Jill Wilkinson was alone in a semi-private room. She looked different, smaller and younger, out of character as victim. She had been diagnosed as having a slight concussion and was under twenty-four-hour observation, chewing on crushed ice when LaBrava came in.
"This is all I've had to eat since yesterday afternoon. You believe it? They won't give me anything else till I'm all better."
"You look pretty good."
"Thanks. I've always wanted to look pretty good."
He leaned over the bed, close to her, looking into her face clean of makeup. Her eyes were brown looking at his, waiting. "You look great. How's that?"
"Better."
"You fish for compliments?"
"I don't have to, usually."
"Your head hurt?"
"It's a little fuzzy. I feel dragged out. Used up."
"That what he did, he used you?"
"He tried to. He had ideas. God, did he have ideas."
"What stopped him?"
"I did. I said, 'You put that thing in my mouth I'll bite it off, I swear to God.' "
"Oh."
"He had to think about that. I told him I might be dead, but he'd be squatting to take a leak for the rest of his life."
"Oh."
"He put his gun in my mouth--and you know where he got that. And then that gave him the other idea."
"He hit you?"
Two people talking who knew about violence.
"He pushed me around. I tore his epaulets and he got mad. I tried to run in the bathroom and lock the door, but he came in right behind me, banged the door in, and I fell over the side of the tub and cracked my head against the tile."
"He had his uniform on."
"Yeah..."
"Were you knocked out?"
"I was sort a dazed, you know, limp, but I wasn't out all the way. He put me on the bed and sat down next to me--listen to this--and held my hand. He said he was sorry, he was just goofing around."
"Did he look scared?"
"I don't know, I wasn't all there." She shook the ice in the paper cup, raised it to her mouth and paused. "Wait a minute. Yeah, he tried to take my blouse off, he said he'd put me to bed, and I grabbed one of his fingers and bent it back."
"Then what?"
"Nothing, really."
"He touch you?"
"Did he give me a feel? Well, sorta. He gave it a try."
"You tell the police that part?"
She hesitated and he thought she was trying to remember.
"I didn't tell them anything."
"You didn't call the cops?"
"I called South County, my office. I got Mr. Zola's name and number and I called, but there was no answer. Last night."
"How'd you get my number?"
"I had your name. I took a chance you lived in South Beach, near Mr. Zola, so I called Information, this morning."
"You haven't told the cops anything."
"No."
He waited a few moments. "Why not?"
Now Jill waited. "He really didn't do anything. I mean you have to consider the kind of creepy stuff I run into every day, at work. A guy making a pass isn't all that much."
"How'd he get in your apartment?"
"I don't know."
"You don't think he broke in."
"No."
"What he did comes under attempted sexual battery. In this state it can get you life."
She said, "How do you know that?"
"But you say he really didn't do anything. What would he have to do?"
"You want to know the truth?"
"I'd love to."
"I'm going to Key West for ten days. It's my big chance to get out of that place and nothing's gonna stop me."
"What do you think he wanted?"
"I sign a complaint, I know damn well what'll happen. Get cross-examined at the hearing--didn't I invite him over? Offer him a drink? I end up looking like a part-time hooker and Mr. America walks. Bull shit. I've got enough problems." She coaxed ice into her mouth from the paper cup, paused and looked up at him. "What did you ask me?"
"What do you think he wanted?"
"You mean outside of my body? That's why I called--he wants you. 'Who was that boy, anyway?' " Giving it the hint of an accent. " 'What newspaper he with?' About as subtle as that crappy uniform he had on. He's a classic sociopath, and that's giving him the benefit of the doubt. I know his development was arrested. He probably should be too."
"But you're going to Key West."
"I've got to go to Key West. Or I'll be back in here next week playing with dolls. I don't think that asshole should be on the street, but I have to put my mental health first. Does that make sense?"
LaBrava nodded, taking his time, in sympathy.
She said, "He thinks you hit him with something."
"I should've," nodding again, seeing Mr. America in his silver satin jacket. The shoulders, the hands. "But there wasn't anything heavy enough."
