LaBrava

by Elmore Leonard

  “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.”

  14

  * * *

  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.”

  They’d crept past the Della Robbia, past the Cardozo to park across the street from the Cavalier, on the beach side of Ocean Drive. Nobles had curled his size into an almost fetal position in the front seat, face pressed against the inside edge of the backrest so he could stare out that smoky rear window and see the Della Robbia, the bunch of old ladies sitting lined up on the porch.

  Cundo Rey said, “Man, we don’t have no air. How about I open it just a little?”

  Nobles didn’t answer him. In a moment a draft of salt air touched his face and it felt pretty good. He reached behind him and opened the window on his side a few inches. Yeah, that was better.

  “I don’t want to see her just yet. Till we’re ready. You understand?”

  Cundo said, “Sure,” even though he didn’t. Why ask him questions? He was acting strange.

  “What I’m getting at, I walk in there I’m liable to see her. Or be seen with her, I mean. You follow me? Best we wait for him to come out.”

  They had been parked here more than a half hour. Cundo couldn’t believe it, Nobles becoming cautious, not wanting to go in there and get the guy’s pictures, take the guy in his hands, throw him out a window if it was high enough. He would like to have a look at this guy in the light, see him good. The guy didn’t seem to scare Nobles, no, but seeing the pictures of himself had changed him; he didn’t seem to know what he was doing.

  Cundo said, “If the guy works, then why would he be there?” Nobles didn’t answer. He didn’t know anything, so why ask him?

  Cundo said, “I don’t like that place I’m living, La Playa. I’m going to move.” The reason they were at different hotels, Nobles had said they shouldn’t be seen together too much. He had asked why and Nobles had said, because. That was his answer. Because.

  “I’m going to find a good place, move my things down from West Palm. What about you? You want to move your things?”

  Nobles wasn’t listening, he was pushing up straight against the backrest, stretching his neck, saying, “Jesus Christ, there she is.”

  Cundo had to press his face against the side window, his neck twisted, to see. He said, “Tha’s the movie star? Man, she look pretty nice. Who’s that old guy?”

  “Must be the one she’s staying with, one picked her up.” Nobles watched them cross the street like they were going to the beach in their good clothes, but now they stopped. He watched the old man pull open a car door and get in while Jean Shaw went around to the other side. They were going someplace. Just her and the old man.

  As soon as Nobles had his idea he said, “They go by, you get out. I’m own take the car, meet you later on.”

  “You want to take this?”

  Nobles’ head turned with the Mercedes going past them. “Okay, get out.”

  “Man, this is my car.”

  Nobles said, “You little booger—” Got that far.

  Cundo saw the look and stepped out of the car saying, “Sure, please take it.” Stood in the road saying, “Go with God,” and watched until the insane creature from the Big Scrub turned left on Fifteenth Street.

  Franny came out of the ocean like a commercial, body glistening in two strips of mauve material, Coppertone clean with an easy stride, letting her hips move on their own as she came up on the beach. It was empty in front of her, all the way to the park.

  Where was Joe LaBrava when she needed him?

  He was across the street, coming out of the Della Robbia with Paco’s wheelchair, sitting in it now on the sidewalk, trying it out, talking to the old ladies leaning out of their chairs, reassuring them. By the time Franny reached the grass, he was wearing a plain, beachcomber Panama with a curvy, shapeless brim, a camera hanging from his neck, waving to the ladies as he wheeled off.

  Franny yelled his name. He looked over, made an awkward turn and stroked his wheels across the street.

  “How do you get up curbs?”

  She helped him, came around in front of him again and he was aiming a Nikon at her. Snick.

  “I wasn’t ready.”

  “Yes, you were. You look good. You’re the first girl in a bathing suit I’ve ever shot.”

  “None of that commercial stuff.”

  He gave a shrug. “Maybe there’s a way to do it.”

  “The bathing suit in contrast to something. How about sitting on a TV set?”

  He smiled and she watched him reach around to the camera bag hanging behind him, watched him bring it to his lap, the hat brim hiding his face as he snapped o
ff the wide-angle lens, put on a long one and aimed the camera down a line of palm trees to a group of elderly people sitting on a bench.

  “What’re you gonna shoot, the regulars?”

  “Get ’em when they aren’t looking.”

  “Why don’t you come up after . . . do me.”

  She was serious or she was having fun. Either way, it didn’t matter.

  He said, “I don’t have any color.”

  She said, “Whatever you want to use, Joe, is fine with me.”

  He remembered sore feet from all that standing around steely-eyed in front of hotels and at rallies and fund-raisers, protecting important people. A numb butt from sitting in cars for days doing surveillance. Tired eyes from reading presidential pen-pal letters. Not even counting protective-detail duty in Mrs. Truman’s living room, a life that sounded exciting was 80 percent boredom.

  It had certainly taken a turn lately.

  He cruised Lummus Park in the Eastern Airlines wheelchair, using the Nikon with a 250-mm lens now to shoot across Ocean Drive to get porch sitters: panning a gallery of weathered faces, stopping on permanent waves, glasses flashing sunlight, false teeth grinning—peeking into their lives as he picked them off one at a time. Later on he would see their faces appear in clear liquid, in amber darkroom light, and would be alone with them again and want to ask them questions about where they’d been and what they’d seen. Raped by Cossacks, Franny said, or mugged by . . .

  The Cuban-looking guy said, “What’re you doing, taking pictures?”

  His hair was slicked down across his forehead and he wore a gold earring. But even without it LaBrava would have known him. The way he moved, for one thing, the way his hand drifted up to touch the wavy ends of his hair.

  LaBrava was happy to see him and gave him a smile and said, “Yep, that’s what I’m doing, taking pictures.”

  “You down here on your vacation?”

  “Just enjoying life,” LaBrava said.

  “Tha’s nice, you can do that.”

  The guy wore a black shirt that might be silk and fit him loose. He was skinny under there, a welterweight with that high compact ass in his cream-colored slacks, the shoes white, perforated.