Cadillac Jukebox Read online

  “How’s it goin’, Cap?” I said.

  “Need your opinion on something,” he replied. His accent was north Louisiana hill country, the vowels phlegmy and round and deep in the throat, like speech lifted out of the nineteenth century.

  His hands, which were dotted with liver spots, shook slightly with palsy. His career reached back into an era when Angola convicts were beaten with the black Betty, stretched out on anthills, locked down in sweatboxes on Camp A, sometimes even murdered by guards on a whim and buried in the Mississippi levee. In the years I had known him I had never seen him smile or heard him mention any form of personal life outside the penitentiary.

  “Some movie people is offered me five thousand dollars for a interview about Crown. What do you reckon I ought to do?” he said.

  ’Take it. What’s the harm?”

  He bit the edge off a ginger snap.

  “I got the feeling they want me to say he don’t belong up there on the farm, that maybe the wrong man’s in prison.”

  “I see.”

  “Something’s wrong, ain’t it?”

  “Sir?”

  “White man kills a black man down South, them Hollywood people don’t come looking to get the white man off.”

  “I don’t have an answer for you, Cap. Just tell them what you think and forget about it.” I looked at the electric clock on the wall above the counter.

  “What I think is the sonofabitch’s about half-human.” My eyes met his. “He’s got a stink on him don’t wash off. If he ain’t killed the NAACP nigger, he done it to somebody else.”

  He chewed a ginger snap dryly in his jaw, then swallowed it with a small sip of soda, the leathery skin of his face cobwebbed with lines in the gloom.

  * * *

  Word travels fast among the denizens of the nether regions.

  On Tuesday morning Helen Soileau came into my office at the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department and said we had to pick up and hold a New Orleans hoodlum named Mingo Bloomberg, who was wanted as a material witness in the killing of a police officer in the French Quarter.

  “You know him?” she asked. She wore a starched white shirt and blue slacks and her badge on her gunbelt. She was a blonde, muscular woman whose posture and bold stare always seemed to anticipate, even relish, challenge or insult.

  “He’s a button man for the Giacano family,” I said.

  “We don’t have that.”

  “Bad communications with NOPD, then. Mingo’s specialty is disappearing his victims. He’s big on fish chum.”

  “That’s terrific. Expidee Chatlin is baby-sitting him for us.”

  We checked out a cruiser and drove into the south part of the parish on back roads that were lined with sugarcane wagons on their way to the mill. Then we followed a levee through a partially cleared field to a tin-roofed fish camp set back in a grove of persimmon and pecan trees. A cruiser was parked in front of the screened-in gallery, the front doors opened, the radio turned off.

  Expidee Chatlin had spent most of his law-enforcement career as a crossing guard or escorting drunks from the jail to guilty-court. He had narrow shoulders and wide hips, a tube of fat around his waist, and a thin mustache that looked like grease pencil. He and another uniformed deputy were eating sandwiches with Mingo Bloomberg at a plank table on the gallery.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Expidee?” Helen asked.

  “Waiting on y’all. What’s it look like?” he replied.

  “How’s it hanging, Robicheaux?” Mingo Bloomberg said.

  “No haps, Mingo.”

  He emptied his beer can and put an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He was a handsome man and wore beltless gray slacks and loafers and a long-sleeve shirt printed with flowers. His hair was copper-colored and combed straight back on his scalp, his eyes ice blue, as invasive as a dirty finger when they locked on yours.

  He opened his lighter and began to flick the flint dryly, as though we were not there.

  “Get out of that chair and lean against the wall,” Helen said.

  He lowered the lighter, his mouth screwed into a smile around his cigarette. She pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, threw it over her shoulder, and aimed her nine millimeter into the middle of his face.

  “Say something wise, you fuck. Go ahead. I want you to,” she said.

