    Two policemen jumped into Tubby’s boat. He stood up to say something like, Be careful with her, she’s a great… but they pushed off into the water and took off before he could make his contribution.
    “I guess I’m stuck here,” he said to the world.
    “I’m stuck, too,” Hope Lestella said.
    “What was the problem you were having?” Tubby asked her, meaning her health problem.
    “Nothing but my house washed away and everything I own is gone. I haven’t had a bath or a meal in two days. Or is it three. Other than that…”
    “Is that why you passed out, is what I mean?”
    “Oh, yeah. I’m a diabetic, too. See any Coca-Colas around here?”
    Tubby went to look. There was a Sewell Cadillac stretch limousine serving as a sort of community center. But the driver, who looked like a cop, didn’t have any sodas. He did have some grape drink powder from an MRE, and Tubby could mix that in a bottle of water, which the cop provided. For Cokes, they recommended the Convention Center and laughed.
    Tubby didn’t get the joke, but he said thanks and took the drink back to his new friend. They mixed up the concoction, using the whole flavor packet, and Hope chugged about half of it.
    “That’s swell,” she gasped and made a polite burp.
    “You think you could walk a few blocks?” he asked.
    “I guess.”
    “They’re telling all of us to go to the Ernest Morial Convention Center. They say there’s food there, and it’s dry.”
    “Just as long as it’s air conditioned.” She got up and dusted her behind.
    Tubby took her arm and they embarked on their journey under the Pontchartrain Expressway. Why had the limousine driver laughed?
    A young man carrying a desktop computer and another carrying a monitor and keyboard crossed their path, nodded and kept going.
    “Maybe they’re looting Office Depot,” Tubby suggested.
    Hope shivered. “The police are just a few feet away.”
    “Doesn’t seem to bother those guys.” He tightened his grip on his green bag. Two more youths ran from pillar to pillar under the expressway ahead of them. Tubby worked loose the Velcro flap on the bag and slipped his fingers inside. He found the comfort of the metal grip. The boys laughed and scampered away. A woman sitting in the damp shadow of an overpass pillar surprised them, but she was not aggressive. She was just minding a pile of acquired merchandise, a microwave, a vacuum cleaner, a table lamp.
    “This is a dangerous place to be,” Tubby whispered.
    Boys on battery-powered scooters zipped up the street, hands clutching plastic bags full of booty.
    “Let’s hurry,” Hope suggested.
    And they did, as fast as her legs and his dignity would permit. Tubby took out his pistol and carried it by his thigh.
    “Hard to believe this is 2005,” he said. “Feels like the Wild freakin’ West.”
    The