Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux Series #9)

Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux Series #9)

3.4 5
by James Lee Burke

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No one was surprised when Aaron Crown was arrested for the decades-old murder of the most famous black civil rights leader in Louisiana. After all, his family were shiftless timber people who brought their ways into the Cajun wetlands—trailing rumors of ties to the Ku Klux Klan. Only Dave Robicheaux, to whom Crown proclaims his innocence, worries that Crown


No one was surprised when Aaron Crown was arrested for the decades-old murder of the most famous black civil rights leader in Louisiana. After all, his family were shiftless timber people who brought their ways into the Cajun wetlands—trailing rumors of ties to the Ku Klux Klan. Only Dave Robicheaux, to whom Crown proclaims his innocence, worries that Crown had been made a scapegoat for the collective guilt of a generation.

But when Buford LaRose, scion of an old Southern family and author of a book that sent Crown to prison, is elected governor, strange things start to happen. Dave is offered a job as head of the state police; a documentary filmmaker seeking to prove Crown's innocence is killed; and the governor's wife—a former flame—once again turns her seductive powers on Dave. It's clear that Dave must find out the dark truth about Aaron Crown, a truth that too many people want to remain hidden.

Editorial Reviews

People Magazine
"Cadillac Jukebox is pure Burke--equal parts hardboiled action, lush descriptions of the natural world, and dialogue that leaps from the page."
"If you haven't read Burke, get going."
From the Publisher
"Cadillac Jukebox is pure Burke—equal parts hardboiled action, lush descriptions of the natural world, and dialogue that leaps from the page."—People Magazine"

Terrific reading. Few writers in America can evoke a region as well as Burke."—Philadelphia Inquirer"

If you haven't read Burke, get going."—Playboy

Elizabeth Pincus

A prince of the non sequitur, crime novelist James Lee Burke weaves fragments of dialogue into a poetry of machismo, as if real standup guys can't be bothered with the mundane etiquette of conversation. The effect is one of lucid beauty, a staccato shorthand owing equal debt to Hemingway and Hammett. In Cadillac Jukebox, Burke's quixotic detective Dave Robicheaux is hellbent on retribution, so caution is more expendable than usual. When his superior in the New Iberia Sheriff's Office orders him to Mexico to look up "a priest in some shithole down in the interior," Robicheaux asks, "We have money for this?" The reply: "Bring me a sombrero."

Offsetting such terse interaction is Burke's luxurious prose. Sending Robicheaux on a slow drive through that dead nowhere zone south of the border, Burke writes, "The sun rose higher in an empty cobalt sky. We crossed a flat plain with sloughs and reeds by the roadside and stone mountains razored against the horizon and Indian families who seemed to have walked enormous distances from no visible site in order to beg by the road. . . We passed an abandoned iron works dotted with broken windows, and went through villages where the streets were no more than crushed rock and the doors to all the houses were painted either green or blue."

Like his contemporary Walter Mosley, Burke is invigorating the crime fiction series at a time when many of the genre's heavy hitters -- Grafton, Parker -- have grown lazy and stale. Cadillac Jukebox is Burke's ninth outing with Robicheaux, a survivor of Vietnam, the bottle and more than a few personal tragedies. Here Robicheaux stumbles into a bloody mess involving mobbed-up denizens of the Louisiana bayou, the 30-year-old murder of a cherished civil rights leader, a long-ago betrayal of teenage love and an oily southern liberal with his eye on the governor's office. If Robicheaux's honor is sketched a tad too preciously, at least his interior life is of equal weight to the chaos raining around him. Robicheaux is a moral force as rugged as they come, even or especially when the proverbial quest for justice falls short of its goal. -- Salon