"I told him you didn't hit him, you put him down and sat on him."
"Oh."
"That's when he got mad. I should've known better."
"Well, I don't think it would take much... Let me ask you, did he mention Mrs. Breen? The lady we picked up."
"No, I don't think so... No, he didn't."
LaBrava was at ease with her because he could accept how she felt and talk to her on an eye-to-eye level of understanding without buttering words to slip past emotions. She was into real life. Tired, that's all. He wouldn't mind going to Key West for a few days, stay at the Pier House. But then he thought of Jean Shaw and saw Richard Nobles again.
"How did he get in your apartment?"
"If I tell you I think somebody gave him the key, then we're gonna get into a long story about a naked Cuban who thinks he's Geraldo Rivera."
"Well," LaBrava said, "even Geraldo Rivera thinks he's Geraldo Rivera. But I could be wrong."
"Do my eyes look okay?"
"They're beautiful eyes."
"I see giant red things all over your shirt."
"I think they're hibiscus," LaBrava said. "What naked Cuban?"
* * *
Joe Stella said to Joe LaBrava, in the Star Security office on Lantana Road, across from the A. G. Holley state hospital, "You believe you can walk in here and start asking me questions? You believe I'm some wore-out cop's gonna roll over for you? I put in seventeen years with the Chicago Police, eight citations, and I've been here, right here, seventeen more. So why don't you get the fuck outta my office."
"We got two things in common," LaBrava said. "I'm from Chicago too."
Joe Stella said, "We aren't over in some foreign country on our vacation. Gee, you're from Chicago, uh? How about that, it's a small fucking world, isn't it? I run into people from around Chicago every day and most of 'em I just as soon not. You could be, all I know, from the license division, Secretary of State, come in here you don't have nothing better to do, see what you can shake loose."
"I'm not from the state, not Florida," LaBrava said. "I'm asking about one guy, that's all."
"See that?" Joe Stella said, the spring in the swivel chair groaning as he leaned back, motioned over his shoulder at the paneled wall.
LaBrava thought he was pointing to the underexposed, 5:00 P.M. color photo of a bluish Joe Stella standing next to a blue-black marlin hanging by its tail. The marlin looked about ten feet long, nearly twice the length of the man, but the man was about 100 pounds heavier.
"That's my license to run a security business," Joe Stella said, "renewed last month."
LaBrava's gaze moving to the framed document hanging next to the fish shot.
"I've posted bond, my insurance is paid up, I know goddamn well I am not in violation of any your fucking regulations 'cause I just got off probation. I spend a whole week running around, get the stuff together, make the appearance before the license division... I gotta show cause on my own time why they're full a shit and ought never've put me on probation. I have to show 'em it wasn't m
y fault the insurance lapsed one week, that's all, and long as I'm there show 'em in black and white all my guys are licensed, every one of 'em. Fine, they stamp a paper, I'm pardoned of all my sins I never committed. I'm back in business. I'm clean. So why don't you get the fuck out and leave me alone, okay? Otherwise I'm gonna have to get up and kick you the fuck out and I'm tired this morning, I had a hard night."
LaBrava got ready during Joe Stella's speech. When the man finished, sitting immovable, a block of stone, LaBrava said, "The other thing we have in common, besides both of us being from the Windy City, we'd like to keep the Director of Internal Revenue happy. Wouldn't you say that's true?"
Joe Stella said, "Oh, shit," and did sound tired.
"You're familiar with form SS-8, aren't you?"
"I don't know, there so many forms"--getting tireder by the moment--"What's SS-8?"
LaBrava felt himself taking on an almost-forgotten role--Revenue officer, Collection Division--coming back to him like hopping on a bike. The bland expression, the tone of condescending authority: I'm being nice, but watch it.
"You file payroll deductions, withholding, F.I.C.A.?"
"Yeah, a course I do."
"You never hire guards as independent contractors? Even on a part-time basis?"
"Well, that depends what you mean..."
