Read Online DR07 - Dixie City Jam by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Lee Burke
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bloody pan.
'Or I can just walk down to the bait shop,' he said.
'No, no, come in. I'll get you one,' she said, and opened the
screen for him. 'Dave said he was talking to you earlier about
something?'
He nodded, his eyes crinkling again, filling with light,
focusing on nothing. When she returned from the kitchen, he was sitting
on the couch, examining two seventy-eight rpm records that he had
removed from the metal racks where I kept my historical jazz collection.
'Oh,' she said. 'Those are quite rare. They have to be handled
very carefully.'
'Yes, I know,' he said. 'This is Benny Goodman's nineteen
thirty-three band. But there's dust along the rim. You see, the open
end of the jacket should always be turned toward the back of the
shelf.' He slipped his large hand inside one of the paper jackets and
slid out the record.
'Please, you shouldn't do that.'
'Don't worry. I have a big collection of my own,' he said.
'Watch my hands. See, I don't touch the grooves. Fingerprints can mar a
record in the same way they cause rust on gun blueing.'
He rubbed the record's rim softly with a piece of Kleenex,
then carefully inserted it back in the paper jacket. He looked up into
Bootsie's face.
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have handled them,' he said, twisting
sideways and replacing both records on the rack. 'But a shudder goes
through me when I see dust on a beautiful old record. You have some
wonderful ones in your collection. I'd give anything to have those Bix
Beiderbeckes and Bunk Johnsons in mine.'
'Dave's collected them since he was in high school. That's why
I'm a little nervous if somebody picks them up.' She handed him the
glass of water and remained standing.
'Well, I won't take any more of your time. I just wanted to
leave this little gift and introduce myself.' He took a small sip from
the water glass and placed the box of candy on the arm of the couch.
'Before I go, could I show you something? It'd mean a lot to me.'
The hair on his forearms looked golden and soft, like down, in
the shaft of sunlight that fell through the side window. He removed a
silver leather-bound scrapbook from the paper bag and rested it in his
lap.
'It'll only take a minute,' he said.
'I'm a little behind in my work today.'
'Please. Then I won't bother y'all any more.'
'Well, for just a minute,' she said.
She sat down next to him, her legs crossed, her hands folded
on her knee.
'I know that Mr. Bimstine has talked to Dave, but
unfortunately he's sometimes not a truthful man,' he said.
'Bimstine?'
'Yes, Hippo Bimstine. Sometimes he has a way of concealing
what he's really up to. I'm afraid it might just be another racial
characteristic with him and some of his friends.'
'I'm not making the connection. I'm not sure of what you're
doing here, either.'
He patted his palms lightly on the silver leather of the
scrapbook.
'I don't want to say something that's offensive to anyone,' he
said. 'But Mr. Bimstine lies about the causes he serves. I doubt that
he's told your husband he raises money for Israel.'
'You had better come back later and talk to Dave about this.'
'You're misunderstanding me. I didn't come here to criticize
Mr. Bimstine. I just wanted to show you how a hoax can be created.' His
thumb peeled back several stiff pages of the scrapbook to one that
contained two clipped-out newspaper photographs of men in striped
prison uniforms and caps, staring out at the camera from behind barbed
wire. Their faces were gaunt and unshaved, their eyes luminous with
hunger and fear. 'These are supposed to be Jews in a German
extermination camp in nineteen forty-four. But look, Mrs. Robicheaux.'
He flipped to the next page. 'Here are the same photographs as they
appeared in a Polish newspaper in nineteen thirty-one. These were
Polish convicts, not German political prisoners. This is all part of a
hoax that was perpetrated by British Intelligence… I'm sorry.
Have I upset you about something?'
'I mistook you for someone else,' she said rising to
'Or I can just walk down to the bait shop,' he said.
'No, no, come in. I'll get you one,' she said, and opened the
screen for him. 'Dave said he was talking to you earlier about
something?'
He nodded, his eyes crinkling again, filling with light,
focusing on nothing. When she returned from the kitchen, he was sitting
on the couch, examining two seventy-eight rpm records that he had
removed from the metal racks where I kept my historical jazz collection.
'Oh,' she said. 'Those are quite rare. They have to be handled
very carefully.'
'Yes, I know,' he said. 'This is Benny Goodman's nineteen
thirty-three band. But there's dust along the rim. You see, the open
end of the jacket should always be turned toward the back of the
shelf.' He slipped his large hand inside one of the paper jackets and
slid out the record.
'Please, you shouldn't do that.'
'Don't worry. I have a big collection of my own,' he said.
'Watch my hands. See, I don't touch the grooves. Fingerprints can mar a
record in the same way they cause rust on gun blueing.'
He rubbed the record's rim softly with a piece of Kleenex,
then carefully inserted it back in the paper jacket. He looked up into
Bootsie's face.
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have handled them,' he said, twisting
sideways and replacing both records on the rack. 'But a shudder goes
through me when I see dust on a beautiful old record. You have some
wonderful ones in your collection. I'd give anything to have those Bix
Beiderbeckes and Bunk Johnsons in mine.'
'Dave's collected them since he was in high school. That's why
I'm a little nervous if somebody picks them up.' She handed him the
glass of water and remained standing.
'Well, I won't take any more of your time. I just wanted to
leave this little gift and introduce myself.' He took a small sip from
the water glass and placed the box of candy on the arm of the couch.
'Before I go, could I show you something? It'd mean a lot to me.'
The hair on his forearms looked golden and soft, like down, in
the shaft of sunlight that fell through the side window. He removed a
silver leather-bound scrapbook from the paper bag and rested it in his
lap.
'It'll only take a minute,' he said.
'I'm a little behind in my work today.'
'Please. Then I won't bother y'all any more.'
'Well, for just a minute,' she said.
She sat down next to him, her legs crossed, her hands folded
on her knee.
'I know that Mr. Bimstine has talked to Dave, but
unfortunately he's sometimes not a truthful man,' he said.
'Bimstine?'
'Yes, Hippo Bimstine. Sometimes he has a way of concealing
what he's really up to. I'm afraid it might just be another racial
characteristic with him and some of his friends.'
'I'm not making the connection. I'm not sure of what you're
doing here, either.'
He patted his palms lightly on the silver leather of the
scrapbook.
'I don't want to say something that's offensive to anyone,' he
said. 'But Mr. Bimstine lies about the causes he serves. I doubt that
he's told your husband he raises money for Israel.'
'You had better come back later and talk to Dave about this.'
'You're misunderstanding me. I didn't come here to criticize
Mr. Bimstine. I just wanted to show you how a hoax can be created.' His
thumb peeled back several stiff pages of the scrapbook to one that
contained two clipped-out newspaper photographs of men in striped
prison uniforms and caps, staring out at the camera from behind barbed
wire. Their faces were gaunt and unshaved, their eyes luminous with
hunger and fear. 'These are supposed to be Jews in a German
extermination camp in nineteen forty-four. But look, Mrs. Robicheaux.'
He flipped to the next page. 'Here are the same photographs as they
appeared in a Polish newspaper in nineteen thirty-one. These were
Polish convicts, not German political prisoners. This is all part of a
hoax that was perpetrated by British Intelligence… I'm sorry.
Have I upset you about something?'
'I mistook you for someone else,' she said rising to
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