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
PW gave a starred review to this story of revenge, ambition and blackmail, the ninth Dave Robicheaux mystery. (Aug.)
Library Journal
Is Dave Robicheaux mellowing with old age? Burke's latest addition to his popular series featuring the bayou detective (e.g., Burning Angel, Hyperion, 1995) is a formulaic romp with all the elements fans have come to expect: A convoluted plot fueled by violent but excruciatingly polite characters, racial sins of the past that bedevil the residents of the New South, wonderful dialog with occasional indecipherable street slang, and numerous descriptions of mouth-watering Cajun food. Robicheaux, who here suspects that the alleged killer of a revered Civil Rights figure is innocent, is opposed on all fronts, most aggressively by a liberal candidate for governer of Louisiana and the candidate's sexy but dangerous wife. Robicheaux is strangely low-key, however, and readers who expect the traditional violent outburst wherein Robicheaux kicks the stuffing out of some deserving creep will be puzzled by his seemingly minor role in the action. An anticlimactic ending further diminishes the novel's appeal. Still, Burke has built a huge fan base and larger public libraries should probably stock a copy. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 4/1/95.]Mark Annichiarico, "Library Journal"
Bill Ott
"I think I've learned not to grieve on the world's ways, at least not when spring is at hand." That is the last sentence a regular reader of James Lee Burke's masterful Dave Robicheaux novels would expect to hear from the mouth of the series' Cajun police detective hero. After all, the central theme in all the novels in the series up to this point has been Robicheaux's obstinate, heroic, yet arrogant insistence on not only grieving but violently rejecting the world's ways. The tension in these novels has always come from Robicheaux's determined adherence, in the face of overwhelming external pressure, to the simple pleasures of the Cajun way of life--food, family, close contact with the elemental rhythms of the southern Louisiana bayou. In fact, that tension was so inevitable, so finally predictable, that the previous installment or two, while as technically accomplished as any of their predecessors, had begun to seem somehow diminished. That all changes here, as Robicheaux, faced again with a crime that has far-reaching personal and symbolic meaning, must accept the erosion of his world and thereby learn to cherish the transitory moments that memory and human connection continue to offer him It all starts with the escape from prison of a white-trash dirt farmer convicted of killing a black civil-rights activist. The ensuing reverberations affect everything from Louisiana gubernatorial politics to Robicheaux's marriage, but at the heart of the conflict is the detective's battle with his own personal demons: Will this case offer yet another opportunity to lose control, to jeopardize loved ones in an effort to take a stand against onrushing modernity? The answer is yes and no, but in that refreshing ambiguity--hopeful yet melancholic--lies a remarkable rebirth for a series that, unlike so many others, has managed to absorb commercial success without sacrificing quality.
#1 New York Times bestselling author Michael Connelly
“James Lee Burke is the heavy weight champ, a great American novelist whose work, taken individually or as a whole, is unsurpassed.”
The New York Times Book Review
“James Lee Burke is the reigning champ of nostalgia noir.”
John Connolly
"Burke is a genius, an exemplar of all that is great in American writing."
Tampa Bay Times
“You can call Burke a crime fiction writer, but I call him a national treasure . . . a master of propulsive plots, rich prose and achingly real characters.”
Poets & Writers - Benjamin Percy
“Burke seems to get better and better with every book. During the last few years in particular, he has opened up a larger canvas to paint brilliant allegorical plots – involving good and evil, money and power, Christianity and morality – and in some ways he has lifted the work above the level of crime fiction in a way that is more obvious to readers. . . . [Wayfaring Stranger] is one of the most hopeful and ambitious books he’s ever written, a sprawling historical epic full of courage and loyalty and optimism and good-heartedness that reads like an ode to the American Dream.”
“Burke's fans will recognize his lyrical strengths regarding the themes of social justice and class struggle, violence set to a stunning backdrop of natural beauty and destruction, and a Gulf Coast region that includes historically accurate details to delight Texas and Louisiana natives. . . . Perhaps more than any of Burke's previous work, Wayfaring Stranger is a tender love story, proving yet again his versatility and skill in creating gorgeous, luscious, painful stories of the American experience. Beautifully composed and tragic, Wayfaring Stranger is a sweeping historical epic of war and the American dream.”
Entertainment Weekly
“Burke’s evocative prose remains a thing of reliably fierce wonder.”
Providence Journal
“[Burke] has produced a magnificent and 'unput-downable' tome that encompasses the whole of his career as a great writer.”
Bill O'Reilly
"My favorite fiction author."
Philadelphia Inquirer
“For five decades, Burke has created memorable novels that weave exquisite language, unforgettable characters, and social commentary into written tapestries that mirror the contemporary scene. His work transcends genre classification.”