  I pulled him to his feet, pushed him against the wall, and kicked his ankles apart. When I shook him down I tapped a hard, square object in his left pocket. I removed a .25 caliber automatic, dropped the magazine, pulled the slide back on the empty chamber, then tossed the pistol into Expidee’s lap.

  “Nobody told me. I thought the guy was suppose to be a witness or something,” he said.

  Helen cuffed Mingo’s wrists behind him and shoved him toward the screen door.

  “Hey, Robicheaux, you and the lady take your grits off the stove,” he said.

  “It’s up to you, Mingo,” I said.

  We were out front now, under a gray sky, in the wind, in leaves that toppled out of the trees on the edge of the clearing. Mingo rolled his eyes. “Up to me? You ought to put a cash register on top of y’all’s cruiser,” he said.

  “You want to explain that?” I said.

  He looked at Helen, then back at me.

  “Give us a minute,” I said to her.

  I walked him to the far side of our cruiser, opened the back door and sat him down behind the wire-mesh screen. I leaned one arm on the roof and looked down into his face. An oiled, coppery strand of hair fell down across his eyes.

  “You did the right thing with this guy Crown. You do the right thing, you get taken care of. Something wrong with that?” he said.

  “Yeah. I’m not getting taken care of.”

  “Then that’s your fucking problem.”

  “When you get back to the Big Sleazy, stay there, Mingo,” I said, and closed the car door.

  “I got a permit for the piece you took off me. I want it back,” he said through the open window.

  I waited for Helen to get behind the wheel, drumming my fingers on the cruiser’s roof, trying to conceal the disjointed expression on my face.

  * * *

  If you seriously commit yourself to alcohol, I mean full-bore, the way you take up a new religion, and join that great host of revelers who sing and lock arms as they bid farewell to all innocence in their lives, you quickly learn the rules of behavior in this exclusive fellowship whose dues are the most expensive in the world. You drink down. That means you cannot drink in well-lighted places with ordinary people because the psychological insanity in your face makes you a pariah among them. So you find other drunks whose condition is as bad as your own, or preferably even worse.

  But time passes and you run out of geography and people who are in some cosmetic way less than yourself and bars where the only admission fee is the price of a 6 A.M. short-dog.

  That’s when you come to places like Sabelle Crown’s at the Underpass in Lafayette.

  The Underpass area had once been home to a dingy brick hotel and row of low-rent bars run by a notorious family of Syrian criminals. Now the old bars and brick hotel had been bulldozed into rubble, and all that remained of the city’s last skidrow refuge was Sabelle’s, a dark, two-story clapboard building that loomed above the Underpass like a solitary tooth.

  It had no mirrors, and the only light inside came from the jukebox and the beer signs over the bar. It was a place where the paper Christmas decorations stayed up year-round and you never had to see your reflection or make an unfavorable comparison between yourself and others. Not unless you counted Sabelle, who had been a twenty-dollar whore in New Orleans before she disappeared up north for several years. She was middle-aged now, with flecks of gray in her auburn hair, but she looked good in her blue jeans and V-necked beige sweater, and her face retained a kind of hard beauty that gave fantasies to men who drank late and still believed the darkness of a bar could resurrect opportunities from their youth.

  She opened a bottle of 7-
Up and set it in front of me with a glass of ice.

  “You doin’ all right, Streak?” she said.

  “Not bad. How about you, Sabelle?”

  “I hope you’re not here for anything stronger than Seven-Up.”

  I smiled and didn’t reply. The surface of the bar stuck to my wrists. “Why would a New Orleans gumball named Mingo Bloomberg have an interest in your father?” I said.

  “You got me.”

  “I went over everything I could find on Aaron’s case this afternoon. I think he could have beat it if he’d had a good lawyer,” I said.

  She studied my face curiously. The beer sign on the wall made tiny red lights, like sparks, in her hair.

  “The big problem was Aaron told some other people he did it,” I said.