"You're not aware that an SS-8 has ever been filed by a former employee or independent contractor? It's never been called to your attention to submit a reply?"
"Wait a minute--Jesus, you know all the forms you gotta keep track of? My bookkeeper comes in once a week, payday, she's suppose to know all that. Man, I'm telling you--try and run a business today, a bonded service. First, where'm I gonna get anybody's any good'd work for four bucks an hour to begin with?... Hey, you feel like a drink?"
"No thanks."
"You know who I get?"
"The cowboys."
"I get the cowboys, I get the dropouts, I get these guys dying to pack, walk around the shopping mall in their uniform, this big fucking .38 on their hip. Only, state regulation, they're suppose to pin their license--like a driver's license in a plastic cover--on their shirt. But they do that they look like what they are, right? Mickey Mouse store cops. So they don't wear 'em and the guy from the state license division sees 'em and I get fined a hunnert bucks each and put on probation ninety days. I also, to stay in business, I gotta post bond, five grand, and I gotta have three-hundred-grand liability insurance, a hunnert grand property damage. The insurance lapses a week cause the fucking insurance guy's out at Hialeah every day and it's my fault, I'm suspended till I show cause why I oughta not get fucked over by the state of Florida where I'm helping with the employment situation. I'm not talking about the federal government you understand. You guys, IRS, you got a job to do--keep that money coming in to run the government, send guns to all the different places they need guns, defend our ass against... you know what I'm talking about. Fucking Castro's only a hunnert miles away. Nicaragua, how far's that? It isn't too far, I know."
"Richard Nobles," LaBrava said, "he ever been arrested before?"
Joe Stella paused. "Before what? Jesus Christ, is that who we're talking about? Richie Nobles? Jesus, you can have him."
"You know where I can find him?"
"I think he quit. I haven't seen him in three days. Left the car, no keys, the dumb son of a bitch. All those big good-looking assholes, I think they get hair instead of brains. What's the matter, Richie hasn't paid his taxes? I believe it."
"What I'm curious about--guy applies for a job, you ask him if he's ever been arrested, don't you?"
"I did I'd be in violation of your federal law, invasion of privacy. I can't ask if the guy was ever a mental patient either. I can ask him, have you ever been convicted of a felony, or have you ever committed one and didn't get caught? But I can't ask him if he's ever been arrested."
"You did issue him a handgun."
"They buy their own."
"So he's got a license."
"You apply, you want to be an armed guard, you gotta get clearance through the FBI and the State Department of Law Enforcement. The guy--it takes months--he gets his license or he gets a certified letter in the mail saying he's turned down. But they don't notify me, ever."
"Have you seen his license?"
"Yeah, he showed it to me."
"Then he must be clean, uh? They checked him out."
Joe Stella said, "You ready for a drink now?"
LaBrava nodded. "Sounds good."
He watched Joe Stella push up from his desk. The man moved with an effort to get a bottle of Wild Turkey and glasses from a file cabinet, ice and a can of Fresca from a refrigerator LaBrava had thought was a safe. Pouring double bourbons with a splash of Fresca Joe Stella said, "First one today. What time is it? Almost ten-thirty, that's not bad. Long as you had breakfast." He handed a drink to LaBrava and sat down with the bottle close to him on the desk.
LaBrava took a good sip.
"Nice drink, huh?"
"Not bad."
"Refreshing with a little bite to it." Joe Stella took down half his drink. Poured another ounce or so of bourbon into it, and added a little more. He said, "Ahhh, man..."
"I bet he's been arrested," LaBrava said, "but never convicted, uh?"
Joe Stella said, "Richie's from upstate. Some of the boys here call him Big Scrub when he's in a good mood, call him Big Dick he'll grin at you. Otherwise nobody talks to him. You understand the type I mean?"
"I know him," LaBrava said.
"He was arrested up there, you're right, for destruction of government property. The son of a bitch shot an eagle."
"I understand he ate it," LaBrava said.
"I wouldn't be surprised. Richie'll eat anything. He'll drink almost anything. He came to work here he gave me a half gallon of shine with peaches in it, whole big peaches... That's a good drink, isn't it?"
