LaBrava (25 page)

What shook him was, thinking that, right
as
he was thinking that, the guy saying, “Are you dumb, Richard?”

He didn’t know how to answer. The guy wasn’t calling him dumb, he was asking him if he was, like he wanted to know. Then the guy was confusing him some more, saying, “Hay-baling wire is good.”

Je-sus Christ.

“Your Uncle Miney said your dad used to whip you with it. Teach you humility.”

Nobles stared at him.

“But that isn’t something you need for extortion, is it? And if you’re any good and get the six hundred grand, the last thing you’re gonna be is humble, huh?”

“Oh my,” Nobles said, “we sure think we’re clever, don’t we?”

“You’re not supposed to know what I’m talking about.”

Nobles said, “Mister, I’m gonna run my hands over you. I feel a wire, me and you are gonna say nighty-night. I don’t, well, we can see where it goes. Stand up and turn around.”

LaBrava got up slowly, raising his arms straight out to the sides as he turned, and Nobles moved in close to run his hands up to LaBrava’s shoulders, took hold of the muscles close to his neck and began to pinch hard. LaBrava tried to hunch and twist free and Nobles grabbed him by the hair with one hand and punched him in the back of the neck with the other, jabbed him hard with the knuckles you use to knock on a door.

“So you’re the blindsider,” Nobles said, and rabbit-punched him again. “Huh, is that right?” Pulled up on his hair and drove those knuckles in again. “You the blindsider?” Rabbit-punched him again. Then punched him with shoulder behind it, letting go of the hair. LaBrava fell forward to hit the low wall made of cement and coral and had to catch himself, hold on with his thighs to keep from going over. He hung there, moving his head carefully from side to side, feeling pain, throbs of it up through his skull, and seeing black objects crawling around the edges of his vision. Nobles, behind him, kept at it. “Yeah, blindsider, they like to sneak up on you, hit you when you’re not looking.” LaBrava was looking down at sand on the beach side of the wall, close to his face, hoping for his head to clear. High overhead clouds moved and moonlight edged toward the wall—Nobles saying yeah, goddamn blindsider, I love to get me a blindsider—and now LaBrava was looking at the softball bat lying in the sand, the bat the same color as sand. His hands, hanging over the wall, went to the handle right-over-left to bat right-handed. He was about ready.

When he came up with it he pushed off the wall with his knees, came around from the left and saw Nobles doing a quick backstep jig, right hand going into his silver jacket—LaBrava seeing it and believing in that moment he should be hitting from the other side tonight. But it was all right. Nobles brought up his left arm for protection, instinct jerking it up, and LaBrava found it between wrist and elbow with a bone-cracking, line-drive swing that brought a gasp from the big guy, and his right hand out of the silver jacket empty to grab hold of the broken arm. LaBrava came back for good measure with a left-side, cross-hand swing to pound shoulder and muscle, getting a grunt this time, Nobles covering his head with his good arm. So LaBrava hit him across the shins and that brought him down to the grass with a scream, trying to curl up, cover himself. LaBrava was finished with the bat. He dropped it as he straddled the big guy, yanked the .357 Smith out of his belt and worked the blunt bluesteel tip, once again, into Nobles’ mouth.

LaBrava said, feeling he should tell him, “I think you’re in the wrong line of work. You’ve got size and you look mean enough, but I believe you lack desire. Open your eyes.”

Nobles had them squeezed closed and seemed in pain. LaBrava slipped the gun out of his mouth, barely out, laying the sight under the lower lip, and Nobles said, “Jesus Christ, I’m hurt. My goddamn arm is broke.” He turned his head to look at it, outstretched on the grass.

LaBrava said, “I hope it is. But let me tell you what’s more important, to your welfare as well as your health. You like to deal. I think you ought to make one, give the cops the boat-lifter.”

“The what?”

“Cundo Rey, your little buddy.”

Nobles stared at him, maybe thinking faster than he had ever thought in his life, but thinking within his limitations. He did appear dumb, the vacant look giving him away.

“Let the cops have Cundo . . . and whoever else you got. They’ll make you a nice deal.”

Look at him thinking. Now trying to show some pain, going for sympathy.

“The cops have you made, Richard. You know that. They can put Cundo with your uncle and you with Cundo.”

