LaBrava (18 page)

He said, “You want to get technical we’re up to seventy-two-five. But have I asked you for it?”

She said, “If I had money to invest, something working for me—”

“Jeanie. Have I asked you for it?”

“Or if you’d buy me out. Maury, I could pay you back, get out from under it.”

“From under what? How many times have I said it? If you don’t have it, you don’t owe me. It’s that simple. I buy you out, your share’s worth about a hundred grand. Say a hundred and a quarter. You pay me back outta that, where are you? If I go, the hotel’s yours. Don’t worry about it, it’s in the agreement. Until that happens—which is something I don’t think about. I’m not afraid of going, it’s gonna happen, but it’s not something I sit down and think about. Until then, you need money, you let me know. It’s that simple.”

“Like an allowance.”

Maurice said, “Sometimes—I don’t know, Jeanie.”

She put the videotapes down and seemed restless, though she didn’t move. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m not ungrateful, I’m frustrated. Maury, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I love you, I love to be with you . . .”

“But what?”

“I feel useless, and it makes me mad.”

“Then do something. Get back into acting.”

“Maury, come on. I’m not going to play somebody’s mother. And I’m not going to do the little-theater bit, work in a converted barn, wring my hands in
Fiddler on the Roof
. I’ve done all that.”

“Big screen or nothing,” Maurice said. “You know what I think of that particular kind of pride—from eighty-years experience, from knowing all kinds of successful people with all kinds of dough who are now dead or else in jail? I think it’s a bunch of shit. Money and success’ve got nothing to do with making it on a day to day basis, and that’s all that counts.”

“I love rich old guys who say that—and don’t have a worry in the world.”

“Aw, Jeanie, come on”—he sounded tired—“you’re smarter than that. Quit thinking, start doing something. Girl with your intelligence, your talent . . . I’m telling you, money ain’t it.”

“Joe thinks you’re practically down and out.”

“Let him think it. Either way, it wouldn’t matter to him, he’s an artist. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is. He’s gonna be a name.”

She said, “Yeah, well, I wish him luck.”

“Quit worrying, you get lines in your forehead.”

“I always love your advice.”

“Then listen to it. We ready?”

“I guess so.”

“The suitcase and the two hanging bags—that’s it?”

“If you’ll take those,” Jean said, “I’ll bring the recorder. I’m going to drive, too. I want my car down there.”

“For what?”

“Maury, let me feel at least a little independent.”

The glare hit Nobles smack in the eyes coming up out of the Trans Am, had him squinting with a painful expression. Man, it was hot out. Walking toward the high-rise entrance he could feel the blacktop burning mushy under his cowboy boots, the heels sticking.

He had figured this deal wrong, but it was working out anyway. He believed the old man was taking Jean Shaw home, would drop her off and scat. But the old man was up there it seemed an hour—the black car ticking in the heat—then he had come out with a grip and what looked like her clothes and drove off with them.

Which meant she was going back to South Beach. Shit.

But if she wasn’t home for good, least she was home now. Would she be glad to see him? He’d sure be glad to see her—thinking of words like
alone at last
. He could hardly wait.

Inside the air-conditioned elevator he pushed “10” and began to wonder what she’d say when she opened the door, what kind of look she’d have on her face.

Franny was still in the mauve string bikini.

She had a pinkish tan, freckles on her chest. She had a deep groove between her breasts, round bare hips and naked belly, like a young belly dancer on her day off—except for her round tinted glasses and that wiry hair; that hair was Franny and nobody else. She wasn’t the least self-conscious. She poured wine, left the bottle on the glass table. She asked him if he was going to keep his hat on; he could if he wanted; she loved it, she thought it looked like Vincent van Gogh’s a little, and didn’t say much after that. She was quieter this afternoon.

He could hear the air-conditioning unit working hard. He was okay, he was just a little nervous, wanting to act as natural as this girl but knowing she had a lead on him, had not had to unlearn as many customs of propriety. He had decided she was going to fool around, make the moves on him and here he was, a guy who had gone to bed with a movie star, trying to act natural and not think of the movie star, not think at all. It wouldn’t be cheating. How could it be cheating? He hardly knew the movie star. He felt he knew Franny longer, if he wanted to look at it that way. No, he was here because she’d invited him up . . . Franny wasn’t sweating it. She’d probably decided it would happen or it wouldn’t. No big deal. She was quieter though, at first.