"Nice."
"He shot the eagle he was living up around Ocala, the Big Scrub country. Richie was a canoe guide, he'd take birdwatchers and schoolteachers back in the swamp, show 'em nature and come out somewhere up on the St. Johns River. He wasn't doing that he'd run supplies for a couple of moonshiners, few hundred pounds a sugar a trip. These two brothers he knew had a still in there. So when he got busted for the eagle he traded off, gave the feds the two brothers and they got two to five in Chillicothe. I asked him, didn't it bother him any to turn in his friends? He says, 'No, it weren't no hill to climb.' " Joe Stella drank and topped it off again, the color of his drink turning clear amber in the window sunlight. "No, it weren't no hill to climb. He's around here more'n ten minutes I start to sound like a fucking cracker." Joe Stella took another drink and sat back. "You ever hear of Steinhatchee?"
"Sounds familiar."
"Way up on the Gulf side, where the Steinhatchee River comes out. Sleepy little place, the people there, they cut timber for Georgia-Pacific or fish mullet outta the river, use these skiffs they call bird-dog boats, make ten thousand a year, top. Till they saw their first bale of marijuana and found out they could make ten thousand a night--buy it offa shrimp boats'd come in there and wholesale it. These hardshell Baptists, all of a sudden they're getting rich in the dope business. They never smoked it, you understand, they just ran it. Well, Richie Nobles had a relative living over there and found out about it. So what do you think Richie does?"
"If he got rich," LaBrava said, "I know he didn't declare it."
"No, Richie believes marijuana is for sissies. But it bothers him these people that don't know shit're making all that money. So he tells the DEA and they send him in, see if he can join the business."
"Professional snitch," LaBrava said.
"Kind you people love, huh?" Joe Stella said. "Once he was in tight there, part of the deal, the feds wired him. Richie comes back with enough to bust all his new friends. Testified against 'em in Jacksonville federal court, change of venue to protect his ass, and put enough on his own rela-tive, some cracker name Buste
r something, to send him up to Ohio for thirty-five years. Second flop's the long one, the first time the guy only drew three."
"What's Richard get out of it?"
"Enemies. He knows anything he knows how to piss people off." Joe Stella hesitated, about to drink. He stared over the rim of his glass. "None of that's familiar?"
"Why would it be?"
"You don't know an old guy name Miney, huh? Miney"--looking over his desk, picking up a scrap of notepaper--"Combs. Father of Buster Combs, the one was sent up."
"Don't know 'em," LaBrava said.
"See, you're not the first one come looking for Richie. He's a popular boy."
"I can see why."
"This old guy was in here, talk just like Richie. He's the one told me about Steinhatchee. I asked Richie--it was only like a week ago--if it was true. He says, 'Yeah, I done more'n one favor for my Uncle Sam.' "
LaBrava said, "So he left the Big Scrub, came down here to work..."
"Came down to Dade with a federal recommendation, wanting to join the police. Miami and Dade-Metro he says wouldn't even talk to him. He was a gypsy cop for a while, worked for Opa-locka, Sweetwater, Hialeah Gardens, got fired for taking bribes, one thing or another, and came to work for me."
"Where's he live?"
"Same thing the old guy asked. I don't know. I never was able to reach him on a number he gave me. A woman'd answer and say, 'No, he ain't here and I hope I never see the son of a bitch again.' Words to that effect, they'd say it different ways and hang up."
"Any of the women sound... older or educated, like they were well off?"
"I don't know how well off, I know they were pissed off."
"Why'd you keep him on?"
"I thought I explained it, Christ, try and get help aren't all misfits or retirees, old geezers... You want another drink? I think I'll have one."
"No, I'm fine."
Joe Stella pushed up to get himself another ice cube and the can of Fresca, stumbled against the desk as he came back and sat down again. "I think you laid a smoke screen on me. You aren't with the IRS, are you?... Gimme that Windy City shit, I bet you never even been to Chicago."
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