Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 128, No. 5. Whole No. 783, November 2006

Monday at the Pie Pie Club by Tony Dunbar

Tony Dunbar is the author of the Edgar-nominated Tubby Dubonnet mystery series, whose seventh entry, Tubby Meets Katrina, provides an incisive look at the hurricane’s aftermath. A 25-year NOLA resident who evacuated to Tennessee when Katrina hit and later worked in a field kitchen feeding recovery workers, the author is now back in the city with his wife and son.

Mondays started slowly at the Pie Pie Club. People who should have gone home on Friday night, but didn’t, were finally giving it up and drifting away on Burgundy Street. Miss Lana’s girls all got to sleep late. The waitresses reported in drowsy.

Though the lunch crowd was normally small, Chef Baranca always tried to plan something special. Today it was going to be sweetbreads with gonger mushrooms and a mustard sauce. He had dreamed that up while walking to work.

Guarding the entrance to the Pie Pie Club, Pascal Parette, the doorman, watched a pair of street-washing trucks blow noisily past, sucking up the discarded remnants of oyster po’boys and plastic cups, leaving behind their invigorating mist. The French Quarter began to wake up.

A businessman in a double-breasted suit careened off a parking meter, reoriented himself, and hurried along toward his post in the Central Business District. He wiggled a sleepy-finger hello to a shirtless red-bearded giant he knew slightly. The man’s splendid Afghan hound was relieving itself on a fluted metal porch stanchion.

Across the street two tourists in sun hats and matching yellow shorts sipped Bloody Marys from plastic cups while they peeked through a decorated iron gate. It concealed a peaceful patio where residents, when they tired of the colorful bustle of the city, withdrew.

Then Parette saw the two hoods. He knew them both. Johnny Lepeyere and Melvin Dubuisson, the one short and stubby like a used-up cigar, and the other big and chubby like an over-the-hill college fullback, which is what he was. His college being Holy Name of Jesus, across the river. Lepeyere had on a flat porkpie hat he had bought in New York City and which he graciously tipped to Parette.

“Good morning, old soldier,” he said, friendly enough, looking up at the doorman’s large and doughy countenance. “We’re here to see your boss.”

Dubuisson, the other one, just rotated his head and worked out a kink. He ran his forefingers under the crimson suspenders that held up his pleated pants while he watched the rooftops.

“I’m glad to see that you two gentlemen can share a sidewalk without knifing each other,” Parette said benignly. He jerked his thumb. “He’s expecting you. Do you know how to walk upstairs?”

“I ain’t forgot yet,” Lepeyere said as he stepped around Parette’s size-fifty-five form. Dubuisson prepared to spit out a wad of gum, but caught the big doorman’s eye and swallowed it instead.

Parette watched the pair saunter up the steps and swagger past the sign that set out the simple rules of the joint: “Welcome to the Pie Pie Club. This Is Your Night. Treat It Right.”

Old soldier! He had to laugh at that.

Inside, ceiling fans cooled the elegant dining room and its Brazilian cherry dance floor where, during the evening hours, beautiful babes and guys in white suits did their tangos. The receptionist pointed the way to the narrow door by the bar through which invited guests reached the private club upstairs.

The two visitors ascended until they encountered a second door. They tapped and were buzzed through by Polly. She ran the upstairs bar, and Melvin Dubuisson and Johnny Lepeyere entered her small dark lounge and casino, perfectly air-conditioned, but empty on this slow dawning of any high-rollers. It was calm and mellow inside there. The two hoods hadn’t been to bed yet, and neither had Polly.

“Whaddya say, sweetheart?” Lepeyere inquired in passing, and the ebony-skinned woman with pink and silver hair raised her eyebrows, which were accented with small golden loops. She tipped her head toward the left.

The last entrance down a long hall belonged to Max Moran. He opened the door before either of the men even had a chance to knock.

“Johnny, Melvin,” he said. “You both look like hell. Come on in and have a chair.”

Moran stood aside, a tall and slender man, black hair combed straight back, wearing neat khaki slacks and a black T-shirt that advertised nothing. Lepeyere pumped his hand. “Good to see you, Max,” he said. “Always a real pleasure,” Dubuisson mumbled, and did the same.

They each found an armchair and looked around, feigning appreciation of the modern art on the walls, while Moran got comfortable on the sofa between them.

“Nice place you got here,” Lepeyere said, crossing his short legs.

Max acknowledged the compliment with a nod. He knew his home was nice, just like everything else in the Pie Pie Club. It was better than nice.