Product Details

Hachette Books
Publication date:
Dave Robicheaux Series, #9
Edition description:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
4.25(w) x 6.75(h) x 1.00(d)

Read an Excerpt

Cadillac Jukebox

  • Aaron Crown should not have come back into our lives. After all, he had never really been one of us, anyway, had he? His family, shiftless timber people, had come from north Louisiana, and when they arrived in Iberia Parish, they brought their ways with them, occasionally stealing livestock along river bottoms, poaching deer, perhaps, some said, practicing incest.

    I first saw Aaron Crown thirty-five years ago when, for a brief time, he tried to sell strawberries and rattlesnake watermelons out on the highway, out of the same truck he hauled cow manure in.

    He seemed to walk sideways, like a crab, and wore bib overalls even in summertime and paid a dollar to have his head lathered and shaved in the barber shop every Saturday morning. His thick, hair-covered body gave off an odor like sour milk, and the barber would open the front and back doors and turn on the fans when Aaron was in the chair.

    If there was a violent portent in his behavior, no one ever saw it. The Negroes who worked for him looked upon him indifferently, as a white man who was neither good nor bad, whose moods and elliptical peckerwood speech and peculiar green eyes were governed by thoughts and explanations known only to himself. To entertain the Negroes who hung around the shoeshine stand in front of the old Frederick Hotel on Saturday mornings, he’d scratch matches alight on his clenched teeth, let a pool of paraffin burn to a waxy scorch in the center of his palm, flip a knife into the toe of his work boot.

    But no one who looked into Aaron Crown’s eyes ever quite forgot them. They flared with a wary light for no reason, looked back at you with a reptilian, lidless hunger that made you feel a sense of sexual ill ease, regardless of your gender.

    Some said he’d once been a member of the Ku Klux Klan, expelled from it for fighting inside a Baptist church, swinging a wood bench into the faces of his adversaries.

    But that was the stuff of poor-white piney woods folklore, as remote from our French-Catholic community as tales of lynchings and church bombings in Mississippi.

    How could we know that underneath a live oak tree hung with moss and spiderwebs of blue moonlight, Aaron Crown would sight down the barrel of a sporterized Mauser rifle, his body splayed out comfortably like an infantry marksman’s, the leather sling wrapped tightly around his left forearm, his loins tingling against the earth, and drill a solitary round through a plate glass window into the head of the most famous NAACP leader in Louisiana?

    It took twenty-eight years to nail him, to assemble a jury that belonged sufficiently to a younger generation that had no need to defend men like Aaron Crown.

    Everyone had always been sure of his guilt. He had never denied it, had he? Besides, he had never been one of us.

    *  *  *

    It was early fall, an election year, and each morning after the sun rose out of the swamp and burned the fog away from the flooded cypress trees across the bayou from my bait shop and boat-rental business, the sky would harden to such a deep, heart-drenching blue that you felt you could reach up and fill your hand with it like bolls of stained cotton. The air was dry and cool, too, and the dust along the dirt road by the bayou seemed to rise into gold columns of smoke and light through the canopy of oaks overhead. So when I glanced up from sanding the planks on my dock on a Saturday morning and saw Buford LaRose and his wife, Karyn, jogging through the long tunnel of trees toward me, they seemed like part of a photograph in a health magazine, part of an idealized moment caught by a creative photographer in a depiction of what is called the New South, rather than an oddity far removed from the refurbished plantation home in which they lived twenty-five miles away.

    I convinced myself they had not come to see me, that forcing them to stop their run out of reasons of politeness would be ungenerous on my part, and I set down my sanding machine and walked toward the bait shop.

    “Hello!” I heard Buford call.

    Your past comes back in different ways. In this case, it was in the form of Karyn LaRose, her platinum hair sweat-soaked and piled on her head, her running shorts and purple-and-gold Mike the Tiger T-shirt glued to her body like wet Kleenex.

    “How y’all doin’?” I replied, my smile as stiff as ceramic.

    “Aaron Crown called you yet?” Buford asked, resting one hand on the dock railing, pulling one ankle up toward his muscular thigh with the other.

    “How’d you know?” I said.

    “He’s looking for soft-hearted guys to listen to his story.” Buford grinned, then winked with all the confidence of the eighty-yard passing quarterback he’d been at L.S.U. twenty years earlier. He was still lean-stomached and narrow-waisted, his chest flat like a prizefighter’s, his smooth, wide shoulders olive with tan, his curly brown hair bleached on the tips by the sun. He pulled his other ankle up behind him, squinting at me through the sweat in his eyebrows.

