“Add it to your list,” he said.
* * *
Cherrylynn was fully engrossed in her list. She was coming up with a lot of information about Cuban-American youth groups in the 1960s and 70s, but most of them were centered around Miami. There was not much on the web about the Cubans of New Orleans, except for a brief mention in a footnote to a Wikipedia article and some references to the Special Collections material at Tulane University. Maybe it would be worth a trip uptown to see what the Tulane campus library had to offer. That, however, would probably require coordinating with Mr. Dubonnet and his alumni ID card to get access.
But this last name, ACNI, struck a small but rich vein. It stood for Association for Cuban Nationalist Infantry, and there was an extensive write-up about it in something called the “CIA Counter-Revolutionary Handbook, Second Edition, 1985.” She couldn’t find any explanation of what this so-called CIA document actually was or how it had found its way onto the Internet, but sure enough, it identified the founders of ACNI as one Hector Boaz (b. 1932) and Pablo Pancera (b. 1930) in Santiago, Cuba. Were these the fathers of two currently suspicious characters? She’d bet her paycheck that Tubby would think so.
A major find! It told her that she was looking at the right group. But, of course, it didn’t actually prove anything. The cryptic “CIA Handbook” entry described the mission of ACNI as “raising funds for anti-Castro military endeavors.” That was about it. The CIA helpfully provided the Spanish spelling of the group’s name, which was La Asociación para la Infantería Nacionalista Cubano. As an afterthought, Cherrylynn Googled that.
And here she found a link to a 1977 article in the New Orleans Times-Picayune headlined “Benefit Honors Rich Heritage.” Click.
It had appeared on the newspaper’s Society Page, where New Orleans’ daily gatherings of the glamorous and significant were described and where photographs of attendees, often clutching glasses of white wine, were displayed. The ACNI party at the Marriott Hotel Grand Ballroom had been one of the events highlighted in the Sunday edition of the paper, and it was described as a “Cultural Celebration of our Caribbean Character.” The honoree was ACNI founder Pablo Pancera, who received the Premio a la Libertad. Other participants’ names were also listed in bold. What jumped off the page at her was a picture of Pablo’s son, Carlos Pancera, standing beside his wife, Maria. Scrolling over to the photographs of the event she found a picture of the elder Pancera standing between his son and his daughter-in-law. The men all wore tuxedos, the woman was in a blue gown. They all had very un-partylike expressions, and there were no wine glasses to be seen.
Below this somber family scene, another photo caught Cherrylynn’s attention. Once again, an older man was featured with a younger man by his side. The older man was vaguely familiar, and when she enlarged the page she saw his name, Patron Sandoval. To his right was his son, Ricardo Sandoval. Gee whiz! The Rick Sandoval she knew today looked just like his old man did in 1977.
Suddenly Tubby barged through the office doors trailed by a bearded stranger whose black shirt was unbuttoned to display his hairless sculpted chest. Another man in jeans, wearing a cowboy hat and carrying a camera on his shoulder, was in hot pursuit.
“Boss, I’ve got something big!” Cherrylynn shouted.
“Cherrylynn, this is Dinky Bacon. I know you’ve heard a lot about him. The great visual and physical display artist? We’re going to be here for just a few minutes.”
“But this is something…” The secretary paused when the camera swung toward her and resumed with, “Come right on in. We have a really important case breaking right now, but we are also deeply committed to the arts of New Orleans.” She gave the camera her big smile.
Tubby beamed at her and waved his guests ahead and into his office.
The cameraman immediately zoomed in on the view from the window, which pretty much encompassed everything in the Crescent City from the river to the Lake.
“I could do wonders with a space like this,” Dinky Bacon glowed.
“We could use some more art in here, that’s for sure,” Tubby chimed in, “but fully dressed, you understand.”
The camera caught the artist laughing.
“It’s a grave injustice,” Tubby said, apropos of nothing. The camera again swung his way. “This city has traditions of free expression going back hundreds of years, whether it’s political rhetoric, fine literature, grand architectural monuments like the Superdome, or just plain eccentric behavior. Dinky Bacon deserves international recognition, not persecution, and we will see that he gets his day in court.”
“Cut,” the cameraman said.
“Thanks a bunch, Mister Dubonnet.” His client pumped his hand.
“Don’t forget your court date next Wednesday,” Tubby reminded him.
“I’ll be there,” the cameraman and Dinky said in unison.
The lawyer showed them out.
* * *
“What was that, boss?” Cherrylynn asked.
“Pro bono,” Tubby said innocently. “Whatcha got for me?”
“I’ve got you Police Officer Rick Sandoval,” she said proudly, and showed Tubby what she had printed off the net.
XXVI
The plan had Cherrylynn calling Sandoval, following up on her new request for records. She would invite the policeman downtown to Tubby’s office, using her charms, where he could be confronted by both Tubby and Flowers. The plan, however, went immediately awry.
“I found another file on this Pancera guy you asked about,” Sandoval said. “But this is all irregular. I’m not handing it over to you. I’ve got to watch my ass. If your boss wants it, I’ll give it to him.”
“Oh, that’s fine, Officer,” Cherrylynn said. Tubby was listening in on his line and making thumbs up signs to his secretary. “You can bring it here to the office. I’ll make a copy and hand the file back to you.”
“No, thanks. Tell him I’ll meet him the same place we talked last time.”
“Let me see…”
Tubby broke in. “Meet you at the same place? You mean at Le Bon Temps?”
“Right. I’ll be in the parking lot out back. I get off at four. You can be there at four-thirty.”
Tubby agreed. Then he lined up Flowers. They would do this together.
“He doesn’t know we suspect him of anything,” Tubby said, “so I wouldn’t expect any trouble. We’ll show him the newspaper picture Cherrylynn found and see if he opens up about the shooting of a peace demonstrator.”
“I’m in, Tubby, but he’s not going to say much” was Flowers’ opinion. “You’ve got nothing on him, and he wears a badge.”
* * *
Their plan went awry again. Flowers and Tubby, in separate cars pulled into the gravel parking lot across the street from the Bon Temps bar. The sun was still out, still hot, and the only other car in the lot was a police cruiser.
“I thought he’d be off-duty,” Tubby said into his phone, which was communicating with Flowers. “I wasn’t expecting the car.”
“Hmmmm” was what he got in response.
They each got out, and Sandoval got out. Unlike at their last meeting at the bar, the policeman was fully uniformed and wearing his intimidating belt with its gun, radio, night stick, handcuffs, and Taser.
“Hey,” Tubby said, extending his hand. Sandoval looked at it for a second before he shook it. The two men were almost eye-to-eye. Tubby was heavier across the middle. Sandoval was squared off like a solid block of wood.
“Who’s this guy?” Sandoval asked.
“He’s Sanré Fueres, a private detective. He worked some with Ireanous Babineaux.”
“Hi,” Flowers said. They didn’t shake hands.
“I’ve got one file. It’s in the back seat.” The cop opened the rear door of his NOPD Crown Vic. “Get in and we can talk.”