“A lot fancier than the Witch’s Hat, huh?” Dubuisson beamed, proud of himself for having come up with a good dig at Lepeyere and the tavern where he kept his office.

Lepeyere started to make a smart reply, but Moran cut him off.

“I understand that you two have a problem,” he said, by way of getting the meeting going.

Lepeyere collected himself. “Here’s what,” he began. “Melvin and me have our respective spheres of influence in that he collects from certain businesses, and I collect from certain other businesses.”

“Your racket is protection,” Moran stated flatly.

“Whatever.” Johnny made a clown face. “We see that nobody has any problems with the City. It’s insurance, really. And well worth it, I believe, but the main thing is, we do not overlap.”

“ ’Cause that would make trouble.” Dubuisson added in his two cents.

Moran nodded. He understood paying protection.

“Right,” Johnny Lepeyere continued. His fat hands began to wave in the air to help him make his points. “The thing is this. Shoemaker’s Flower Shop over on Dauphine — she won’t pay either one of us.”

“This is America, isn’t it?” Moran asked. “She’s got a right to say no.”

Both men waited to see if he was serious, then laughed in unison.

“Let’s put it this way,” Dubuisson said. “She’ll pay, all right, but me and Johnny are having a disagreement over who gets her.”

“I know Oscar Shoemaker, the florist,” Moran interrupted. “What happened to him?”

“That’s just it,” Lepeyere explained. “He died.”

“I didn’t know,” Moran said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “Well, who was he paying?”

“Nobody, so far as I know.” Lepeyere appeared to be mystified. “I think he just slipped through the cracks.”

Moran looked at Dubuisson, who spread his hands flat.

“Beats me,” the big grafter admitted. “He could have been paying my dad, but Pop passed away last month at Hotel Dieu.”

“Anyhow, it’s got to be straightened out,” Lepeyere said, “so we come to you for advice.”

Max frowned at them both. “You guys don’t divide up your territory by blocks or something?”

“In a way, yes,” Lepeyere said uncertainly, “but Dauphine Street, where this shop is, is kind of in the middle. A lot of it is what’s tradition, you know.”

“So I should flip a coin?”

“If that’s what you say, Max,” Dubuisson said, squirming, “but that don’t seem fair. It really should be mine because I got nearly everybody on that side of the street. And there could be more to this. Maybe somebody new is trying to slip into our business.”

“And I say it should be mine because I got two, maybe three other flower shops in the Quarter,” Lepeyere said. “There’s common problems to think about. We’re trying to keep the peace here.” There was menace in his voice.

Moran stole a look at his watch. This was the time of day, before it got too hot, when he liked to tend to his herb garden on the roof.

“I’ll look into it,” he said abruptly.

Upon that promise the meeting adjourned, and the unelected councilmen took their leave.

After lunch, Moran took a walk and visited the shop. On entering he could see a pretty girl behind the counter, clean, kind of, just a little lipstick, with her blond hair pulled severely back. The smell of so many flowers in the confined space, almost as sweet as incense but fresher and far cooler, stopped him in his tracks. The club owner was a fan of fragrances.

“Can I help you?” the girl asked, glancing up. Her voice was as sweet as a finch. Smitten, Moran gave her a little wave.

She returned it without interrupting the work of her busy fingers, which were building an arrangement of variegated tulips and Queen Anne’s lace.

Moran regained his composure and made his way to the counter like a regular customer. He was more than six feet tall, and he had to duck to get under a hanging fern.

“Are you Ava Shoemaker?” He gave her some teeth. It was an engaging smile.

“Why, yes,” she said, eyeing him approvingly while she shook bits of greenery from her fingers. “Did I win the lottery?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid I didn’t bring you a prize.”

“So who are you? I hope you’re not selling a mutual fund.”

“No. Is that rodriguesiana?” he asked, indicating a mass of red and pink blooms surrounding a fountain bubbling in the corner.

“Sure is, but it’s not for sale, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t want to buy it. I’ve just never seen one so large. Hello. My name is Max Moran.” He offered his hand, and she took it. “I knew your father, Oscar.”

“Yes?” she said expectantly. She reclaimed her hand and gave him an inquiring look.

“Yeah, I knew him for a long time. You never heard of me?”

“Maronne?”

“No, Moran.” He was a little hurt. “Anyway, I want to talk seriously to you.” He looked around to verify that there was no one else in the shop. “Johnny Lepeyere and Melvin Dubuisson have both spoken to me about a problem, which is getting paid, you know what I mean?”