    “Aaron’s decided he’s an innocent man,” he said. “He’s got a movie company listening to him. Starting to see the big picture?”

    “He gets a dumb cop to plead his cause?” I said.

    “I said ‘soft-hearted,’ ” he said, his face beaming now.

    “Why don’t you come see us more often, Dave?” Karyn asked.

    “That sounds good,” I said, nodding, my eyes wandering out over the water.

    She raised her chin, wiped the sweat off the back of her neck, looked at the sun with her eyelids closed and pursed her lips and breathed through them as though the air were cold. Then she opened her eyes again and smiled good-naturedly, leaning with both arms on the rail and stretching her legs one at a time.

    “Y’all want to come in for something to drink?” I asked.

    “Don’t let this guy jerk you around, Dave,” Buford said.

    “Why should I?”

    “Why should he call you in the first place?”

    “Who told you this?” I asked.

    “His lawyer.”

    “Sounds like shaky legal ethics to me,” I said.

    “Give me a break, Dave,” he replied. “If Aaron Crown ever gets out of Angola, the first person he’s going to kill is his lawyer. That’s after he shoots the judge. How do we know all this? Aaron called up the judge, collect, mind you, and told him so.”

    They said good-bye and resumed their jog, running side by side past the sprinklers spinning among the tree trunks in my front yard. I watched them grow smaller in the distance, all the while feeling that somehow something inappropriate, if not unseemly, had just occurred.

    I got in my pickup truck and caught up with them a quarter mile down the road. They never broke stride.

    “This bothers me, Buford,” I said out the window. “You wrote a book about Aaron Crown. It might make you our next governor. Now you want to control access to the guy?”

    “Bothers you, huh?” he said, his air-cushioned running shoes thudding rhythmically in the dirt.

    “It’s not an unreasonable attitude,” I said.

    Karyn leaned her face past him and grinned at me. Her mouth was bright red, her brown eyes happy and charged with energy from her run.

    “You’ll be bothered a lot worse if you help these right-wing cretins take over Louisiana in November. See you around, buddy,” he said, then gave me the thumbs-up sign just before he and his wife poured it on and cut across, a shady grove of pecan trees.

    *  *  *

    She called me that evening, not at the house but at the bait shop. Through the screen I could see the lighted gallery and windows in my house, across the dirt road, up the slope through the darkening trees.

    “Are you upset with Buford?” she said.


    “He just doesn’t want to see you used, that’s all.”

    “I appreciate his concern.”

    “Should I have not been there?”

    “I’m happy y’all came by.”

    “Neither of us was married at the time, Dave. Why does seeing me make you uncomfortable?”

    “This isn’t turning into a good conversation,” I said.

    “I’m not big on guilt. It’s too bad you are,” she replied, and quietly hung up.

    The price of a velvet black sky bursting with stars and too much champagne, a grassy levee blown with buttercups and a warm breeze off the water, I thought. Celibacy was not an easy virtue to take into the nocturnal hours.

    But guilt over an impulsive erotic moment wasn’t the problem. Karyn LaRose was a woman you kept out of your thoughts if you were a married man.

    *  *  *

    Aaron Crown was dressed in wash-faded denims that were too tight for him when he was escorted in leg and waist chains from the lockdown unit into the interview room.

    He had to take mincing steps, and because both wrists were cuffed to the chain just below his rib cage he had the bent appearance of an apelike creature trussed with baling wire.

    “I don’t want to talk to Aaron like this. How about it, Cap?” I said to the gunbull, who had been shepherding Angola convicts under a double-barrel twelve gauge for fifty-five years.

    The gunbull’s eyes were narrow and valuative, like a man constantly measuring the potential of his adversaries, the corners webbed with wrinkles, his skin wizened and dark as a mulatto’s, as if it had been smoked in a fire. He removed his briar pipe from his belt, stuck it in his mouth, clicking it dryly against his molars. He never spoke while he unlocked the net of chains from Aaron Crown’s body and let them collapse around his ankles like a useless garment. Instead, he simply pointed one rigid callus-sheathed index finger into Aaron’s face, then unlocked the side door to a razor-wire enclosed dirt yard with a solitary weeping willow that had gone yellow with the season.