  She put out her cigarette in the ashtray, then set a shot glass and a bottle of cream sherry by my elbow and walked down the duckboards and around the end of the bar and sat down next to me, her legs hooked in the stool’s rungs.

  “You still married?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  She didn’t finish her thought. She poured sherry into her shot glass and drank it. “Daddy went to the third grade. He hauled manure for a living. Rich people on East Main made him go around to their back doors.”

  I continued to look into her face.

  “Look, when this black civil rights guy got killed with Daddy’s rifle, he started making up stories. People talked about him. He got to be a big man for a while,” she said.

  “He lied about a murder?”

  “How’d you like to be known as white trash in a town like New Iberia?”

  “Big trade-off” I said.

  “What isn’t?”

  She gestured to the bartender, pointed to a shoe-box under the cash register. He handed it to her and walked away. She lifted off the top.

  “You were in the army. See what you recognize in there. I don’t know one medal from another,” she said.

  It was heavy and filled with watches, rings, pocketknives, and military decorations. Some of the latter were Purple Hearts; at least two were Silver Stars. It also contained a .32 revolver with electrician’s tape wrapped on the grips.

  “If the medal’s got a felt-lined box, I give a three-drink credit,” she said.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said.

  “You want to find out about my father, talk to Buford LaRose. His book sent Daddy to prison.”

  “I might do that.”

  “When you see Buford, tell him—” But she shook her head and didn’t finish. She pursed her lips slightly and kissed the air.

  * * *

  I went home for lunch the next day, and as I came around the curve on the bayou I saw Karyn LaRose’s blue Mazda convertible back out of my drive and come toward me on the dirt road. She stopped abreast of me and removed her sunglasses. Her teeth were white when she smiled, her tanned skin and platinum hair dappled with sunlight that fell through the oak trees.

  “What’s up, Karyn?”

  “I thought this would be a grand time to have y’all out.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, stop all this silliness, Dave.”

  “Listen, Karyn—”

  “See you, kiddo,” she said, shifted into first, and disappeared in my rearview mirror, her hair whipping in the wind.

  * * *

  I pulled into our dirt drive and parked by the side of the house, which had been built out of notched and pegged cypress during the Depression by my father, a huge, grinning, hard-drinking Cajun who was killed on the salt in an oil well blowout. Over the years the tin roof on the gallery had turned purple with rust and the wood planks in the walls had darkened and hardened with rain and dust storms and smoke from stubble fires. My wife, Bootsie, and I had hung baskets of impatiens from the gallery, put flower boxes in the windows, and planted the beds with roses, hibiscus, and hydrangeas, but in the almost year-round shade of the live oaks and pecan trees, the house had a dark quality that seemed straight out of the year 1930, as though my father still held claim to it.

  Bootsie had fixed ham and onion sandwiches and iced tea and potato salad for lunch, and we. set the kitchen table together and sat down to eat. I kept waiting for her to mention Karyn’s visit But she didn’t.

  “I saw Karyn LaRose out on the road,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, I forgot. Tomorrow evening, she wants us to come to a dinner and lawn party.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t think we had anything planned. But I said I’d ask you.” She had stopped eating. I felt her eyes on my face. “You don’t want to go?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you have a reason? Or do we just tell people to drop dead arbitrarily?”

  “Buford’s too slick for me.”

  “He’s a therapist and a university professor. Maybe the state will finally have a governor with more than two brain cells.”

  “Fine, let’s go. It’s not a problem,” I said.

  “Dave . . .”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Finally her exasperation gave way to a smile, then to a laugh.

  “You’re too much, Streak,” she said.

  I wiped at my mouth with my napkin, then walked around behind her chair, put my arms on her shoulders, and kissed her hair. It was the color of dark honey and she brushed it in thick swirls on her head, and it always smelled like strawberry shampoo. I kissed her along the cheek and touched her breasts.

  “You doin’ anything?” I said.

  “You have to go back to work.”

  “The perps will understand.”

