DR09 - Cadillac Jukebox by James Lee Burke Page B

a
five-minute mile this morning. How about that?" he said, a smile breaking
on his mouth.
          "You better ease
up, partner," I said.
          "I just need to
lie down. One hour's sleep and I'm fine."
          I looked at Karyn's
face. It was composed now, the agenda, whatever it was, temporarily back in
place.
          We walked Buford down
to a suite on the top floor and put him in bed and closed the door behind us.
          "He's talking to
a state police convention tonight," Karyn said, as though offering an
explanation for the last few minutes. Through the full-glass windows in the
living room you could see the capitol building, the parks and boulevards and
trees in the center of the city, the wide sweep of the Mississippi River, the
wetlands to the west, all the lovely urban and rural ambiance that came with
political power in Louisiana.
          "Is Buford on
uppers?" I asked.
           "No. It's . . . He has a prescription.
He gets overwrought sometimes."
          "You'd better
get him some help, Karyn."
          I walked through the
foyer to the door.
          "You're
going?" she said.
          She stood inches from
me, her face turned up into mine. The exertion of getting Buford into the room
had caused her to perspire, and her platinum hair and tanned skin took on a
dull sheen in the overhead light. I could smell her perfume in the enclosure,
the heat from her body. She leaned her forehead into my chest and placed her
hands lightly on my arms.
          "Dave, it wasn't
just the alcohol, was it? You liked me, didn't you?"
          She tapped my hips
with her small fists, twisted her forehead back and forth on my chest as though
an unspoken conclusion about her life was trying to break from her throat.
          I put one hand on her
arm, then felt behind me for the elongated door handle. It was locked in place,
rigid across the sweating cup of my palm.
     
     
     
     
     
CHAPTER   9
     
     
    A day later Clete Purcel's
chartreuse Cadillac convertible, the top down, pulled up in front of the
sheriff's department with Mingo Bloomberg in the passenger's seat. Clete and
Mingo came up the walk, through the waiting room, and into my office. Mingo
stood in front of my desk in white slacks and a lemon yellow shirt with French
cuffs. He rotated his neck, as though his collar were too tight, then put a
breath mint in his mouth.
          "My lawyer's
getting me early arraignment and recognizance. I'm here as a friend of the
court, so you got questions, let's do it now, okay?" he said. He snapped
the mint in his molars.
          "Mingo, I don't
think that's the way to start out the day here," Clete said.
          "What's going
on, Clete?" I said.
          Clete stepped out
into the hall and waited for me. I closed the door behind me.
          "Short Boy Jerry
gave me two hundred bucks to deliver the freight. Don't let Mingo take you over
the hurdles. Jerry Joe and NOPD both got their foot on his chain," he
said.
          I opened the door and
went back in.
          "How you feel,
Mingo?" I said.
          "My car was
boosted. I didn't drown a black girl. So I feel okay."
          "You a stand-up
guy?" I said.
          "What's that
mean?"
          "Jerry Ace is
giving us an anchovy so we don't come back for the main meal. You comfortable
with that, Mingo? You like being an hors d'oeuvre?" I said.
          "What I don't
like is being in New Orleans with a target painted on my back. I'm talking
about the cops in the First District who maybe stomped a guy's hair all over
the cement . . . I got to use the John. Purcel wouldn't stop the car."
          He looked out the
glass partition, then saw the face looking back at him.
          "Hey, keep her
away from me," he said.
          "You don't like
Detective Soileau?" I said.
          "She's a
muff-diver. I told her over the phone, she ought to get herself a rubber
schlong so she can whip it