“Here’s the Beach Boys, ‘Surfin’ U.S.A.‘ ”

“Now we’re talking,” Pete said.

“Dennis Wilson, too,” Barbara said. “So many of those people are dead. Mama Cass, Elvis, Lennon. Jesus, this is getting depressing.”

“Patsy Cline’s dead, too,” Jean told her.

“And Johnny Horton, I think,” Larry said.

“What do you guys expect?” Pete said. “This stuff’s all at least twenty, thirty years old.”

Barbara took a few steps backward, stumbled when her sneaker came down on a rock, but managed to stay up. Sweaty face grimacing, she said, “Why don’t we get out of this hellhole and look around town? That’s what we came here for, isn’t it?”

“Might as well.” Jean pushed against Larry’s shoulder and rose from her squat.

“Let’s see if we can lift this thing,” Pete muttered.

“Oh no you don’t!” Barbara snapped. “No way! You’re not carting that piece of trash home with us. Uh-uh.”

“Well, shit.”

“If you want an old jukebox so bad, go out and buy one, for godsake. Jesus, it’s probably got scorpions in it.”

“I think you’d better forget it,” Larry said, rising to his feet. “The thing’s beyond saving.”

“Yeah, I guess. Shit.” He gave his wife a sour look. “Thanks a heap, Barbara dear.”

She ignored his remark and started climbing the slope. Below her rucked-up blouse her back looked tawny and slick. The rear of her shorts was smudged with yellow dust from the rock where she’d sat. The fabric hugged her buttocks, and Larry could see the outline of her panties — a narrow band inches lower than the belt of her shorts, a skimpy triangle curving down from it. Jean, climbing behind her, was hunched over slightly. Her blouse was still untucked. It clung to her back, and the loose tail draped her rump.

Pete was watching, too.

“Couple of good-looking chicks,” he said.

“Not bad.”

“You ever get the feeling they run our fucking lives for us?”