La Brava (1983) (32 page)

"If you think you can afford it."

Jean smiled, or seemed to. Her head turned slowly as she picked up the other earring, still looking at him. "Tell me what's bothering you, Joe."

"How you can do this to Maurice. That bothers me more than anything else."

"What am I doing?"

"It's his money."

Her hands came away from her face and she straightened, looking at him directly. "Maury and I have known each other forever. You have to understand that first."

"Yeah?"

"He happens to love me."

LaBrava kept quiet.

"And knows I wouldn't hurt him for the world."

"How about for six hundred thousand?"

Jean got up from the vanity, moved to the bed where she picked up a white cotton shift, brought it carefully over her head, down past her hips. Standing erect, hands flat on her thighs, she said, "Do you think I need a bra?"

"You look fine."

"Not too flat? I've never had the nerve to go without one until lately."

"It couldn't have been lack of nerve."

"Modesty, then." She got her drink from the vanity, held his eyes as she came over. He didn't move. She turned to edge past him through the doorway, her body, her breast, brushing his arm, still looking at him and said, "You have to be very careful or people get the wrong idea, they think you're immodest."

"You haven't answered my question."

"So why ask?"

She took his glass and he followed her to the kitchen, wondering if he should put her flat on the floor, sit on her holding her arms, face to face, close. You give? And not let her up until she did.

She brought the ice tray out of the refrigerator saying, "I have a question. Did you tell McCormick to search my apartment?"

"What difference does it make?"

"My opinion of you, Joe. That's important to me."

"Look, one way or another, even if he had to get a federal warrant, McCormick was gonna search your place. I told him to ask you first."

"Why?"

"So you'd understand what you're into. You'd see these guys are serious, they're the pros and they've got you down as a suspect."

"Not anymore."

"Jean?... Listen to me."

She poured Scotch in their glasses before raising her eyes, mildly interested, patient.

"This isn't the movies," LaBrava said, "an hour and a half it's over." Using a quiet, confiding tone, one she might appreciate and believe. "This one doesn't end. Once they make it their case they'll take it all the way and sooner or later they bring in this guy, that guy, and your name comes up and they say, 'Oh, yeah, Jean Shaw, the movie star, what do you suppose she was thinking, dream up a scheme like that? Swindle six hundred grand from a nice old guy's supposed to be her friend.' And there's no way, I give you my word, it's not gonna happen."

In the silence she took time to sip her drink. She said, "What makes you think I did it?" with little more than mild curiosity in her tone.

"I know," LaBrava said, still quietly. "It doesn't matter how or whether I can prove it or not. I know. And if I know then they're gonna find out. What you have to do is get the money. Now, as soon as you can. Give it back to Maurice before you do anything else--and you know what I'm talking about. If it's not too late I'll help you every way I can, see if we can cover it up and hope no one asks too many questions."

She said, "Would you do that for me, Joe?" Got sad stars in her eyes and said, "What a guy."

LaBrava had to take a moment. He wasn't sure if the line was familiar but it was her kind of line and her delivery. He paused to remember where he was, to bring Jean Shaw back into perspective and detach himself from reality. She knew what she was doing. Performing, but she still knew what she was doing.

With that easy delivery, looking at her drink now, she said, "It sounds like a wonderful part. Innocent woman unjustly accused, a wall of evidence against her. I'd love to play it."

"You did," LaBrava said, "in Obituary."

She looked up at him abruptly.

"Don't you remember? I do. I can tell you the whole picture, beginning to end, and I saw it when I was twelve years old."

She said, "Obituary, yes, you're right," but sounded unsure, vague. "I wasn't only accused of something I didn't do, I was found guilty." Her tone picked up a little. "I had a wonderful courtroom scene. I lost my voice screaming--there must have been fifteen takes. But it was worth it."

He said, "Jean, where's Richard?"

She continued to look at him but seemed lost now. Her gleam had faded and he wondered if it might be gone forever, there was so little hope in her eyes.

She said, "Joe, were you really only twelve years old?"

He had to take another moment. She was serious now and he had to adjust. He said, "Jean, you're so good you could act your way out of a safe deposit box."

She seemed to smile. "Who was it said that?"

"I think it was James Garner doing Philip Marlowe. But it's true. You're even better now than you used to be, and you were my favorite as far back as I can remember."

She said, "Were you only twelve, Joe?"

"That's all. But I was horny as a grown man, if that'll make you feel better."

Maurice opened the door, a dish towel over his shoulder, a cooking spoon in his hand. He said to Jean, "Go pick up the phone, there's a call for you."

She walked past him, not asking who it was. LaBrava closed the door as Maurice said, after her, "Guy tried to get you earlier, I told him to call back around eight." He turned to LaBrava, extending the spoon. "Smell. We're having gumbo. Make the drinks while I go stir it."

Jean was at the desk in the living room, pulling off her earring as she raised the phone.

LaBrava said to Maurice, "Who is it, Torres?"

"Some guy with an accent. I don't know."

"You ask him his name?"

"Hey, go make the drinks, will you?"

