Read DR09 - Cadillac Jukebox for Free Online Page B

railing. The flood lamps mounted on the roof
of the bait shop burned away the shadows from around the man in the boat. His
hair was long, like a nineteenth-century Indian's, his cheeks unshaved, the
skin dark and grained as though it had been rubbed with black pepper. His arms were
wrapped with scarlet tattoos, but like none I had ever seen before. Unlike
jailhouse art, the ink ran in strings down the arms, webbed in bright fantails,
as though all of his veins had been superimposed on the skin's surface.
          But it was the eyes
that caught and impaled you. They were hunter's eyes, chemical green, rimmed
with a quivering energy, as though he heard the sounds of hidden adversaries in
the wind.
          "What's your
business here, podna?" I asked.
          He seemed to think on
it. One hand opened and closed on an oar.
          "I ain't eat
today," he said. The accent was vaguely Spanish, the tone flat,
disconnected from the primitive set of the jaw.
          Batist joined me at
the rail with a cup of coffee in his hand.
          "Come
inside," I said.
          Batist's eyes fixed
on mine.
          The man didn't start
his engine. Instead, he used one oar to row across the bayou to the concrete
ramp. He stepped into the water, ankle-deep, lifted the bow with one hand and
pulled the boat up until it was snug on the ramp. Then he reached behind him
and lifted out a stiff bedroll that was tied tightly with leather thongs.
          His work boots were
loud on the dock as he walked toward us, his Levi's high on his hips, notched
under his rib cage with a wide leather belt and brass buckle.
          "You oughtn't to
ax him in, Dave. This is our place," Batist said.
          "It's all
right."
          "No, it surely
ain't."
          The man let his eyes
slide over our faces as he entered the bait shop. I followed him inside and for
the first time smelled his odor, like charcoal and kerosene, unwashed hair, mud
gone sour with stagnant water. He waited expectantly at the counter, his
bedroll tucked under his arm. His back was as straight as a sword.
          I fixed him two chili
dogs on a paper plate and set them in front of him with a glass of
water. He sat on the stool and ate with a spoon, gripping the handle with his
fist, mopping the beans and sauce and ground meat with a slice of bread. Batist
came inside and began loading the beer cooler behind the counter.
          "Where you
from?" I said.
          "El Paso."
          "Where'd you get
the boat?"
          He thought about it.
"I found it two weeks back. It was sunk. I cleaned it up pretty
good." He stopped eating and watched me.
          "It's a nice
boat," I said.
          His face twitched and
his eyes were empty again, the jawbones
    chewing.
          "You got a rest
room?" he asked.
          "It's in the
back, behind those empty pop cases."
          "How much your
razor blades?" he said to Batist.
           "This ain't no drug sto'. What you
after, man?" Batist said.
          The man wiped his
mouth with the flats of his fingers. The lines around his eyes were stretched
flat.
          Batist leaned on his
arms, his biceps flexing like rolls of metal washers.
           "Don't be giving me no truck," he
said.
          I eased along the
counter until the man's eyes left Batist and fixed on me.
          "I'm a police
officer. Do you need directions to get somewhere?" I said.
          "I got a camp
out there. That's where I come from. I can find it even in the dark," he said.
          With one hand he
clenched his bedroll, which seemed to have tent sticks inside it, and walked
past the lunch meat coolers to the small rest room in back.
          "Dave, let me ax
you somet'ing. You got to bring a 'gator in your hog lot to learn 'gators eat
pigs?" Batist said.
          Ten minutes passed. I
could hear the man splashing water behind the rest room door. Batist had gone
back out on the