LaBrava (30 page)

Both cans of beer were in his right hand; his left arm, in the cast, covered his stomach. So she aimed just above the cast. When he looked up, one stride out of the doorway, he paused, seemed to smile, trying to at least, and said, “Hey, puss, be careful now—”

She shot him where she aimed, shot him again and shot him again, quickly, the sound so overpowering she missed details. Already he seemed in shock, pressed against the door frame, eyes glazed, the cast painted with blood. So much blood. Where were the beer cans? She had only a moment to notice effects. Henry Silva had touched the neat wound in his chest, looked at his hand with disbelief, looked up . . . She shot Henry Silva again and he did a slow movie die, reflecting betrayal right to the end. She shot Nobles again and he might have already been dead, sliding down the door frame to the floor.

LaBrava said to Franny, sitting in Lummus Park among palm trees, sipping cold beer, “Then what happens?”

Franny said, “Well, nothing happens after that the way it’s supposed to.”

HE SAW ONLY HER EYES
,
her bland expression, and wondered who she was at this moment and if she was going to say anything, and after another moment if she was ever going to say anything. He watched her turn from the door without a word, hands coming away from the front of her robe, the robe falling open as she entered the bedroom.

So LaBrava went to the kitchen where an open bottle of Scotch and tray of melting ice cubes stood on the sink, decided, as he poured himself a good one, to let her lead; he’d catch on soon enough. He picked up the ice tray to put it in the refrigerator and hesitated—why should he?—then had to make another decision and did put the tray in the refrigerator and crossed to the bedroom with his drink.

Jean sat at the vanity in a halfslip doing her eyes, classic nose in the air, eyes indifferent, bare breasts indifferent, pale shoulders rounded in a slouch that described her attitude. He saw her drink waiting among cosmetics. She took time now to pick it up, her breasts rising as her eyes raised, two sets of brown eyes in the mirror watching him. He believed he could outwait them but would have to sit down. Tell Maurice they would be late for dinner, bring the bottle in here and then sit down. He had never played this game before. She was putting on eyeliner now. Then surprised him.

“Have you spoken to your friend McCormick?”

“About what?”

“I can believe he didn’t report to you, since there was nothing to report. But you must’ve been curious enough to call him.”

She sounded like his former wife, tone full of dry innocence, delivered deadpan. Taking the long way around.

He said, “Let’s see. McCormick searched your place . . .”

“As you suggested.”

He almost smiled. “He told you that?”

“Your words, according to Jim, ‘Why don’t you get her permission to have a look around?’ I’d call that a suggestion.”

“I’m surprised,” LaBrava said.

“At what?”

“McCormick does care what people think. Wants you to like him.” He watched her move to the other eye. “But he didn’t find anything, uh?”

“Did you think he would?”

One way or another they were going to reach this point. It wasn’t something he had to think about anymore. It would be good to get it out in the open. It was time.

He said, “Probably not, but there was always the possibility.”

She paused, holding the eyeliner away from her, looking at him in the mirror. “You mean something Richard might have left behind? Fingerprints?”

“Something,” LaBrava said, “either of you might have overlooked.”

There was a silence. He expected it and waited, leaning in the doorway. It wouldn’t be her style to let go, throw a jar of cold cream at him. She would adjust, making her own decision now, staring at him in the mirror, eyes telling nothing, eyes lowering then as her hand went to the vanity table. She picked up a pearl earring, cocked her head as her eyes raised to look at him again and a new Jean Shaw appeared, a playful expression in her eyes now, a glow of anticipation.

He said, “How do you do that?”

“How do I do what, Joe?” Her tone different, relaxed, ready to be amused. “How do I manage to . . . get by, survive? It ain’t easy, kid. Learn to adapt, use whatever is at hand. I was just getting to like it here and now it’s time to go home, or somewhere. I may go abroad . . . if anyone wonders where I am.”

“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 sauté 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?”