Read Online DR09 - Cadillac Jukebox by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online
Authors: James Lee Burke
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apart between the tree trunks, Batist and I were
still bailing out the rental boats with coffee cans. Then we heard a car on the
road, and when we looked up we saw a purple Lincoln Continental, with Sabelle
Crown in the passenger's seat, stop and back up by our concrete boat ramp.
It wasn't hard to
figure out which American industry the driver served. He seemed to consciously
dress and look the part—elk hide halftop boots, pleated khakis, a baggy cotton
shirt that was probably tailored on Rodeo Drive, tinted rimless glasses, his
brown hair tied in a pony tail.
As he walked down the
ramp toward me, the wind-burned face, the cleft chin, the Roman profile, become
more familiar, like images rising from the pages of People or Newsweek magazine or any number of television programs that featured film
celebrities.
His forearms and
wrists were thick and corded with veins, the handshake disarmingly gentle.
"My name's
Lonnie Felton, Mr. Robicheaux," he said.
"You're a movie
director."
"That's
right."
"How you do,
sir?"
"I wonder if we
could go inside and talk a few minutes."
"I'm afraid I
have another job to go to when I finish this one."
Sabelle stood by the fender of the Lincoln, brushing her hair,
putting on makeup from her purse.
"Some people are
giving Aaron Crown a rough time up at the pen," he said.
"It's a bad
place. It was designed as one."
"You know what
the BGLA is?"
"The Black
Guerrilla Liberation Army?"
"Crown's an
innocent man. I think Ely Dixon was assassinated by a couple of Mississippi
Klansmen. Maybe one of them was a Mississippi highway patrolman."
"You ought to
tell this to the FBI."
"I got this from
the FBI. I have testimony from two ex-field-agents."
"It seems the
big word in this kind of instance is always 'ex,' Mr. Felton," I said.
He coughed out a
laugh. "You're a hard-nose sonofabitch, aren't you?" he said.
I stood erect in the
boat where I'd been bailing, poured the water out of the can into the bayou,
idly flicked the last drops onto the boat's bow.
"I don't
particularly care what you think of me, sir, but I'd appreciate your not using
profanity around my home," I said.
He looked off into
the distance, suppressing a smile, watching a blue heron lift from an inlet and
disappear into the fog.
"We had a writer
murdered in the Quarter," he said. "The guy was a little weird, but
he didn't deserve to get killed. That's not an unreasonable position for me to
take, is it?"
"I'll be at the
sheriff's department by eight. If you want to give us some information, you're
welcome to come in."
"Sabelle told me
you were an intelligent man. Who do you think broke the big stories of our
time? My Lai, Watergate, CIA dope smuggling, Reagan's gun deals
in Nicaragua? It was always the media, not the government, not the cops. Why
not lose the 'plain folks' attitude?"
I stepped out of the
boat into the shallows and felt the coldness through my rubber boots. I set the
bailing can down on the ramp, wrapped the bow chain in my palm and snugged the
boat's keel against the waving moss at the base of the concrete pad, and
cleared an obstruction from my throat.
He slipped his
glasses off his face, dropped them loosely in the pocket of his baggy shirt,
smiling all the while.
"Thanks for
coming by," I said.
I walked up the ramp,
then climbed the set of side stairs onto the dock. I saw him walk toward his
car and shake his head at Sabelle.
A moment later she
came quickly down the dock toward me. She wore old jeans, a flannel shirt, pink
tennis shoes, and walked splayfooted like a teenage girl.
"I look like
hell. He came by my place at five this morning," she said.
"You look
still bailing out the rental boats with coffee cans. Then we heard a car on the
road, and when we looked up we saw a purple Lincoln Continental, with Sabelle
Crown in the passenger's seat, stop and back up by our concrete boat ramp.
It wasn't hard to
figure out which American industry the driver served. He seemed to consciously
dress and look the part—elk hide halftop boots, pleated khakis, a baggy cotton
shirt that was probably tailored on Rodeo Drive, tinted rimless glasses, his
brown hair tied in a pony tail.
As he walked down the
ramp toward me, the wind-burned face, the cleft chin, the Roman profile, become
more familiar, like images rising from the pages of People or Newsweek magazine or any number of television programs that featured film
celebrities.
His forearms and
wrists were thick and corded with veins, the handshake disarmingly gentle.
"My name's
Lonnie Felton, Mr. Robicheaux," he said.
"You're a movie
director."
"That's
right."
"How you do,
sir?"
"I wonder if we
could go inside and talk a few minutes."
"I'm afraid I
have another job to go to when I finish this one."
Sabelle stood by the fender of the Lincoln, brushing her hair,
putting on makeup from her purse.
"Some people are
giving Aaron Crown a rough time up at the pen," he said.
"It's a bad
place. It was designed as one."
"You know what
the BGLA is?"
"The Black
Guerrilla Liberation Army?"
"Crown's an
innocent man. I think Ely Dixon was assassinated by a couple of Mississippi
Klansmen. Maybe one of them was a Mississippi highway patrolman."
"You ought to
tell this to the FBI."
"I got this from
the FBI. I have testimony from two ex-field-agents."
"It seems the
big word in this kind of instance is always 'ex,' Mr. Felton," I said.
He coughed out a
laugh. "You're a hard-nose sonofabitch, aren't you?" he said.
I stood erect in the
boat where I'd been bailing, poured the water out of the can into the bayou,
idly flicked the last drops onto the boat's bow.
"I don't
particularly care what you think of me, sir, but I'd appreciate your not using
profanity around my home," I said.
He looked off into
the distance, suppressing a smile, watching a blue heron lift from an inlet and
disappear into the fog.
"We had a writer
murdered in the Quarter," he said. "The guy was a little weird, but
he didn't deserve to get killed. That's not an unreasonable position for me to
take, is it?"
"I'll be at the
sheriff's department by eight. If you want to give us some information, you're
welcome to come in."
"Sabelle told me
you were an intelligent man. Who do you think broke the big stories of our
time? My Lai, Watergate, CIA dope smuggling, Reagan's gun deals
in Nicaragua? It was always the media, not the government, not the cops. Why
not lose the 'plain folks' attitude?"
I stepped out of the
boat into the shallows and felt the coldness through my rubber boots. I set the
bailing can down on the ramp, wrapped the bow chain in my palm and snugged the
boat's keel against the waving moss at the base of the concrete pad, and
cleared an obstruction from my throat.
He slipped his
glasses off his face, dropped them loosely in the pocket of his baggy shirt,
smiling all the while.
"Thanks for
coming by," I said.
I walked up the ramp,
then climbed the set of side stairs onto the dock. I saw him walk toward his
car and shake his head at Sabelle.
A moment later she
came quickly down the dock toward me. She wore old jeans, a flannel shirt, pink
tennis shoes, and walked splayfooted like a teenage girl.
"I look like
hell. He came by my place at five this morning," she said.
"You look
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