Her eyes narrowed and one hand slipped under the countertop. Her expression was suddenly unfriendly.

“You got a weapon down there?” he asked.

“Do you want to find out?”

“Not me. I’m not going to hurt you. Like I said, I knew your father.”

“Then you must know how he died?”

“No, I never heard.” Moran was embarrassed. He hadn’t really known Oscar all that well — just someone glad to make special bouquets for the Pie Pie Club at odd hours, just a man who had sent him a nice evergreen wreath, a respectful wreath, at Christmastime. “What happened to him?”

“They found him floating in the Mississippi River by Poland Avenue.”

“Oh. That’s a shame. He fell off a barge or what?”

“My father? He sold flowers. He was never anywhere near a barge in his life.” Her voice was rising, and her neck went from pale to red. “He didn’t even like the river, and he didn’t fall in. That’s what I told the police.”

“Ah,” Moran said, averting his eyes. He wished she would bring her hand back on top of the counter where he could see it.

“Somebody killed him.” She spat it out like she was accusing Max. Then she took a deep breath and put both hands back to work building her flower arrangement. “So what are you here to bother me about?” she asked.

“It’s a territorial question,” he began. “First, I must ask you, are you opposed to paying protection as a matter of principle?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “But I can’t pay for two. I can barely support myself as it is.” A very nice complexion, he thought, though she was way too young for him.

“Well, we need to sort this out. Who did your father make his arrangements with?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I was going to school at Tulane when he died. I dropped out to save the store.”

“Did he leave any books or papers behind?”

“Sure, a whole filing cabinet full. I couldn’t make any sense out of them, so I just started over.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking a look at what he left. Would it be okay?”

“What’s all this to you?”

“I’m trying to settle the dispute between Melvin and Johnny without anybody getting out of line. Just keeping the peace.”

“You’re a judge?” Her look was sceptical.

“Not on a day-to-day basis. I run the Pie Pie Club. Sometimes people come to me for advice.”

“I know where your place is, but I’ve never been inside. Sure, if you want you can look at the papers. They’re in the cooler with the roses.”

“That’s a good place to store things,” Moran said. He had also been known to hide things of importance among his plants.

Max and Lana Heart were communing on the flat rooftop that crowned their club, leaning over the low brick wall and watching the evening lights of the French Quarter flicker on. They had a crow’s-nest view of the river, and could see a cruise ship slowly rounding the bend into the port of New Orleans. It was being guided fore and aft by red Bisso tugboats which were churning the water into great muddy waves. Lana extracted a rhinestone comb from her red hair to let it drop lazily around her neck. The evening breezes were warm and carried the scent of salt from the Gulf of Mexico. Throwing back her head to take a deep breath of it, Lana stretched her cobalt blue cocktail dress to the limit.

“Wouldn’t you like to go on a ship sometimes?” she asked dreamily.

“No, I like it here,” Moran said. He was sipping Dewars from a leaded crystal glass and thinking about pouring it on the head of a drunk three flights down who was taunting pedestrians with meaningless insults.

“I mean a trip for fun, like to the Caymans or Jamaica. It would be nice to get away.”

He shrugged. Lately, anywhere but the French Quarter, Max felt strangely nervous, but he didn’t want his partner to know about that.

“Do you know Ava Shoemaker?” he asked to change the subject. “She runs a flower shop over on Dauphine.”

“No. Why?” It wasn’t exactly true that Lana got jealous whenever Max mentioned another female. She had eight of the most exotic, educated, and desired women in the Southern U.S.A. in her employ downstairs, but she could usually keep tabs on their rovings. It was only when Lana heard a new name that her ears perked up.

“Oh, just a problem Johnny Lepeyere and Melvin Dubuisson brought in,” Moran replied vaguely.

“Lumpy Dubuisson? I once voted for his father when he ran for sheriff. Fix me a drink, Max.”

“I never heard Melvin called Lumpy.” He took her glass and moved off toward the small rooftop bar with its four tall stools.

“I think it was when he played sports in high school at McDonough 13 or something,” she said, following him.

The sounds of a calliope floated high above the dormers and balconies of the Quarter from a steamboat pushing out into the current.

“Her father got drowned, you know,” Max told her. “He was pulled out of the water right about there.” Moran pointed behind him to a distant spot now awash in the wake of the cruise ship.

“I don’t remember hearing about it,” Lana said, “but I see that look in your eye.”