  She reached behind the chair and fitted her hand around the back of my thigh.

  The curtains in the bedroom, which were white and gauzy and printed with tiny flowers, puffed and twisted in the wind that blew through the trees in the yard. When Bootsie undressed, her body seemed sculpted, glowing with light against the window. She had the most beautiful complexion of any woman I ever knew; when she made love it flushed with heat, as though she had a fever, and took on the hue of a new rose petal. I kissed her breasts and took her nipples in my mouth and traced my fingers down the flatness of her stomach, then I felt her reach down and take me in her palm.

  When I entered her she hooked her legs in mine and laced the fingers of one hand in my hair and placed the other hand hard in the small of my back. I could feel her breath against the side of my face, the perspiration on her stomach and inside her thighs, then her tongue on my neck, the wetness of her mouth near my ear. I wanted to hold it, to give more satisfaction than I received, but that terrible moment of male pleasure and solitary indulgence had its way.

  “Boots—” I said hoarsely.

  “It’s all right, Dave. Go ahead,” she whispered.

  She ran both palms down my lower back and pushed me deeper inside, then something, broke like a dam and melted in my loins and I closed my eyes and saw a sailfish rise from a cresting wave, its mouth torn with a hook, its skin blue and hard, its gills strung with pink foam. Then it disappeared into the wave again, and the groundswells were suddenly flat and empty, dented with rain, sliding across the fire coral down below.

  * * *

  It should have been a perfect afternoon. But on my way out Bootsie asked, almost as an afterthought, “Was there any other reason you didn’t want to go to the LaRoses’?”

  “No, of course not.”

  I tried to avert my eyes, but it was too late. I saw the recognition in her face, like a sharp and unexpected slap.

  “It was a long time ago, Boots. Before we were married.”

  She nodded, her thoughts concealed. Then she said, her voice flat, “We’re all modern people these days. Like you say, Streak, no problem.”

  She walked down to the pond at the back of our property by herself, with a bag of bread crusts, to feed the ducks.

  CHAPTER

  3

  At sunrise the next day, while I was helping Batist o
pen up the bait shop before I went to work, the old-time gunbull called me long-distance from Angola.

  “You remember I told you about them movie people come see me? There’s one ain’t gonna be around no more,” he said.

  “What happened, Cap?”

  “My nephew’s a uniform at NOPD in the First District. They thought it was just a white man interested in the wrong piece of jelly roll. That’s till they found the camera,” he said.

  After I hung up the phone I filled minnow buckets for two fishermen, put a rental outboard in the water, and pulled the tarp on guy wires over the spool tables on the dock in case it rained. Batist was sprinkling hickory chips on the coals in the barbecue pit, which we had fashioned from a split oil drum to cook chickens and links of sausage for our midday customers.

  “That was that old man from up at the prison farm?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I ain’t going to say it but once, no. It don’t matter what that kind of man bring into your life, it ain’t no good.”

  “I’m a police officer, podna. I can’t always be selective about the people I talk to.”

  He cut his head and walked away.

  I left a message for the nephew at NOPD and drove to the office just as it started to mist. He returned my call two hours later, then turned over the telephone to a Homicide detective. This is how I’ve reconstructed the story that was told to me.

  * * *

  Vice had identified the hooker as Brandy Grissum, a black twenty-five-year-old heroin addict who had done a one-bit in the St. John the Baptist jail for sale and possession.

  She worked with three or four pimps and Murphy artists out of the Quarter. The pimps were there for the long-term regular trade. The Murphy artists took down the tourists, particularly those who were drunk, married, respectable, in town on conventions, scared of cops and their employers.

  It was an easy scam. Brandy would walk into a bar, well dressed, perhaps wearing a suit, sit at the end of the counter, or by herself in a booth, glance once into the john’s face, her eyes shy, her hands folded demurely in front of her, then wait quietly while her partner cut the deal.