Read Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8) for Free Online

he could patent or copyright, ideas he could sell for a buck. His laboratory was the air-conditioned grandstand, smelling vaguely of hot dogs, mustard and hay, where he could be found every race day between Thanksgiving and Mardi Gras.
    When Louisiana’s racing season ended in the spring, he might take a girlfriend up north to party and bet at Belmont or Pimlico, or he might just kick back in his Lakeside townhouse, close the curtains and work his brain. Cutting-edge, youth-oriented, consumerism fascinated him. He was always conceiving new things to sell to that market. Not everything he conjured up about caffeinated vodka or spray-on pheromones was a winner, but enough were hits that he made money and could keep his life insulated from the oh-so boring, oh-so threatening world. He drove a Lexus. He got take-out swordfish tacos and ropa vieja whenever he felt like it. Or sushi, if he wanted to forget where he had come from.

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    Elizabeth’s Restaurant was a very happening place, once you found it. Tubby went the slow route, not on purpose, but that’s the way it turned out. He piloted his newest car, a black 1978 Camaro with the spoiler on the back, which got nine miles to the gallon, all the way through the French Quarter and its throng of tourists— hurrying along to Café du Monde for their beignets and café au lait. It was still an early hour, but this was when sugary days began. The visitors were serenaded by ships’ horns, trolley bells and clanking train cars, none of which they had at eight a.m. in Chevy Chase.
    As usual Tubby got lost as soon as he crossed Esplanade Avenue into the Faubourg Marigny. All of a sudden the streets angled off in crazy directions. No big deal to the local man. It was still only seven-forty-five. However, he was challenged and blocked. On Chartres Street, a Rock Star Waste Disposal truck idled in his path. The workers slammed gigantic plastic garbage cans over the curbs and gave each other commands in an unintelligible tongue. When he finally burst free, he found himself in a neighborhood he knew virtually nothing about.
    But it wasn’t hostile. Little girls wearing school uniforms were carrying their backpacks to class. Delivery trucks were dropping off bread and vegetables at the corner stores. There were lots of quaint restaurants and special shops, all closed at this hour but emitting people who rented the apartments upstairs and at this hour had to hustle to work. Such cool people, Tubby thought. Mostly young and looking healthy. Jeans and sneakers and flowery cotton prints and layers were the style. And here he was, still stuck in a suit and tie.
    The scene took him back to his own street-people period. All 72 hours of it. These kids had energy, like he once had, and were undoubtedly more clear-headed than his youthful friends had been. They looked like they were headed somewhere to apply themselves and pick up a paycheck. He found a place to park in front of the abandoned Toledo Iron Works.
    Opening the door of the café he almost got run over by a tall woman wearing a spotless white polo shirt and black slacks, both of which hugged her trim figure. She looked like a prep school gym teacher and had a phone pressed against her short brown hair. Tubby got an apologetic smile as she brushed past. She had no obvious lipstick. Her black eyes were spaced far apart.
    The restaurant was full, and it was lucky that the police officer was already seated and noticed him, which wasn’t hard. He was the big lawyer wearing a tie. The cop waved Tubby over. The décor was striking, walls covered with cryptic sayings like, “Don’t Tread on Me,” written in splashes of color, Dr. Bob’s version of folk art in wooden frames outlined in bottle caps.
    “Ireanous?” he inquired.
    “Close enough,” the cop said. His blue uniform shirt was crisply pressed, and his badge shone brightly on his broad chest. His skin, exposed above the neck, was nearly black. He wore a heavy mustache, but his