    I sat on a weight lifter’s bench while Aaron Crown squatted on his haunches against the fence and rolled a cigarette out of a small leather pouch that contained pipe tobacco. His fingernails were the thickness and mottled color of tortoiseshell. Gray hair grew out of his ears and nose; his shoulders and upper chest were braided with knots of veins and muscles. When he popped a lucifer match on his thumbnail and cupped it in the wind, he inhaled the sulfur and glue and smoke all in one breath.

    “I ain’t did it,” he said.

    “You pleaded nolo contendere, partner.”

    “The shithog got appointed my case done that. He said it was worked out.” He drew in on his hand-rolled cigarette, tapped the ashes off into the wind.

    When I didn’t reply, he said, “They give me forty years. I was sixty-eight yestiday.”

    “You should have pleaded out with the feds. You’d have gotten an easier bounce under a civil rights conviction,” I said.

    “You go federal, you got to cell with colored men.” His eyes lifted into mine. “They’ll cut a man in his sleep. I seen it happen.”

    In the distance I could see the levee along the Mississippi River and trees that were puffing with wind against a vermilion sky.

    “Why you’d choose me to call?” I asked.

    “You was the one gone after my little girl when she got lost in Henderson Swamp.”

    “I see . . . I don’t know what I can do, Aaron. That was your rifle they found at the murder scene, wasn’t it? It had only one set of prints on it, too—yours.”

    “It was stole, and it didn’t have no set of prints on it. There was one thumbprint on the stock. Why would a white man kill a nigger in the middle of the night and leave his own gun for other people to find? Why would he wipe off the trigger and not the stock?”

    “You thought you’d never be convicted in the state of Louisiana.”

    He sucked on a tooth, ground out the ash of his cigarette on the tip of his work boot, field-stripped the paper and let it all blow away in the wind.

    “I ain’t did it,” he said.

    “I can’t help you.”

    He raised himself to his feet, his knees popping, and walked toward the lockdown unit, the silver hair on his arms glowing like a monkey’s against the sunset.

  • Meet the Author

    James Lee Burke was born in Houston, Texas, in 1936 and grew up on the Texas-Louisiana gulf coast. He attended Southwestern Louisiana Institute and later received a B. A. Degree in English and an M. A. from the University of Missouri in 1958 and 1960 respectively. Over the years he worked as a landman for Sinclair Oil Company, pipeliner, land surveyor, newspaper reporter, college English professor, social worker on Skid Row in Los Angeles, clerk for the Louisiana Employment Service, and instructor in the U. S. Job Corps.

    He and his wife Pearl met in graduate school and have been married 48 years, they have four children: Jim Jr., an assistant U.S. Attorney; Andree, a school psychologist; Pamala, a T. V. ad producer; and Alafair, a law professor and novelist who has 4 novels out with Henry Holt publishing.

    Burke's work has been awarded an Edgar twice for Best Crime Novel of the Year. He has also been a recipient of a Breadloaf and Guggenheim Fellowship and an NEA grant. Two of his novels, Heaven's Prisoners and Two For Texas, have been made into motion pictures. His short stories have been published in The Atlantic Monthly, New Stories from the South, Best American Short Stories, Antioch Review, Southern Review, and The Kenyon Review. His novel The Lost Get-Back Boogie was rejected 111 times over a period of nine years, and upon publication by Louisiana State University press was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.

    Today he and his wife live in Missoula, Montana, and New Iberia, Louisiana.

    Brief Biography

    New Iberia, Louisiana and Missoula, Montana
    Date of Birth:
    December 5, 1936
    Place of Birth:
    Houston, Texas
    B.A., University of Missouri, 1959; M.A., University of Missouri, 1960

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    Cadillac Jukebox (Dave Robicheaux Series #9) 3.4 out of 5 based on 1 ratings. 5 reviews.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    First published in 1996.Shame on those presenting this as new
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    Why if came out in 2015 is there a review from 2009 ??..
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    If you've never read the Dave Robicheaux detective series, you need to start. I started with the first in the series and ready for number 10. Burke has developed such a wonderfully flawed character in Robicheaux - he's human and we can all see ourselves at times through him. Burke's writing style is prose - you read a description of what's taking place, and you're there. And Dave's friend Clete is a "piece of work", but his character grows on you with each book. Read Burke....he's wonderful.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago