Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux 9)

"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, Dave. I believe you mean no harm," he said, and walked back among his guests.

I stared at the red sun above the sugarcane fields, my face burning with embarrassment.