He tried to read her expression. She stood holding the phone in both hands, listening. He heard her say, "What?" a sharp sound. She was about fifteen feet away from him. He could make her a drink and take it over. She said something else but he didn't hear it because Maurice was telling him to be careful if he opened the freezer, there was half a peck of okra in there he didn't want all over the floor. Maurice saying, "Come here and taste this," as he watched Jean speaking into the phone, a few words. He started toward her and Maurice was next to him with the big spoon, offering it, putting it in his face. "Taste it, authentic Creole gumbo, recipe I got from a lady brought it here from Gretna, Louisiana. Little broad, her name was Toddy, she wore those pinch-nose glasses, weighed about eighty-two pounds, and made the best gumbo you ever tasted in your life. I would a married her, I mean just for her gumbo... Hey, Jean? Where you going?"

She stood holding the door open. Then closed it as they watched her.

"What's the matter?... Who was that on the phone?"

"Nothing important. Somebody with the police."

"It wasn't Torres. I know Torres' voice."

"No, one of the other ones. He was just checking, see if I'm okay."

"Yeah? Are you? You look funny. You feel okay?"

"Well"--she hesitated--"I do feel a little... strange. I think I'll go get some air."

"All you been through," Maurice said, "I can understand it. Stick your head out the window."

"No, I think I'll go outside."

"I'll go with you," LaBrava said.

"No, please, stay here. I'll be all right. Maury, do you mind? I'm just not hungry at the moment."

"You sure you're all right? You want any kind of pills? Alka-Seltzer?"

"No, I'm fine. Really."

They sat eating. Maurice said, "Ordinarily I put crabs in it, with the shrimp, but I didn't see any I liked at the market. So I put in some oysters. It's good with oysters. Or you can put chicken in it. The secret is in the preparation of the okra. When you saute it you have to keep stirring it, fast. Also you have to stir the hell out of your roux when you're browning it, have to stir it and stir it. You know what I'm talking about?"

LaBrava said, "Maury, who's crazy, you or me?"

"How do I know?" Maurice said. "Maybe both of us. Don't ask me any hard ones."

When the phone rang Maurice took his time, waving LaBrava off as he started to get up. Maurice went over, answered the phone and laid the receiver on the desk.

"I should a let you. It's your friend Torres."

* * *

He said to her, "You might as well tell me."

They sat on the Della Robbia porch. He would look at her as she stared at the view that was every picture ever taken of a moonlit sandy beach through palm trees, ocean in background. The view did nothing for either of them.

He said, "All right, let me see if I can tell it. The guy in the movie who picked up the bag went out a hotel-room window, but this one didn't. He found out, somehow, you've got the money and he wants his cut instead of a bunch of old newspapers, and if you don't pay him he'll turn you in." LaBrava waited. "It isn't fun anymore, is it?" He waited again and said, "Just say it, you'll feel better. You don't say it, I won't be able to help you."

A car passed on Ocean Drive, shined in the streetlight for a moment and their view returned.

She said, "What would you do?" her voice clear but subdued.

"Get him off your back."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. I'll have to talk to him first."

"You know who it is?"

"The boat-lifter. Cundo Rey."

She turned her head to stare at him. "How do you know that?"

"I showed you his picture, didn't I? You use somebody you never saw before. That was your first mistake. No, it would be your second mistake. Richard was your first."

She was silent again.

"How much does he want?"

After a moment she said, "All of it."

"Or what?"

"He didn't say."

"Tell me what he did say."

"He asked me if I wanted to buy a typewriter."

There was a silence.

"Your typewriter?"

"Yes."

"It can be traced to you?"

"I think so. There's a little sticker on the back--the name of the place where I have it serviced. I forgot about that."

They all forget something. "How'd the boat-lifter get it? You didn't give it to him, did you?"

"No, someone else."

"You gave it to a world-class fuckup to get rid of and he gave it to the boat-lifter who probably sold it and then had to get it back, once he figured everything out... What else did he say?"

"He wants me to meet him, so we can talk."

"Where?"

"A bar on LeJeune, Skippy's Lounge."

"Skippy's Lounge. Jesus. Are you supposed to bring the money?"

"No, that's what we're going to talk about. Where we make the exchange."

"Where is it, the money?"

She paused. "In my apartment."

"You think the place is safe now because they tossed it?"

She said, "Joe, if you'll help me..."

He waited and she seemed to start over. She said, "You have to understand something. I love Maury in a very special way. I know him better than you or anyone else ever will, and he knows me, he understands me." She said, "Joe, I promise you, I would never do anything in the world to hurt him."

Something she had said before, but in real life, not in a movie that he remembered. He said, "That's nice but we're past that. Torres called. They found Richard."

She stared straight ahead.

"It wasn't a cabin up in the mountains. It wasn't even that far from other houses..." He gave her a moment, but she said nothing. "I told Torres to have a talk with Richard's pal, Glenn Hicks." She turned again to stare at him and he said, "You get the feeling I know more about it than you do?"

After a moment she looked at the view again and said, "Joe, you have to believe how I feel about Maury..."

"I thought we were on Richard now."

She said, quietly, "There is no way anyone can prove I killed him."

"I didn't even say he was dead. But I'm not gonna tell on you. You're grown up enough to do it yourself."

She said, "Does he really matter?"

"Not to me, no. But the state attorney, you hear him you're gonna think Richard was his kid brother. See, you shoot and kill somebody you have to have a better reason than for money."

She said, "You broke his arm. What if you had hit him in the head?"

"I had a chance to and I didn't. That's the difference. Richard could've brought me up if he wanted to, I accepted that possibility. You're trying, as they say, to get away with murder." He realized he was at ease because he was in control and it didn't matter what role she tried on him. The poor lady didn't know who to be, so she was playing a straight part for a change and not coming off anything like a star. She was beginning to look older to him.