Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux 9)

"You know him?" she said.

"No

, but we're going to send him on his way just the same. Now, do what I ask you, okay?"

"I don't see why I—"

"Come on, Alf."

She lifted her face, her best pout in place, and went out the screen door and let it slam behind her.

Batist was heating a pot of coffee on the small butane stove behind the counter. He bent down and looked out the window at the bayou again, a cigar in the center of his mouth.

"What you want to do with that fella, Dave?" he said.

"See who he is."

I went outside again and propped my hands on the dock railing. The flood lamps mounted on the roof of the bait shop burned away the shadows from around the man in the boat. His hair was long, like a nineteenth-century Indian's, his cheeks unshaved, the skin dark and grained as though it had been rubbed with black pepper. His arms were wrapped with scarlet tattoos, but like none I had ever seen before. Unlike jailhouse art, the ink ran in strings down the arms, webbed in bright fantails, as though all of his veins had been superimposed on the skin's surface.

But it was the eyes that caught and impaled you. They were hunter's eyes, chemical green, rimmed with a quivering energy, as though he heard the sounds of hidden adversaries in the wind.

"What's your business here, podna?" I asked.

He seemed to think on it. One hand opened and closed on an oar.

"I ain't eat today," he said. The accent was vaguely Spanish, the tone flat, disconnected from the primitive set of the jaw.

Batist joined me at the rail with a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Come inside," I said.

Batist's eyes fixed on mine.

The man didn't start his engine. Instead, he used one oar to row across the bayou to the concrete ramp. He stepped into the water, ankle-deep, lifted the bow with one hand and pulled the boat up until it was snug on the ramp. Then he reached behind him and lifted out a stiff bedroll that was tied tightly with leather thongs.

His work boots were loud on the dock as he walked toward us, his Levi's high on his hips, notched under his rib cage with a wide leather belt and brass buckle.

"You oughtn't to ax him in, Dave. This is our place," Batist said.

"It's all right."

"No, it surely ain't."

The man let his eyes slide over our faces as he entered the bait shop. I followed him inside and for the first time smelled his odor, like charcoal and kerosene, unwashed hair, mud gone sour with stagnant water. He waited expectantly at the counter, his bedroll tucked under his arm. His back was as straight as a sword.

I fixed him two chili dogs on a paper plate and set them in front of him with a glass of water. He sat on the stool and ate with a spoon, gripping the handle with his fist, mopping the beans and sauce and ground meat with a slice of bread. Batist came inside and began loading the beer cooler behind the counter.

"Where you from?" I said.

"El Paso."

"Where'd you get the boat?"

He thought about it. "I found it two weeks back. It was sunk. I cleaned it up pretty good." He stopped eating and watched me.

"It's a nice boat," I said.

His face twitched and his eyes were empty again, the jawbones