Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux 9)

I picked a handful of pecans out of one of the barrels by the door and went inside the store.

"You again. Like bubble gum under the shoe," Buford said.

The store was dark, the cypress floor worn as smooth as wood inside a feed bin, the half-filled shelves filmed with cobwebs. I put a half dollar for the pecans next to the brass cash register on the counter and cracked two of them together in my palm.

"Why are you telling lies about me to the sheriff?" I said.

"You propositioned Karyn at the Acadiana. What do you expect?"

"Who told you this?"

"Karyn, of course."

"Bad source. Your wife's a pathological liar."

"Your job's finished here. Go back to doing whatever you do, Dave. Just stay off my property."

"Wrong. As long as Aaron Crown is running loose, I'll come here anytime I want, Buford."

He combed his thick, curly hair back with his fingernails, a dark knowledge forming in his face.

"You want to bring me down, don't you?" he said.

"You're a fraud."

"What did I ever do to you? Can you answer that simple question for me?"

"You and your wife use each other to injure other people . . . You know what a bugarron is?"

The skin trembled along the lower rim of his right eye.

"Are you calling me a—" he began.

"You serve a perversity of some kind. I just don't know what it is."

"The next time you come here, I'll break your jaw. That's a promise."

He turned and walked down the length of the counter, past the display shelves that were covered with dust, and out the back screen door into the light. The screen slammed behind him like the crack of a rifle.

I took the rest of the day off and raked piles of wet leaves and pecan husks out of the lawn. The wind was still warm out of the south and the tops of the trees in the swamp were a soft green against the sky, and the only sound louder than my own thoughts was Tripod, Alafair's three-legged coon, running up and down on his chain in the side yard. I burned the leaves in the coulee, then I showered, took a nap, and didn't wake until after sunset. While I was dressing, the phone rang in the kitchen. Bootsie answered it and walked to the bedroom door.

"It's Batist," she said.

"What's he want?"

"He didn't say." She went into the living room, then out on the gallery and sat on the swing.

"That movie fella get a hold of you?" Batist asked.

"No. What's up?"

"He was down here wit' a truck and some people wit' cameras. I tole him he ought to talk to you about what he was doing. I seen him talking on on

e of them cordless phones. He ain't called you?"

"This man's not a friend, Batist. Is he there now?"

"No. He ain't the reason I called you. It's that big black man. He ain't up to no good."