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

Convention Center was visible, three long empty blocks away.
    “I need to rest,” Hope sighed, and she sagged onto the sidewalk. “You can go ahead without me.”
    Tubby hacked out a miserable chuckle. Then he started laughing out loud. Then he was overcome with mirth. He sat down beside his new companion. “Whoo, whee,” he exhaled, recovering himself.
    “It wasn’t that funny,” she said. “I’m taking a little nap.”
    She put her head on Tubby’s shoulder, and he rested his head on hers. He had an outdated handgun in his lap, and his rump was getting cold and wet from the pebbly pavement. Displaced urbanites were circling the neighborhood in search of carrion. Bolivia had never looked so sweet. Laughter kept bubbling up. His body shook, but he tried not to disturb his partner. “Now I know what it means,” he crooned, “to miss New Orleans.”

11
     
    Christine’s bike ride through the French Quarter was a brand new experience. She had never seen the place empty of people. She had never imagined Bourbon Street still, littered not with beer cups but with smashed neon signs and roof slates. Antoine’s restaurant seemed to have fallen in on itself. A lost dog ran purposefully down the street, pretending to know where it was going. There were no cops around. It was eerie. She pedaled faster.
    Well, a couple of men sat high above the street behind the ornate cast iron rail of a balcony, sipping drinks. That looked normal. And there were some policemen guarding the parking lot under the Marriott Hotel. She pedaled past. Canal Street was empty of cars except those abandoned at the curb. She had to swerve around downed street lamps and streetcar wires, but unless all the glass on the pavement popped her tires she was going through.
    She wheeled up to the St. Charles Avenue side of the Place Palais. Since it was the freight entrance she sought, she started a slow circle of the building. Rolling through two inches of water in the street speckled her pants with mud. There it was. There was an open door. And there was Joe, the security man.
    “Are you Mr. Dubonnet’s daughter?” he asked, holding the door behind him open with his foot.
    “Yes. Joe?”
    “That’s me. Bring that bicycle inside. Here, let me help you.”
    He got her inside, where it was dark.
    No human bothered the resting couple under the Expressway, but a hungry stray dog woke them up. It was what Tubby thought of as a “New Orleans yellow dog,” a small lab, maybe, or part retriever, but whatever the breed he and his cousins were a common sight around town. This one had a very wet cold nose.
    “Whoa!” Tubby exclaimed, jerking up. Hope caught herself from falling to the pavement.
    “Back, you cur,” the lawyer said pleasantly. He got to his feet and helped his friend up. They must have been passed out for an hour.
    “Let’s see if we can make it all the way this time,” he said, offering his arm.
    “Piece of cake,” she replied. Eyes darting right and left to ward off the enemy, they completed the last leg of their journey. The lonesome dog followed them, tail between its legs.
    There were no city policemen at the Ernest Morial Convention Center, but there was a minivan outside marked Federal Emergency Management Agency. There were aid workers wearing orange vests milling about, and helicopters hovering overhead. A big parked truck was painted with a Red Cross.
    “Finally, we made it,” Tubby said to one of the official-looking people. “Can we come in?”
    “Keep walking, sir. You are in.” The dog whined, but he got left behind.
    A tall black man asked, “You got anything in that bag, sir? Drugs? Weapons?”
    “No,” Tubby said and kept on moving. “Who do you suppose that guy was?” Tubby asked Hope. “He didn’t seem very official.”
    Yellow police tapes marked their path into the building.
    “Excuse me, sir, this lady is a diabetic,” Tubby tried to get a passing FEMA shirt to listen. The man hurried away. Hope and