LaBrava (16 page)

In one of her pictures, she said, there was a subplot about counterfeiting and they began to talk about movies and she told him what she hated most about making pictures: the two-shot close-up face to face with an actor she often couldn’t stand. Nowhere but in the movies did people stand so close when they talked—and you’d get these actors with foul morning breath or reeking of booze—the two of them on the sofa getting closer and closer and that was fine, with confident breaths, good smells, aware of nature’s horny scent in there, LaBrava ready once again to try for that overwhelming experience. He told her he wanted to see one of her pictures with her. She said she would get one; she was going home tomorrow to pick up some clothes, a few things, she’d bring the tapes. He said he would like to drive her, see her place.

She said, “Spend the night with me. Tonight.”

That sounded good.

She got a wistful look and said, “I need you, Joe.”

And that didn’t sound so good because—there it was again—it sounded familiar, and he had to tell himself that playing was okay, they were just having some fun. Except that she made it sound serious.

She said, “Hold me.”

He did, he held her tight and she felt good. Before she felt too good he sneaked a look at his watch.

LaBrava was in his own bed when Johnbull Obasanjo phoned a few minutes past 2:00
A.M.

“I have been trying to call you, you never at home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You tell me you want information—”

“I apologize.”

“I accept it,” the Nigerian said. “Now, you want to know where they went to in the black Pontiac sportcar, I tell you. They went to a place call Cheeky’s. I know a man name Chike, he is an Ibo, but not a bad man. I don’t believe this place, though, is of the Ibo. I believe it is for men who have pleasure in dressing as women. So they go in there.”

“You saw the driver of the Pontiac.”

“Yes, a Cuban man.”

“What’d he look like?”

“I told you, a Cuban man. That’s what he look like.”

LaBrava wondered if Nigerians told jokes and if they were funny. “Was there anything different about him?”

“My friend, you have to be different to go in there. I told you that already.”

“I apologize.” Maybe they had a sense of humor if you got to know them. “You didn’t by any chance get the license number of the Pontiac.”

Johnbull Obasanjo said, “You have a pen? You have the paper, something to write on when you ask such a question?”

LaBrava turned the light on and got out of bed. Fucking Nigerian. The guy delivered, though, didn’t he?

Five and a half hours later, still in bed, the phone again lay on the pillow against his face. He raised it slightly as Buck Torres came back on with his NCIC computer report.

“Cundo Rey. That’s the owner’s name. You got a pencil, I’ll spell it.”

“Please do.”

“You ready?”

“Spell the goddamn name, will you?”

Torres spelled it. “You’re a bitch in the morning, aren’t you?”

“What else?”

“Cuban National, came from Mariel during the boat-lift but wasn’t processed. Arraigned for transporting a stolen motor vehicle, Volusia County, that’s up north, no conviction. Assigned to Chatahoochee for psychiatric evaluation. He disappeared from there.”

“Is there a warrant out on him?”

“Nobody wants him, figuring we got enough Cubans.”

“You got his picture?”

“I can get it. Take a couple of days,” Torres said. “He looks harmless to me. Refugee, fell in with some bad
hombres
.”

“Get the picture,” LaBrava said. “I think you’re gonna need it.”

NOBLES HAD HALF OF
a Debbie Reynolds to finish and a few half-done fries left. Little Eli could make a sandwich,
damn
, but he couldn’t deep-fry worth shit. Nobles said to Cundo Rey, who was playing with his coffee spoon, “You do any good last night?” and took a big bite of his Debbie.

“I don’t make so much in that place as a Ladies’ Night place. See, they know I don’t fuck the same way they do. I mean—you know what I mean.”

“That’s good to hear,” Nobles said. “Jesus, but that place is scary, you know it? All them queers dressed up like girls. I had to get outta there.”

“I thought you might see one you like to take out and rob him. That was a good idea.”

“Yeah, but I don’t believe I could touch the fucker to do it. I mean they are scary. How’d you make out?”

“I made a couple hundred. Man, I need money. I have to go home and get some.”

“Pretty soon.” Nobles shoved the rest of the Debbie Reynolds into his mouth. “You ready?”

