Read Online DR09 - Cadillac Jukebox by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Lee Burke
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good,
Sabelle. You always do," I said.
"They've moved
Daddy into a cellhouse full of blacks."
"That doesn't
sound right. He can request isolation."
"He'll die
before he'll let anybody think he's scared. In the meantime they steal his cigarettes,
spit in his food, throw pig shit in his hair, and nobody does anything about
it." Her eyes began to film.
"I'll call this
gunbull I know."
"They're going
to kill him, Dave. I know it. It's a matter of time."
Out on the road, Lonnie
Felton waited behind the steering wheel of his Lincoln.
"Don't let this
guy Felton use you," I said.
"Use me?
Who else cares about us?" Even with makeup, her face looked stark, as
shiny as ceramic, in the lacy veil of sunlight through the cypress trees. She
turned and walked back up the dock, her pink underwear winking through a small
thread-worn hole in the rump of her jeans.
T he sheriff was turned sideways in his swivel chair, his bifocals
mounted on his nose, twisting strips of pink and white crepe paper into the shape of camellias. On his windowsill was a row of potted
plants, which he watered daily from a hand-painted teakettle. He looked like an
aging greengrocer more than a law officer, and in fact had run a dry cleaning
business before his election to office, but he had been humble enough to listen
to advice, and over the years we had all come to respect his judgment and
integrity.
Only one door in his
life had remained closed to us, his time with the First Marine Division at the
Chosin Reservoir during the Korean War, until last year, when he suffered a
heart attack and told me from a bed in Iberia General, his breath as stale as
withered flowers, of bugles echoing off frozen hills and wounds that looked
like roses frozen in snow.
I sat down across
from him. His desk blotter was covered with crepe paper camellias.
"I volunteered
to help decorate the stage for my granddaughter's school play. You any good at
this?" he said.
"No, not really.
A movie director, a fellow named Lonnie Felton, was out at my place with
Sabelle Crown this morning. They say some blacks are trying to re-create the
Garden of Gethsemane for Aaron Crown. I called Angola, but I didn't get any
help."
"Don't look for
any. We made him the stink on shit."
"I beg your
pardon?"
"A lot of us,
not everybody, but a lot of us, treated people of color pretty badly. Aaron
represents everything that's vile in the white race. So he's doing our
time."
"You think these
movie guys are right, he's innocent?"
"I didn't say
that. Look, human beings do bad things sometimes, particularly in groups. Then
we start to forget about it. But there's always one guy hanging around to
remind us of what we did or what we used to be. That's Aaron. He's the toilet
that won't flush . . . Did I say something funny?"
"No, sir."
"Good, because
what I've got on my mind isn't funny. Karyn LaRose and her attorney were in
here earlier this morning." He set his elbows on his desk blotter, flipped
an unfinished paper flower to the side. "Guess what she had to tell me
about your visit last night at her house?"
"I won't even
try to."
"They're not
calling it rape, if that makes you feel any better." He opened his desk
drawer and read silently from a clipboard. "The words are 'lascivious
intention,''attempted sexual battery,' and 'indecent liberties.' What do you
have to say?" His gaze moved away from my face, then came back and stayed
there.
"Nothing. It's a
lie."
"I wish the
court would just accept my word on the perps. I wish I didn't have to offer any
evidence. Boy, that'd be great."
I told him what had
happened, felt the heat climbing into my voice, wiped the film of perspiration
off my palms onto my slacks.
His eyes
Sabelle. You always do," I said.
"They've moved
Daddy into a cellhouse full of blacks."
"That doesn't
sound right. He can request isolation."
"He'll die
before he'll let anybody think he's scared. In the meantime they steal his cigarettes,
spit in his food, throw pig shit in his hair, and nobody does anything about
it." Her eyes began to film.
"I'll call this
gunbull I know."
"They're going
to kill him, Dave. I know it. It's a matter of time."
Out on the road, Lonnie
Felton waited behind the steering wheel of his Lincoln.
"Don't let this
guy Felton use you," I said.
"Use me?
Who else cares about us?" Even with makeup, her face looked stark, as
shiny as ceramic, in the lacy veil of sunlight through the cypress trees. She
turned and walked back up the dock, her pink underwear winking through a small
thread-worn hole in the rump of her jeans.
T he sheriff was turned sideways in his swivel chair, his bifocals
mounted on his nose, twisting strips of pink and white crepe paper into the shape of camellias. On his windowsill was a row of potted
plants, which he watered daily from a hand-painted teakettle. He looked like an
aging greengrocer more than a law officer, and in fact had run a dry cleaning
business before his election to office, but he had been humble enough to listen
to advice, and over the years we had all come to respect his judgment and
integrity.
Only one door in his
life had remained closed to us, his time with the First Marine Division at the
Chosin Reservoir during the Korean War, until last year, when he suffered a
heart attack and told me from a bed in Iberia General, his breath as stale as
withered flowers, of bugles echoing off frozen hills and wounds that looked
like roses frozen in snow.
I sat down across
from him. His desk blotter was covered with crepe paper camellias.
"I volunteered
to help decorate the stage for my granddaughter's school play. You any good at
this?" he said.
"No, not really.
A movie director, a fellow named Lonnie Felton, was out at my place with
Sabelle Crown this morning. They say some blacks are trying to re-create the
Garden of Gethsemane for Aaron Crown. I called Angola, but I didn't get any
help."
"Don't look for
any. We made him the stink on shit."
"I beg your
pardon?"
"A lot of us,
not everybody, but a lot of us, treated people of color pretty badly. Aaron
represents everything that's vile in the white race. So he's doing our
time."
"You think these
movie guys are right, he's innocent?"
"I didn't say
that. Look, human beings do bad things sometimes, particularly in groups. Then
we start to forget about it. But there's always one guy hanging around to
remind us of what we did or what we used to be. That's Aaron. He's the toilet
that won't flush . . . Did I say something funny?"
"No, sir."
"Good, because
what I've got on my mind isn't funny. Karyn LaRose and her attorney were in
here earlier this morning." He set his elbows on his desk blotter, flipped
an unfinished paper flower to the side. "Guess what she had to tell me
about your visit last night at her house?"
"I won't even
try to."
"They're not
calling it rape, if that makes you feel any better." He opened his desk
drawer and read silently from a clipboard. "The words are 'lascivious
intention,''attempted sexual battery,' and 'indecent liberties.' What do you
have to say?" His gaze moved away from my face, then came back and stayed
there.
"Nothing. It's a
lie."
"I wish the
court would just accept my word on the perps. I wish I didn't have to offer any
evidence. Boy, that'd be great."
I told him what had
happened, felt the heat climbing into my voice, wiped the film of perspiration
off my palms onto my slacks.
His eyes
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