“I never
saw
Uncle Miney. I told ’em that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” LaBrava said. “You don’t give ’em Cundo Rey they’ll pick the little Cuban up—guy like him, he’s hard to miss—they’ll offer him the same kind of deal and he’ll give ’em Mr. Richard Nobles. He’d be dumb if he didn’t.”

Nobles was listening closely to this.

“He gets something like five to twenty up at Raiford, you move up there for life. He’ll do three out of the five, and if you don’t get him in the yard, he walks.”

Nobles said, “Wait a second. What one are we talking about?”

“Take your pick. Murder first degree or the threat of it, for money. Either one’ll put you away.” LaBrava paused, looking down at him. Big dumb blond-haired clown. He did look mean. But deep down where it counted, all he could claim to be was a snitch. “Go make your deal and let the state attorney get you a lawyer. You’ll come out all right.”

He was so quiet now, staring up, moonlight catching his eyes.

“First thing in the morning,” LaBrava said. “You don’t want to spend the night locked up.” Keeping his tone mild, almost soothing. What a nice guy. “You want, I’ll tell the lady never mind about getting the money, and the trash bag. Say you changed your mind.”

Those eyes staring up at him.

“You want me to tell her that?”

Those dumb eyes in moonlight began to change, trying for a different look, creasing, getting a crafty gleam.

Nobles said, “I know who you are. You and all them other copsuckers, you’re about to get the surprise of your life.” That greasy tone sliding out and his mouth barely moving. “Now get offa me or I’m gonna have your ass up on charges.”

See? Try to be reasonable what happens? He’d be talking about his rights next. Waving a Xeroxed copy of his Miranda sheet.

LaBrava cocked the Smith, for effect, for the sound of it, stuck the tip of the barrel into Nobles’ mouth, hooking the front sight in behind his upper teeth and saw him gag as the gleam went out of his eyes.

He said, “Richard, are you trying to fuck with me?” Getting that flat, effortless cop sound. He believed in this moment he would have been a good one.

He said, “Richard, I got the gun. You don’t have it, I do. But you threaten me. I don’t understand that. What’d you think I was gonna do?” He drew the barrel out enough to lay it on Nobles’ lower lip. “Tell me.”

Nobles said, “You don’t have no right—”

See? LaBrava shoved the barrel back into his mouth. It was that goddamn Miranda thing. They packed, swaggered, picked on and scared the shit out of civilians, then ran and got behind Miranda.

He said, “Richard,” wanting to make it clear but no big deal. “If I got the gun, asshole, I got the right.” The way a Metro cop would say it. The one doing paperwork sniffing whiteout wanting to get back on the street so bad. He knew something the Metro cop knew. He could sit on Nobles’ belly and feel him breathing in and out beneath him, feel the man’s life between his own thighs, and be detached and deal with the man on a mutual basis of understanding. It was a strange feeling, but natural; like discovering something about yourself you never knew before. He felt that he could kill Nobles; in this moment he could. Pull the trigger. But he didn’t know what he would feel the moment after, with the sound fading and hearing the surf again. Something was happening to him. The cop in him coming out. After all that waiting. Nine years or more of official waiting, hanging back steely-eyed and looking smart. He had heard Buck Torres say one time to a witness, pleading for information, “I give you my word as a man.” Not as a policeman, a man. He would never forget that. It was what it came down to here, in this situation. Man to man he said to Nobles, “Bullshit time’s over. Are you dumb?”

He eased the barrel out and watched that all-American face, pale in moonlight, move from side to side.

“I can’t hear you.”

“No, I ain’t dumb. Jesus.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“I don’t.”

“You said, a minute ago, ‘I know who you are.’ “

Look at him thinking, trying to be careful. LaBrava moved the barrel along the curve of Nobles’ chin. “They wire your mouth shut for a broken jaw. Talk while you can.”

“You already broke my goddamn arm!”

“See what I mean? . . . How do you know who I am?”

“I heard, around.”

“Where?”

“On the street. I heard you live at that ho-tel.”

LaBrava drew the barrel down the bridge of his nose. Look at those eyes, trying to be sincere.

“I heard you was a secret agent of some kind with the gover’ment. Listen, I know some of those boys. Maybe’re friends of yours. Up in Jacksonville.”

“Who told you?”