“What?”

Nobles chewed and chewed. “I said, you
ready?
Get the wax outta your ears.”

“I was ready before you start eating.”

“Go on out. I don’t want Eli to see us together when I talk to him.”

“He already see us together, now.”

“Yeah, but he won’t remember you. All you boogers look alike. Go on outside, wait in the car.”

“It isn’t going to work.”

“Go on. Scat.”

Nobles walked over to the counter, laid his check on the rubber pad next to the cash register, fished a few toothpicks out of the tray. The man that owned the place, little Eli, came over wiping his hands on his apron, sort of a worried look on his face, or sad. The Jew should shave and clean hisself up, Nobles thought, he’d feel better.

“Well, how we doing today, partner?”

Eli didn’t answer him, eyes cast down. He rang up the bill, came back to the rubber pad and now had to look up, there was no money on the counter.

“Put her on account,” Nobles said, “and tell me what you think of the deal I offered you.”

The guy seemed afraid to move or speak.

“Hey, wake up.”

What was the matter with him? He looked sickly. Refused to say a word, nod his head or blink. Nobles watched him turn to the counter behind him, move some stuff out of the way, a telephone book—the hell was he doing? The guy came back around holding up a photograph, holding it in front of his face, so that Nobles was looking at the picture and the guy’s knuckles bony white pointing at him.

“Where’n the hell’d you get that?”

A shiny black and white shot of Richard Nobles coming out of Eli’s Star Deli: so sharp and clear you could see the toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

The guy’s shaky voice behind the shaky photograph was telling him to get out “. . . and don’t ever come back again or I call the cops!”

It was getting scary. Sitting in the Trans Am with Cundo, hidden from humanity and street glare behind smoked glass, Nobles said, “You believe it?”

“I tole you it wasn’t going to work.”

“Guy holds it up—same kind of pitcher. That little fucker with the swimming pool, now this guy. What in the hell’s going on? Somebody taking my pitcher . . . I gotta try another place. There’s that dry cleaner up the street.”

“I tole you,” Cundo Rey said.

“You
told
me? What? You told me you saw this guy following me with a camera?”

“I tole you it wasn’t going to work.”

“You gonna keep saying that?”

“You want to work that kind of deal,” Cundo Rey said, “you break the guy’s window
first
, then you go in, sell him the protection. I tole you, it’s how to do it.”

“Yeah, well I want to know who’s taking my pitcher.”

“They hire somebody. They got more protection than you think.”

“No, these people—what do you think they call ’em Jews for? They Jew you down, don’t spend a dime less they have to. They ain’t gonna hire a guy take pitchers.”

“It couldn’t be that girl,” Cundo said. “No, it wouldn’t be her.”

“What girl?”

“She live over at the hotel where the woman is.”

Nobles was half listening, staring at people going by on the sidewalk. Cundo began tapping his ring on the steering wheel and Nobles turned to him. “Cut it out.”

“What am I doing?”

“I’m thinking.” After a moment he said, “Oh, man, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. The dink I been looking for for Christ sake’s a photographer. With a newspaper.”

“You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“I haven’t seen
him
, but shit, he’s seen
me
. It’s got to be him.”

“How could he know you down here?”

“He’s
seen
us. How else you think, for Christ sake. He’s seen
me
, anyway. Goddamn it.”

“So, what difference does it make? Let’s go see him, take his pictures away from him.” Cundo paused, watching Nobles staring out the window. “What are you worried about? Take his pictures. Go in there, take the picture from the Debbie Reynolds guy. Get the picture from the swimming pool guy. Get all the pictures he has.”

Nobles said, “I don’t know . . .”

Cundo studied him. This Richard, most of the time you could read his face. Right now, though, it was empty, like he had been smoking some of the sky blue reefer from Santa Marta that paralyzed you, made you numb. Cundo said, “You know something? I haven’ seen you hit anybody. Man, I even haven’ seen you break anything. How come you not get mad?” He turned the ignition key, heard the engine come instantly awake, rumble and pop its muscle. He turned the radio on and heavy riffs filled the car, everything working now.

