LaBrava

by Elmore Leonard

“Tha’s a nice camera you have.”

  “Thanks. How about if I take a picture of you?”

  “No, tha’s okay.”

  “I like to get shots of the natives.”

  “Man, you think I’m a native?”

  “I mean the people that live here, in Florida.”

  The Cuban-looking guy said, “Tha’s an expensive camera, uh?” He hadn’t taken his eyes from it.

  “With the lens it runs about seven and a quarter.”

  “Seven hundred dollars?”

  “The camera cost me five hundred.”

  “Oh, man, is a nice one, uh? You let me see it?”

  “If you’re careful.” LaBrava had to take his hat off to lift the strap over his head.

  “No, I won’t drop it. Is heavy, uh?”

  “Hang it around your neck.”

  “Yeah, tha’s better.”

  LaBrava watched him raise the camera, almost as though he knew what he was doing, and sight toward the ocean, the breeze moving strands of the guy’s raven hair.

  Lowering the camera, looking at it, the guy said, “Yeah, I like it. I think I’ll take it.”

  LaBrava watched the guy turn and walk off. Watched the easy, insolent movement of his hips.

  Watched him take four, five, six strides, almost another one before he stopped—knowing the guy was going to stop, because the guy would be thinking by now, Why isn’t he yelling at me? Now the guy would be wondering whether or not he should turn around, wondering if he had missed something he should have noticed. LaBrava saw the guy’s shoulders begin to hunch. Turn around and look—the guy would be thinking—or take off.

  But he had to look.

  So he had to turn around.

  LaBrava sat in the wheelchair waiting, his curvy-brimmed Panama shading his eyes, the guy fifteen to twenty feet away, staring at him now.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Holding the camera like he was going to take LaBrava’s picture.

  The guy said, “I have to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah, I can walk.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you?”

  “You mean, you want to know if you took off could I catch you and beat your head on the pavement? There is no doubt in my mind.”

  “Listen—you think I was going to take this camera?”

  “Yeah, I did. You changed your mind, uh?”

  “No, man, I wasn’t going to take it. I was kidding you.”

  “You gonna give it back to me?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “Well?”

  The guy lifted the strap, brought it over his head. “I could leave it right here.” Stepping over to the low cement wall. “How would that be?”

  “I rather you hand it to me.”

  “Sure. Of course.” Coming carefully now, extending the camera. “Yeah, is a very nice one . . . Here you are,” reaching sideways to put it in LaBrava’s hand and stepping back quickly, edging away.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing is the matter. No . . .”

  “I’d like to take your picture. What do you say?”

  “Well, I’m busy now. We see each other again sometime.”

  “I mean in my studio.” Motioning, thumb over his shoulder like a hitchhiker. “Up the street at the Della Robbia Hotel.”

  The guy’s reaction was slight, but it was there, in his eyes for part of a moment, then in his casual gesture, touching the curly ends of his hair.

  “Tha’s where you live, uh?”

  “I’ve got like a studio right off the lobby. When you want to come?”

  He hesitated now. “Why you want to take my picture?”

  “I like your style,” LaBrava said, not sure how many movies it was from. Ten? A hundred? “You ever do any acting?”

  The guy was saying something. It didn’t matter. LaBrava raised the Nikon and snapped his picture. Snick.

  15

  * * *

  MAURICE STOOD ON THE BALCONY that ran the length of Jean Shaw’s tenth-floor apartment. The Atlantic Ocean was right there. All of it, it seemed to Maurice, the whole ocean from right downstairs to as far as you could see. It was too close, like living on a ship. He said, “I sat out here at night with that surf making noise, I’d drink too. It drive you crazy.”

  She said from the living room, “You know that isn’t my problem.”

  “Yeah? Well, I would a thought I drank more than you do,” Maurice said, “but I never threw a glass at a cop car.”

  “I didn’t throw the glass. I explained that, I was in a funny mood.”

  “They laugh? You were a guy the cops would a beat your head in, for showing disrespect. You know what your problem is? Living in a place like this. There’s no atmosphere. All you got is a view.” He moved to the doorway, looked into the silvery, mirrored living room. Jean stood with two hanging bags draped over a chair done in white satin. “You got to be careful not to confuse class with sterility. Clean can be classic. It can also bore the shit outta you.”

  She said, “Well, you built the place.”

  “I didn’t build it.”

  “You know what I mean. You’ve been into more developments like this than anyone I know . . . Living on South Beach like a janitor.”

  “Manager’s fine. Don’t put me down.”

  “What’re you into now?”

  “I’m resting my money, mostly tax-free bonds. We get a Democrat in there, everything’ll pick up again.”

  “You still giving to the Seminoles?”

  “Miccosukis. Some of ’em with runaway nigger slave blood in ’em. They appealed to my imagination.”

  “And your pocketbook.”

  “I made some good friends. Buffalo Tiger, Sonny Billy, they taught me to drink corn beer. We had some laughs, I got some good shots . . . And I don’t give money to ’em. It’s a foundation—send a few Miccosukis to school every year ‘stead of selling airboat rides and shooting the heads off frogs. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Jerry thought you were crazy,” Jean said. “I used to love to hear you argue. He couldn’t believe it—all the money you were giving away.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m giving some to the whales, too. What would Jerry say about that, uh? I’d started a foundation for used-up lawyers he’d a loved it.”

  She said, “Well, Jerry wasn’t the brightest guy I ever married.” She sighed. “I thought he was going to be a winner, too.”

  Maurice said, “He stayed with the wrong guys too long, Jeanie, you and I both know that. They ate him up—used him, used his dough, he had no recourse. Who’s he gonna go to, the FBI? He hadn’t died of a heart attack, he’d a died a much worse kind of way, even thinking about pulling out. Up to Kefauver everybody’s having a ball, nothing to it, you could deal with those guys. Frank Erickson, Adonis, any of ’em. After Kefauver, no way, they don’t trust nobody.”

  She said, “Jerry was dumb. There’s no other way to describe him.”

  “May he rest in peace.”

  “Yeah, wherever he is—died and gone to hell. But it doesn’t help my situation.”

  Maurice said, “Jeanie, any woman I know would trade places with you in a minute. You got the looks, guys’re attracted to you—sometimes the wrong type, I’ll grant you. You got a nice life . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “What’s your problem? I know—don’t tell me. But outside a money, what? You want money? I’ll give you money. Tell me what you need.”

  She walked over to the television set, built into black formica shelves. “I don’t want to forget the recorder.” She picked up two tape cartridges in boxes. “Or the movies. You want to see them?”

  “Of course I do. You know that.”

  She said, “Maury, I already owe you, what, sixty thousand.”

  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 m
e 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.