Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux 9)

"I'll call my boss and ax him. Maybe you can talk to him."

The attendant lifted the telephone receiver off the hook under the counter. But Aaron's huge hand closed on his and squeezed, then squeezed harder, splaying the fingers, mashing the knuckles like bits of bone against the plastic, his eyes bulging with energy and power an inch from the attendant's face, his grip compressing the attendant's hand into a ball of pain until a cry broke from the attendant's throat and his free hand flipped at the power switch to an unleaded pump.

Aaron left the pocketknife on top of the counter.

"My name's Aaron Crown. I killed two niggers in Angola kept messing with me. You te

ll anybody I robbed you, I'll be back," he said.

But the party at the Acadiana never slowed down. The very fact that Aaron had failed so miserably in attempting to penetrate the governor-elect's security, like an insect trying to fight its way out of a glass bell, was almost a metaphorical confirmation that a new era had begun, one in which a charismatic southern leader and his beautiful wife danced like college sweethearts to a Dixieland band and shared their own aura with such a generosity of spirit that even the most hard-bitten self-made contractor felt humbled and ennobled to be in their presence.

But I was worn out when I got back from the search for Aaron Crown and didn't care anymore about the fortunes of the LaRose family and just wanted to go to sleep. There was a message from Bootsie at the desk when I picked up my room key: The truck broke down by Spanish Lake and I had to wait for the wrecker. I'm borrowing my sister's car but will be there quite late.

I left a note for Bootsie with the room number on it and started toward the elevator.

"Mr. Robicheaux, you have another message," the clerk said.

I took the piece of paper from his hand and read it.

Streak, I got the gen on our man Mookie. We 're talking about your mainline subhuman here. I'll fill you in later. Let's ROA at the bar. Dangle easy, big mon—Clete.

"I'm a little confused. This is my friend's handwriting. He's here at the hotel?" I said.

The clerk took the slip of paper out of my hand and looked at it.

"Oh yes, he's here. He is certainly here, sir."

"Excuse me?"

"I think there was a problem about his invitation. He didn't seem to have it with him. Someone tried to put his hand on your friend's arm and walk him to the door."

"That must have made an interesting show."

"Oh it was, sir. Definitely." The clerk was laughing to himself now.

I went into the bar and restaurant, looked on the dance floor and in the banquet and meeting rooms. Normally tracking Clete Purcel's progress through a given area was like following the path of a wrecking ball, but I saw no sign of him and I rode the elevator up to the top floor, where I had been given a room at the end of the hall from Buford and Karyn's, unlocked the door, undressed, and lay down on the bed in the dark.

It was storming outside now, and through the wide glass window I could see the flow of traffic across the bridge and the rain falling out of the electric light into the water. At one time this area had been called Vermilionville, and in 1863 Louisiana's boys in butternut had retreated up the Teche, exhausted, malnourished, their uniforms in rags, often barefoot, and had fought General Banks' federal troops, right here, on the banks of the river, to keep open the flow of supplies from Texas to the rest of the Confederacy.

As I fell onto the edges of sleep I saw sugarcane fields and houses burning and skies that were plum-colored with smoke and heard the popping of small-arms fire and the clatter of muskets and bayonets as a column of infantry ran down the dirt road toward an irrigation ditch, and I had no doubt which direction my sleep was about to take.

This time the sniper was not Victor Charles.

I was trapped in the middle of the dirt road, my feet unable to run. I saw a musket extend itself from a clump of violent green brush, saw the stiffness of its barrel rear in the sunlight, and in my mind, as though I had formed a contract between the condemned and the executioner, the sniper and I became one, joined irrevocably together as co-participants in my death, and just before the .58 caliber round exploded from the barrel I could feel him squeeze the musket in his hands, as though it was really I who cupped its wet hardness in my palms.

In my sleep I heard the door to the hotel room open, then close, heard someone set down a key on the nightstand and close the curtains, felt a woman's weight on the side of the bed and then her hand on my hip, and I knew Bootsie had arrived at the hotel safely.

I lay on my back, with the pillow across my face, and heard her undressing in the dark. She lay beside me, touched my stomach, then moved across my loins, her thighs spread, and put my sex between her legs. Then she leaned close to me, pushed the pillow from my face, and kissed my cheek and put her tongue inside my mouth and placed my sex inside her.

Her tongue tasted like candy, like cherries that had been soaked in bourbon. She raised herself on her arms, the tops of her swollen breasts half-mooned with tan.

I stared upward into the face of Karyn LaRose, who smiled lazily and said, "Tell me you don't like it, Dave. Tell me. See if you can tell me that. . . Tell me . . . tell me . . . tell me . . ."

CHAPTER 18

I found Clete Purcel at the bar. He was drinking a shot of tequila, with a Corona and a saucer of salted limes on the side, his porkpie hat cocked over one eye. The band was putting away its instruments and the bar was almost empty.

"Where you been, noble mon? You look a couple of quarts down," he said.