“What look?”

“You’re interested.” She watched his reflection in her glass.

“It doesn’t seem right,” Max said. “He used to make beautiful flower arrangements when we needed them for the club, day or night.”

“So now you want to solve his murder?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sure.” She knew what could happen if Max got interested in something. “The girl, is she pretty?”

“Old and ugly as a bat,” he assured her, and he shut her up by handing her a fresh glass and massaging her neck.

Still, Moran wandered back to the flower shop the next day.

Ava offered him a bunch of old ledgers and checkbooks to look through. Seated on a folding chair beside a Mary Rose, he perused these with one eye while watching her work with the other.

Between customers, he learned that Ava had been studying zoology, with an emphasis on frogs, before she left school. It was not an avocation for which she had found a practical use. She asked Max if he had always known so much about flowers.

“I used to have a problem with drugs,” he told her honestly. “When I gave them up, I gave myself smells as a reward. It’s a mind thing.”

“Isn’t everything?” she asked.

“No. Some things are real.”

In silence, she clipped dead sprigs off a rose.

“My father’s death was real,” she said eventually. “He was in the water for three days, and the only way I could identify him was by his wedding ring. My own dad.” She was crying softly. “He was a sweet man who didn’t bother people. He went to Mass at Cathedral every day and never even complained about the brass bands playing for the tourists outside.”

“That is sad,” Moran said. “Why would somebody kill him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he saw something.”

Moran, idly flipping though the yellow papers, thought he saw something.

The hoods were back.

“I’ve looked into your situation,” Moran told them. “I’ll make one observation, which is that it seems to me that neither one of you is performing any actual service for the Shoemaker girl.”

“Why, I sure am,” Lepeyere said. “She ain’t had no trouble with any City health inspectors, has she? Big Eddie ain’t been around, has he?”

“She’s got a delivery van double-parked in front of her shop every time I go past,” Dubuisson protested. “You never seen a parking ticket on it. Wonder why!”

“Well, I don’t intend to upset your traditions,” Moran said. “We’ve all got to make a living and the world’s got to keep turning around. Melvin, the account is yours. Johnny, you’re out of luck and should stay away from that particular flower shop.”

Dubuisson grinned and popped his suspenders.

“That ain’t fair!” Johnny Lepeyere shouted, half rising from his chair. “Give me one simple reason why you’re taking his word over mine!” Moran gave him his fish stare, and Lepeyere settled back into his seat.

“The simple reason, Johnny, is that the girl’s father always paid Melvin’s father. I know this because the ledgers say so.”

He handed Lepeyere a piece of paper. “Right below where it says ‘Flower Pots, $80,’ it says, ‘Lump, $100.’ Am I right?”

“Yeah?” Lepeyere agreed.

“That’s my pop, and they call me Lumpy, too,” Dubuisson cried happily. “And one hundred dollars a week is just about right.”

“So it seems to me,” Moran concluded, “the Shoemakers are in Melvin’s parish, so to speak.”

Much satisfied, Dubuisson jumped up and shook Moran’s hand vigorously.

“That ain’t exactly proof!” Lepeyere shouted. “‘Lump’ could mean crabmeat. It could mean anything.”

Moran shook his fingers free. “I say it’s proof, and that will end the disagreement. And somebody killed her old man, you know. It wasn’t you, Johnny, was it?”

“Of course not.” Lepeyere was on his feet, too.

“Wasn’t me, either,” Dubuisson chimed in, but Max ignored him.

“Well, I’ve taken an interest in her and what happened to her old man. You understand me, Johnny?”

Lepeyere glared back at Moran, but then remembered himself and doused the fire in his eyes.

“You’re barking up the wrong lamppost, Mr. Max, but you have my respect, as always.” He bobbed his head one-fourth of an inch, the hint of a bow.

“Help yourselves to a drink at the bar on your way out,” Moran said, showing them the door. “It’s on the house.”

He watched them walk down the hallway. They both seemed to be in a hurry to get away and skipped the drink.

There was something about the Shoemaker girl Moran liked. It wasn’t right, killing a man who made flower arrangements for a living, who sent wreaths to Max Moran. He would see about it. Old Oscar’s papers held other clues.

And one of them was an entry near the end that said, “Delivery to Witch’s Hat, 8 P.M.” The Witch was as close to the river as you could get without getting wet, and Johnny Lepeyere, well... It was something to think about. What might Oscar have seen?

Copyright © 2006 Tony Dunbar