Thinking about something. Rearranging the pillows, a pile of them on the daybed. She straightened and said, “Oh.” Went into the bedroom and came out in less than a minute wearing a white cover, soft cotton, plain, that buttoned down the front and reached to her tan bare feet. She asked him if he wanted ice in his wine and after that began to talk. She asked how long his marriage had lasted.

“Thirty-eight months.”

“You say it like that, it sounds like a long time.”

“It was.”

“Any kids?”

“No. How’d you know I was married?”

She said, “Maurice,” and said, “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He thought a moment and said, “Dames are always pulling a switch on you.”

“Is that from one of your friend’s movies?”

He shook his head.
“Laura.”

“Your friend’s been married three times.”

“How do you know that?”

“I talked to her. Showed her my wares. She uses a cream made from queen bee extract, turtle oil and seaweed.”

“You talked to her?”

“She thinks it’s great. I’ve got a book—a panel of doctors was asked their opinion of the queen bee cream and their answers were: No value, no opinion, a gimmick, quackery, and crap. She’s had a tuck, Joe. Also a nose job. The nose when she was breaking into pictures.”

“She told you all that?”

“Sure. Why not? She’s nice, I like her.”

“You do?”

“Very easy to talk to—doesn’t give you any bullshit. I’d like to see one of her flicks.” Franny paused. She almost smiled as she said, “Guess what I sold her?”

“You didn’t . . .”

“Swear to God.”

“Bio-Energetic Breast Cream.”

“Listen, I showed it to her and she went ape-shit. ‘Oh, for bounce and resiliency—really?’ Trying to contain herself, act cool. It’s about as effective as queen bee extract and turtle oil. You either have bounce, Joe, or you don’t.” She said, “Wait, I’ve got a surprise,” and went into the bedroom.

In a few moments he heard soul music, a male vocal with back-up voices, a familiar melody but not a recent one. When she came out he said, “Who’s that?”

Franny said, “You’re putting me on. You haven’t heard that a couple a hundred times?” She wasn’t wearing her glasses now.

“Smokey Robinson?”

“Who else. And the Miracles. ‘You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me.’ “ She came back to the daybed, her place on stage. “A big hit in Motown when you were a little kid, right?”

“I was in high school.”

“See? I know all about you, LaBrava. Special Agent Joe LaBrava, United States Secret Service. I knew you were into something shady, at least at one time. So I asked Maurice. He says you’re doing Murf the Surf now. I thought you were leaning more toward Iggy Pop, but you never know, do you. You quiet guys . . . Will you tell me some secrets, Joe?”

He said, “Former President Harry Truman’s house has faulty wiring. You’re watching a movie on TV, it goes off, comes back on, goes off, comes back on . . .”

She said, “Uh-huh, really interesting work, uh?”

“The lights would go off and on too.”

She nodded, accepting this, said, “Well, you ready?” and began unbuttoning her cover, by the daybed piled with pillows, facing him.

He sat across the glass table from her in a wicker chair. There were two rolls of film on the table by the wine bottle. He raised the Nikon, made adjustments, lowered it and looked at her again.

Franny stood with her legs somewhat apart, hands on bare hips, naked beneath the cover held open behind her hands. She said, “How do you want me?”

He studied the pose.

She was playing. He hoped she was playing, giving him a line to come back to. Yeah, she was playing. Having fun.
How do you want me?
Except that her lavender eyes were serious and those big brown-tipped earth-mama breasts were serious and the belly rounding into the thickest patch of black hair he had ever seen in his life was as serious as can be. Well, you could be serious and still have fun. In fact, he believed it was the secret of a happy life, if anybody wanted to know a secret.
How do you want me?
And his line, keeping it low-key, soft, the sensitive artist:

“Just as you are.”

After a moment she said, “Are you gonna take my picture?”

LaBrava said, in all honesty, feeling himself becoming more and more serious, “I doubt it.”

