Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux 9)

"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.