“Nobody, I just heard. Was some guy, you know, in a bar.”

“What’s the surprise?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘You’re about to get the surprise of your life.’ What’s the surprise?”

“I was just, you know, talking. Jesus, my goddamn arm hurts something terrible.”

“What’s the surprise, Richard?”

“Nothing. I was talking is all.”

See? It reached the point every time where you had to deliver or let the guy up. Tell him one time what you’re going to do. Tell him twice, he knows you’re full of shit. Once you started to lose it it was over. LaBrava leaned in closer, eye to eye, the gun barrel beneath Nobles’ chin, raising it slightly.

“The surprise is how six hundred thousand dollars disappear. Look at me, Richard. The surprise—you see all the cops standing around scratching their head. You’re undoing the baling wire, opening the garbage bag, taking out all that money. Look at me, Richard.”

He did. Nobles met his eyes and said, “I ain’t done nothing.”

“What else do you see, Richard?”

“I ain’t done nothing.”

He was losing it.

“What movie did she show you?”

“What?”

“She said she showed you a movie.”

He was getting it back. Maybe.

Nobles was thinking again. “She told you that?”

“What was the name of it?”

“I don’t know, I forget.”

“Who was in it?”

“You kidding me? Shit, I don’t know.”

“Where’s your partner?”

“I don’t know—I don’t have no partner.”

“The little Cuban.”

“I met the booger one time, ‘at’s all.”

“You came to meet him tonight.”

“Shit, it was you. God
damn
, we’re clever.”

He felt tired knowing he was losing it. It was hard to keep it up unless you were honestly detached enough to go all the way and break the guy’s jaw looking into his eyes. He could sit on the guy all night and threaten and never deliver and finally the guy would get tired of it. So who was full of shit?

He tried again, though, one more time. Said, “Richard, call it off.”

Heard himself and knew it was over.

Nobles said, “Or what?”

See?

Nobles said, “I gotta go the hospital.”

See?

“So get the fuck offa me.”

Man, lost and gone forever. He would give anything to be able to bust the guy’s jaw. He couldn’t do it. So he reached out and hacked the gun barrel across that forearm—already broken—a gesture, for Uncle Miney if not his own peace of mind—and had to roll for his life as Nobles screamed and erupted beneath him, came up in a crouch holding his arm tight to his body, ran hunched into tree shadow a dozen yards away and must have felt protected. He took time to yell at LaBrava, back there on his knees, “You’re crazy! You know it? You’re fucking crazy!”

BUCK TORRES THOUGHT
he was crazy, too. He didn’t say he was crazy, he said, “You broke the guy’s arm?” and asked if he was crazy; it was the same thing. He came at 7:30 in the morning to say Nobles had left his hotel during the night and never returned.

Once LaBrava told him to check Sinai and Jackson Memorial Out-Patient and look for a guy walking around with his left arm in a cast, he had to tell it all. He wondered if Torres was going to comment. He was silent for so long after, staring at him in the kitchenette pouring coffee for them. Finally, that was when Torres said it.

“Are you crazy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Maybe I’m a little crazy. But maybe you have to be crazy to make something happen or make it hard for them,” LaBrava said. “Look at it. A note comes asking for money. Jean goes to the bank, picks it up. Another note comes, it’ll tell her to take the money to a certain place and she’ll do it.” LaBrava paused and said, “Is it that easy?”

“We’re with her every step, Joe.”

“They know you’re gonna be with her.”

“We have to wait and see.” Torres sounded helpless. “What else can we do?”

“You ever had one like this or heard of one?”

“Only dope, dopers trying to score off each other. The Major called the Bureau and they never had one like this either. They said, what is this? Your suspect is practically wearing a sign.”

“The Bureau’s in it now?”

“Miami office. They’re busy on some Castro spy stuff they didn’t care to discuss, but they took the note for analysis. They give us their R.A. in West Palm, the resident agent, and some words of wisdom. ‘Don’t lose the woman or the money or it’ll fuck up your day.’ “

Jean Shaw came into LaBrava’s mind in black and white and then in color and then in black and white again. He brought the color picture back, saw her eyes looking at him and wanted to be with her, talk to her. He saw Richard Nobles’ face now, in moonlight, and said, “The guy can’t wait for it to happen. He tells us we’re about to get the surprise of our life.”