Cundo said, “Okay. We go see the guy.”

LaBrava had taken the new issue of
Aperture
from his mail slot, opened it as he turned and got as far as the registration desk, held by a series of color photographs made by a painter, a fine artist, who shot into mirrors and got startling effects.

He had placed an envelope sleeve on the countertop. He laid the magazine over it, resting his arms on the edge, on cool marble, and wandered to the text to read that a still picture is more powerful than a motion picture, more memorable, that images from movies that stay with you are reasonably still . . . He would agree with that. Because the film pictures of Jean Shaw in his mind all seemed to be stills. Jean Shaw in black and white giving—he caught a glimpse of her giving Victor Mature the look.

Then saw her in muted color, a skirt, a top with a narrow belt, a straw bag, the real-life Jean Shaw coming off the elevator, not smiling, now trying on a faint smile as she saw him. She said, “What time did you leave?”

“It was about one-thirty. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Did you think about waking me up?” With almost a sly, bedroom look. But after the fact in a hotel lobby the next morning. He wondered what would have happened if he’d started in again, Jean drowsy, half awake, maybe less mechanical.

“I think the reason I couldn’t sleep, I was expecting a phone call.” And knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Giving her second billing.

She said, “Oh.” Any hint of a sly look gone.

“It was important. The guy called about two.”

She said, “Maurice wants to take me. You don’t have to bother.” Not icy, but not warm, either.

“I’d be glad to help.”

“I’m just going to get a few things. Clothes, mostly. Maurice insists. I think he wants to talk.” Her tone beginning to lose its stiffness. “What about the pictures?”

“Right here.” He moved the magazine aside, brought the black and white eight-by-tens of Nobles out of the manila sleeve and laid them on the counter facing Jean.

She said, resigned, “Yeah, that’s Richie. Are you sure he didn’t see you?”

“I used a telephoto from across the street. The blur along the edge, that’s a car going by. This one, I’m in a park across from the motel, the Sharon. No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t see me.”

Jean’s eyes remained on the photos. “You’re positive he’s doing something illegal.”

“He doesn’t work for Star Security anymore,” LaBrava said, “so he has nothing legal to sell. Even if he was still with them, they’re not licensed in Dade County.”

“But there’s no way to prove he’s doing something illegal, is that it?”

“Not till they catch him with a stink bomb, or breaking windows. Then they could get him for malicious destruction. But he’s fooling with extortion. That’s a tough one to prove.”

Jean said, “If Richie knew you had these—” She shook her head slowly and seemed almost to smile.

“How about if he thought the police had a set? Would that shake him up?”

She looked at LaBrava, brown eyes wide for a moment. “Are they after him?”

“I haven’t given them the pictures yet, but I think it might be a good idea. Before somebody gets hurt.” He gathered the photos together, slipped them in the envelope. “So that’s your friend Richie Nobles.”

“The all-American boy,” Jean said. “Can I have them?” When LaBrava hesitated she said, “For my own protection. In case Richie ever comes around again.” She looked over as they heard the elevator land, the door open. “Let’s tell Maury about it later, okay? Or I’ll never get out of here.”

Maurice was taking off his nubby silk jacket as he crossed the lobby. He wore a yellow sport shirt with long collar points, the top button fastened. “You think I need a coat?”

Jean picked up the envelope with her straw bag. “If it makes you happy.”

“Nah, we’re not going anyplace, are we?” He folded the jacket inside out and laid it on the counter. “Joe, lock it in the closet for me, will you? We’re going up to Boca, get a few things of Jeanie’s.”

LaBrava said to her, “What about the tapes? You said you have a couple of your movies?”

She hesitated. “You really want to see them?”

“You kidding? With the star?”

“If you promise you won’t fall asleep. We’ll have to bring the VCR and plug it into Maury’s TV.”

Maurice said, “What? What’re we talking about?”

“Jean’s movies,” LaBrava said and looked at her again. “What ones do you have?”

“Just the two available on tape.
Shadowland
and
Let It Ride
.”

“I can hardly wait,” LaBrava said, not sure if he had seen either of them. “It’s been a long time.”