“Yeah? That’s a good one. Make a good story, huh?”

Barbara stood up and brushed off the seat of her white shorts. “God, it’s hot as a huncher down here,” she said, as they approached. Her blouse was unbuttoned, its front tied, leaving her midriff bare. The knot was loose enough to leave a gap. Her bra was black. Larry saw the pale sides of her breasts through its lace. “No breeze at all,” she added.

“What’s the big discovery?” Jean asked, handing a beer to her.

“It’s no big deal, if you ask me.” She tipped the bottle up. Larry saw a bead of sweat drop from her jaw, roll off her collarbone, and slide down her chest until it melted into the edge of her bra.

“Over here,” Pete said. “Come on.”

He led the way to a cut eroded into the wall of the embankment. There, lying in shadows and partly hidden by tangles of brush, was the demolished carcass of a jukebox. “Must’ve come from that cafe,” he said, nudging its side with his shoe.

“How’d it get all the way out here?” Jean asked.

“Who knows?”

“The thing’s no good, anyway,” Barbara said.

“It’s seen better days,” Larry said, feeling a touch of nostalgia as he pictured it standing fresh and bright near the lunch counter in Holman’s. He guessed that someone had dragged it out and used it for target practice. It would’ve made a tempting target, all decorated with bright chrome and plastic — if the shooter happened to be an asshole who took pleasure from destroying things of such beauty. After the box was blasted to smithereens, it had probably been shoved off the edge of the slope for the fun of watching it tumble and crash.

Larry crouched beside its shattered plastic top. The rows of record slots were empty. The tone arm dangled from its mount by a couple of wires.

“Probably worth a few of grand,” Pete said.

“Forget it,” Barbara told him. “He thinks we should take it with us.”