Cadillac Jukebox

by James Lee Burke

  I sat down across from him. His desk blotter was covered with crepe paper camellias.

  “I volunteered to help decorate the stage for my granddaughter’s school play. You any good at this?” he said.

  “No, not really. A movie director, a fellow named Lonnie Felton, was out at my place with Sabelle Crown this morning. They say some blacks are trying to re-create the Garden of Gethsemane for Aaron Crown. I called Angola, but I didn’t get any help.”

  “Don’t look for any. We made him the stink on shit.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A lot of us, not everybody, but a lot of us, treated people of color pretty badly. Aaron represents everything that’s vile in the white race. So he’s doing our time.”

  “You think these movie guys are right, he’s innocent?”

  “I didn’t say that. Look, human beings do bad things sometimes, particularly in groups. Then we start to forget about it. But there’s always one guy hanging around to remind us of what we did or what we used to be. That’s Aaron. He’s the toilet that won’t flush . . . Did I say something funny?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good, because what I’ve got on my mind isn’t funny. Karyn LaRose and her attorney were in here earlier this morning.” He set his elbows on his desk blotter, flipped an unfinished paper flower to the side. “Guess what she had to tell me about your visit last night at her house?”

  “I won’t even try to.”

  “They’re not calling it rape, if that makes you feel any better.” He opened his desk drawer and read silently from a clipboard. “The words are ‘lascivious intention,’ ‘attempted sexual battery,’ and ‘indecent liberties.’ What do you have to say?” His gaze moved away from my face, then came back and stayed there.

  “Nothing. It’s a lie.”

  “I wish the court would just accept my word on the perps. I wish I didn’t have to offer any evidence. Boy, that’d be great.”

  I told him what had happened, felt the heat climbing into my voice, wiped the film of perspiration off my palms onto my slacks.

  His eyes lingered on the scratch Karyn had put on my cheek.

  “I think it’s a lie, too,” he said. He dropped the clipboard inside the drawer and closed it. “But I have to conduct an internal investigation just the same.”

  “I go on the desk?”

  “No. I’m not going to have my department manipulated for someone’s political interests, and that’s what this is about. You’re getting too close to something in this Aaron Crown business. But you stay away from her.”

  I still had my morning mail in my hand. On the top was a pink memo slip with a message from Bootsie, asking me to meet her for lunch.

  “How public is this going to get?” I asked.

  “My feeling is she doesn’t intend it to be public. Aside from the fact I know you, that was the main reason I didn’t believe her. Her whole account is calculated to be vague. Her charges don’t require her to offer physical evidence—vaginal smears, pubic hair, that kind of stuff. This is meant as a warning from the LaRose family. If I have to, I’ll carry this back to them on a dung fork, podna.”

  He folded his hands on the desk, his face suffused with the ruddy glow of his hypertension.

  Way to go, skipper, I thought.

  * * *

  Most people in prison deserve to be there. Old-time recidivists who are down on a bad beef will usually admit they’re guilty of other crimes, perhaps much worse ones than the crimes they’re down for.

  There’re exceptions, but not many. So their burden is of their own creation. But it is never an easy one, no matter how modern the facility or how vituperative the rhetoric about country club jails.

  You’re a nineteen-year-old fish, uneducated, frightened, with an IQ of around 100. At the reception center you rebuff a trusty wolf who works in records and wants to introduce you to jailhouse romance, so the trusty makes sure you go up the road with a bad jacket (the word is out, you snitched off a solid con and caused him to lose his goodtime).

  You just hit main pop and you’re already jammed up, worried about the shank in the chow line, the Molotov cocktail shattered inside your cell, the whispered threat in the soybean field about the experience awaiting you in the shower that night.

  So you make a conscious choice to survive and find a benefactor, “an old man,” and become a full-time punk, one step above the yard bitches. You mule blues, prune-o, and Afghan skunk for the big stripes; inside a metal toolshed that aches with heat, you participate in the savaging of another fish, who for just a moment reminds you of someone you used to know.

  Then a day comes when you think you can get free. You’re mainline now, two years down with a jacket full of goodtime. You hear morning birdsong that you didn’t notice before; you allow your mind to linger on the outside, the face of a girl in a small town, a job in a piney woods timber mill that smells of rosin and hot oil on a ripsaw, an ordinary day not governed by fear.

  That’s when you tell your benefactor thanks for all his help. He’ll understand. Your next time up before the board, you’ve got a real chance of entering the world again. Why blow it now?

  That night you walk into the shower by yourself. A man who had never even glanced at you before, a big stripe, hare-lipped, flat-nosed, his naked torso rife with a raw smell like a freshly uprooted cypress, clenches your skull in his fingers, draws you into his breath, squeezes until the cracking sound stops and you hear the words that he utters with a lover’s trembling fondness an inch from your mouth: I’m gonna take your eyes out with a spoon.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when the gunbull drove me in his pickup down to the Mississippi levee, where Aaron Crown, his face as heated as a baked apple under a snap-brim cap, was harrowing an open field, the tractor’s engine running full bore, grinding the sun-hardened rows into loam, twisting the tractor’s wheel back through the haze of cinnamon-colored dust, reslicing the already churned soil as though his work were an excuse to avenge himself and his kind upon the earth.

  At the edge of the field, by a grove of willows, four black inmates, stripped to the waist, were heaping dead tree branches on a fire.

  “Y’all ought to have Aaron in isolation, Cap,” I said.

  He cut the ignition and spit tobacco juice out the window.

  “When he asks,” he replied.

  “He won’t.”

  “Then that’s his goddamn ass.”

  The captain walked partway out in the field on his cane and raised the hook and held it motionless in the air. Aaron squinted out of the dust and heat and exhaust fumes, then eased the throttle back without killing the engine, as though he could not will himself to separate entirely from the mechanical power that had throbbed between his thighs all day.

  Aaron walked toward us, wiping his face with a dirty handkerchief, past the group of blacks burning field trash. Their eyes never saw him; their closed circle of conversation never missed a beat.

  He stood by the truck, his body framed by the sun that hung in a liquid yellow orb over the Mississippi levee.

  “Yes, sir?” he said to the captain.

  “Water it and piss it, Crown,” the captain said. He limped on his cane to the shade of a gum tree and lit his pipe, turned his face into the breeze off the river.

  “I understand you’re having some trouble,” I said.

  “You ain’t heered me say it.”

  He walked back to the watercooler belted with bungee cord to the wall of the pickup bed. He filled a paper cup from the cooler and drank it, his gaze fixed on the field, the dust devils swirling in the wind.

  “Is it the BGLA?” I asked.

  “I don’t keep up with colored men’s organizations.”

  “I don’t know if you’re innocent or guilty, Aaron. But up there at Point Lookout, the prison cemetery is full of men who had your kind of attitude.”

  “That levee yonder’s got dead men in it, too. It’s the way it is.” He wadded up the pape
r cup by his side, kneaded it in his hand, a piece of cartilage working against his jawbone.

  “I’m going to talk to a civil rights lawyer I know in Baton Rouge. He’s a black man, though. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “I don’t give a shit what he is. I done tole you, I got no complaint, long as I ain’t got to cell with one of them.”

  “They’ll eat you alive, partner.”

  He stepped toward me, his wrists seeming to strain against invisible wires at his sides.

  “A man’s got his own rules. I ain’t ask for nothing except out . . . Goddamn it, you tell my daughter she ain’t to worry,” he said, his eyes rimming with water. The top of his denim shirt was splayed tightly against his chest. He breathed through his mouth, his fists gathered into impotent rocks, his face dilated with the words his throat couldn’t form.

  * * *

  I got back home at dark, then I had to go out again, this time with Helen Soileau to a clapboard nightclub on a back road to investigate a missing person’s report.

  “Sorry to drag you out, Dave, but the grandmother has been yelling at me over the phone all day,” Helen said. “I made a couple of calls, and it looks like she’s telling the truth. The girl’s not the kind to take off and not tell anybody.”

  A black waitress had left the club with a white man the night before; she never returned home, nor did she report to work the next day. The grandmother worked as a cook in the club’s kitchen and lived in a small frame house a hundred yards down the road. She was a plump, gray-haired woman with a strange skin disease that had eaten white and pink discolorations in her hands, and she was virtually hysterical with anger and grief.

  “We’ll find her. I promise you,” Helen said as we stood in the woman’s dirt yard, looking up at her on her tiny, lighted gallery.

  “Then why ain’t you looking right now? How come it takes all day to get y’all out here?” she said.

  “Tell me what the man looked like one more time,” I said.

  “Got a brand-new Lincoln car. Got a pink face shaped like an egg. Got hair that ain’t blond or red, somewhere in between, and he comb it straight back.”

  “Why did she go off with him?” I asked.

  “’Cause she’s seventeen years old and don’t listen. ’Cause she got this on her hands, just like me, and reg’lar mens don’t pay her no mind. That answer your question?”

  Helen drove us back down the dirt road through the fields to the state highway. The night was humid, layered with smoke from stubble fires, and the stars looked blurred with mist in the sky. We passed the LaRose company store, then the plantation itself. All three floors of the house were lighted, the columned porch decorated with pumpkins and scarecrows fashioned from cane stalks and straw hats. In a back pasture, behind a railed fence, horses were running in the moonlight, as though spooked by an impending storm or the rattle of dry poppy husks in the wind.

  “What’s on your mind?” Helen asked.

  “The description of the white man sounds like Mingo Bloomberg.”

  “I thought he was in City Prison in New Orleans.”

  “He is. Or at least he was.”

  “What would he be doing back around here?”

  “Who knows why these guys do anything, Helen? I’ll get on it in the morning.”

  I looked back over my shoulder at the LaRose house, the glitter of a chandelier through velvet curtains, a flood-lighted gazebo hooded with Confederate jasmine and orange trumpet vine.

  “Forget those people. They wouldn’t spit on either one of us unless we had something they wanted. Hey, you listening to me, Streak?” Helen said, and hit me hard on the arm with the back of her hand.

  * * *

  I got up early the next morning, left a message on Clete Purcel’s answering machine, then drove back to the grandmother’s house by the nightclub. The girl, whose name was Barbara Lavey, had still not returned home. I sat in my truck by the front of the grandmother’s house and looked at the notes in my notebook. For some reason I drew a circle around the girl’s name. I had a feeling I would see it on a case file for a long time.

  The grandmother had gone back inside and I had forgotten her. Suddenly she was at the passenger door window. Her glasses fell down on her nose when she leaned inside.

  “I’m sorry I was unpolite yestiday. I know you working on it. Here’s somet’ing for you and the lady,” she said. She placed a brown paper bag swollen with pecans in my hand.

  * * *

  The sun was still low in the eastern sky when I approached the LaRose plantation. I saw Buford, naked to the waist, in a railed lot by the bam, with a half dozen dark-skinned men who were dressed in straw hats coned on the brims and neckerchiefs and cowboy boots and jeans molded to their buttocks and thighs.

  I knew I should keep going, not put my hand again into whatever it was that drove Karyn and Buford’s ambitions, not fuel their anger, not give them a handle on an Internal Affairs investigation, but I was never good at taking my own counsel and I could feel the lie she had told turning in my chest like a worm.

  I turned into the drive, passed a row of blue-green poplars on the side of the house, and parked by the back lot. A balmy wind, smelling of rain, was blowing hard across the cane acreage, and a dozen roan horses with brands burned deep into the hair were running in the lot, turning against one another, rattling against the railed fence, their manes twisted with fire in the red sunrise.

  When I stepped out of the truck, Buford was smiling at me. His skin-tight white polo pants were flecked with mud and tucked inside his polished riding boots. His eyes looked serene, his face pleasant and cool with the freshness of the morning.

  I almost extended my hand.

  He looked at the sunrise over my shoulder.

  “ ‘Red sky at dawn, sailor be forewarned,’ ” he said. But he was smiling when he said it.

  “I shouldn’t be here, but I needed to tell you to your face the charges your wife made are fabricated. That’s as kind as I can say it.”

  “Oh, that stuff. She’s dropping it, Dave. Let’s put that behind us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s over. Come take a look at my horses.”

  I looked at him incredulously.

  “She slandered someone’s name,” I said.

  He blew out his breath. “You and my wife were intimate. She probably still bears you a degree of resentment. The god Eros was never a rational influence, Dave. At the same time she doesn’t want to see my campaign compromised because you’ve developed this crazy notion about Aaron Crown being railroaded. So she let both her imagination and her impetuosity cause her to do something foolish. We’re sorry for whatever harm we’ve done you.”

  I cupped my hand on a fence rail, felt the hardness of the wood in my palm, tried to see my thoughts in my head before I spoke.

  “I get the notion I’m in a therapy session,” I said.

  “If you were, you’d get a bill.”

  The back door of the house opened, and a slender, white-haired man with a pixie face, one wrinkled with the parchment lines of a chronic cigarette smoker, stepped out into the wind and waved at Buford. He wore a navy blue sports jacket with brass buttons and a champagne-colored silk scarf. I knew the face but I couldn’t remember from where.

  “I’ll be just a minute, Clay,” Buford called. Then to me, “Would you like to join us for breakfast?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “How about a handshake, then?”

  Two of the wranglers were yelling at each other in Spanish as the horses swirled around them in the lot. One had worked a hackamore over a mare’s head and the other was trying to fling a blanket and saddle on her back.

  “No? Stay and watch me get my butt thrown, then,” Buford said.

  “You were born for it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The political life. You’ve got ice water in your veins,” I said.

  “You see that dead oak yonder? Two men were lynched there
by my ancestors. When I went after Aaron Crown, I hoped maybe I could atone a little for what happened under that tree.”

  “It makes a great story.”

  “You’re a classic passive-aggressive, Dave, no offense meant. You feign the role of liberal and humanist, but Bubba and Joe Bob own your heart.”

  “So long, Buford,” I said, and walked back to my truck. The wind splayed and flattened the poplar trees against Buford’s house. When I looked back over my shoulder, he was mounted on the mare’s back, one hand twisted in the mane, the hackamore sawed back in the other, his olive-tan torso anointed with the sun’s cool light, sculpted with the promise of perfection that only Greek gods know.

  * * *

  Later, Clete Purcel returned my call and told me Mingo Bloomberg had been sprung from City Prison three days ago by attorneys who worked for Jerry Joe Plumb, also known as Short Boy Jerry, Jerry Ace, and Jerry the Glide.

  But even as I held the receiver in my hand, I couldn’t concentrate on Clete’s words about Mingo’s relationship to a peculiar player in the New Orleans underworld. The dispatcher had just walked through my open door and handed me a memo slip with the simple message written on it: Call the Cap up at the zoo re: Crown. He says urgent.

  It took twenty minutes to get him on the phone.

  “You was right. I should have listened to you. A bunch of the black boys caught him” in the tool shack this morning,” the captain said.

  He’d had to walk from the field and he breathed hard into the telephone.

  “Is he dead?” I asked.

  “You got it turned around. He killed two of them sonsofbitches with his bare hands and liked to got a third with a cane knife. That old man’s a real shit-storm, ain’t he?”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Bootsie, Alafair, and I were eating supper in the kitchen that evening when the phone rang on the counter. Bootsie got up to answer it. Outside, the clouds in the west were purple and strung with curtains of rain.

  Then I heard her say, “Before I give the phone to Dave, could you put Karyn on? I left her a couple of messages, but she probably didn’t have time to call . . . I see . . . When will she be back? . . . Could you ask her to call me, Buford? I’ve really wanted to talk with her . . . Oh, you know, those things she said about Dave to the sheriff . . . Hang on now, here’s Dave.”