DR09 - Cadillac Jukebox Read Online Free PDF

looking at an unformed thought in
the center of his mind.
          "Dave, I think
we're going to win next month," he said.
          "That's
good."
          "You think you
could live in Baton Rouge?"
          "I've never
thought about it."
          Someone turned on the
Japanese lanterns in the trees. The air smelled of pecan husks and smoke from a
barbecue pit dug in the earth. Buford paused.
          "How'd you like
to be head of the state police?" he asked.
          "I was never
much of an administrator, Buford."
          "I had a feeling
you'd say something like that."
          "Oh?"
          "Dave, why do
you think we've always had the worst state government in the union? It's
because good people don't want to serve in it. Is the irony lost on you?"
          "I appreciate
the offer."
          "You want to
think it over?"
           "Sure, why not?"
          "That's the
way," he said, and then was gone among his other
    guests, his handsome face glowing with the perfection of the
evening and the portent it seemed to represent.
          Karyn walked among
the tree trunks toward me, a paper plate filled with roast duck and venison and
dirty rice in one hand, a Corona bottle and cone-shaped glass with a lime slice
inserted on the rim gripped awkwardly in the other. My eyes searched the crowd
for Bootsie.
          "I took the
liberty," Karyn said, and set the plate and glass and beer bottle down on
a table for me.
          "Thank you.
Where'd Boots go?"
          "I think she's
in the house."
          She sat backward on
the plank bench, her legs crossed. She had tied her hair up with a red bandanna
and had tucked her embroidered denim shirt tightly into her blue jeans. Her
face was warm, still flushed from the touch football game. I moved the Corona
bottle and glass toward her.
          "Nope."
          "You want a
Coke?"
          "I'm fine,
Karyn."
          "Did Buford talk
to you about the state police job?"
          "He sure
did."
          "Gee, Dave,
you're a regular blabbermouth, aren't you?"
          I took a bite of the
dressing, then rolled a strip of duck meat inside a piece of French bread and
ate it.
          Her eyes dilated.
"Did he offend you?" she said.
          "Here's the lay
of the land, Karyn. A hit man for the New Orleans mob, a genuine sociopath by
the name of Mingo Bloomberg, told me I did the right thing by not getting
involved with Aaron Crown. He said I'd get taken care of. Now I'm offered a
job."
          "I don't believe
you."
          "Believe
what?"
          "You. Your fucking presumption and
self-righteousness."
          "What I told you
is what happened. You can make of it what you want."
          She walked away
through the shadows, across the leaves and molded pecan husks to where her
husband was talking to a group of
    people. I saw them move off together, her hands gesturing while
she spoke, then his face turning toward me.
          A moment later he was
standing next to me, his wrists hanging loosely at his sides.
          "I'm at a loss,
Dave. I have a hard time believing what you told
    Karyn," he said.
          I lay my fork in my
plate, wadded up my paper napkin and dropped it on the table.
          "Maybe I'd
better go," I said.
          "You've
seriously upset her. I don't think it's enough just to say you'll go."
          "Then I
apologize."
          "I know about
your and Karyn's history. Is that the cause of our problem here? Because I
don't bear a resentment about it."
          I could feel a heat
source inside me, like someone cracking open the door on a woodstove.
          "Listen,
partner, a guy like Mingo Bloomberg isn't an abstraction. Neither is a
documentary screenwriter who just got whacked in the Quarter," I said.
          His expression was
bemused, almost doleful, as though he were looking down at an impaired person.
          "Good night to
you,