Each time Cundo Rey thought about the guy in the wheelchair he would sooner or later see Richard driving his beautiful black car, and it was the last thing he wanted to think about.

See the guy, see Richard. Relating them, knowing he would have to do something about the guy.

Cundo sat in the lobby of the La Playa Hotel now waiting for Javier, fooling with his earring. Javier was from Cambinado. He was doing okay in his business. He had already offered to give Cundo whatever he needed.

What a place this was—the tile floor cracked and broken, pieces of it missing. He compared it in his mind to Cambinado del Este because the people who lived here reminded him of convicts. The difference, Cambinado del Este was cleaner than this place, it was still a new prison.

He compared it also to the National Hotel in Havana. The National Hotel was as dirty as this place, but instead of people who looked like convicts, there were Russians staying there, Russians smelling of garlic, talking in loud voices, complaining. They complained like children who didn’t like their dinner. They didn’t complain of things worth complaining about. What did they know? They didn’t work on the housing brigade in Alamar twelve hours a day breathing cement dust. The Russian he had known was an engineer or a technician of some kind. In his room he had vodka, bars of chocolate, boxes of rubbers and dirty picture books he had bought in New York City. The Russian hated Cuba. Say
Cooba
with his garlic breath and spit on the floor. Cundo Rey, aching to leave, dying for the chance, defended his country because he hated the Russian and had gone back to the man’s room late at night. He had almost wasted his life because of the Russian, using the Russian’s own gun.

Thinking, Oh well, that was done.

Then thinking about the guy in the wheelchair again, because that wasn’t done.

How many guys who lived in the Della Robbia Hotel took photographs of people from a distance, unseen, with a telephoto lens? Sure it was the same guy who had taken the photographs of Richard—oh shit, seeing Richard in his mind again . . .

And seeing a guy who was called David Vega coming into the lobby. David Vega had looked at him as though he knew him, but had never approached to speak to him. So he watched David Vega whenever he saw him.

When Javier came in David Vega was still in the lobby, drinking a Coca-Cola from the machine. So Cundo didn’t greet Javier, pretending not to notice him. Javier would see this and do the same.

Cundo waited several minutes before going up to Javier’s room. He accepted a glass of rum as a formality and listened as Javier expressed his desire to move to South Miami. There was no hurry. Listening to Javier kept him from thinking about his car in the hands of Richard the swamp creature. Javier finished his rum before he brought the metal footlocker out of the closet, worked the combination and opened the lid to display his wares.

“Any pistol you want,” Javier said, “wholesale price to a
Marielito
. Machine gun one-third off. MAC-10 cost you eight hundred.”

“Something small,” Cundo Rey said.

“You want a snubbie. This one, .38 Special, two-inch barrel. Same kind the Charlie’s Angels use.”

“Yeah?”

“Also Barney Miller.”

“Wrap it up,” Cundo Rey said.

NOBLES HAD HIS GRIN READY.
The door opened and he said, “Well, look-it who’s here, huh?”

He’d decided she would be all eyes, surprised as hell. But she wasn’t. Or didn’t act it. She gave him a stare like she wasn’t going to move.

He said, “Sugartit, I don’t want to knock you down but I been in the car it seems like all day. I gotta go pee pee so bad I’m gonna be spitting in another minute. It just come on me.”

So she had to get out of his way—it was a fact, he would have picked her up and moved her—had to let him through to run down the hall to her bathroom.

Nobles loved it in here, it was full of perfume bottles, bath oils and powder in pale-colored boxes, all kinds of good-smelling stuff. He would like to look in her medicine cabinet sometime, poke around and find intimate things. It was so
clean
in here, no rust stains in the toilet or the washbasin. He looked around at all her girlish stuff relieving himself, groaning sighs and finally shuddered. Oh man.

She was still in the parlor, sitting at one end of the sofa now, her straw bag on her lap, legs crossed to show him her knee above the chrome coffee table. She seemed calm now, not drilling him with her eyes, though not with what he’d call a sweet expression, either.

He said, “You glad to see me?”

Huh-uh, she didn’t look too. She said to him, “Richard, what are you doing here?” Calm and patient, like she was talking to a child.