La Brava

by Elmore Leonard

  He had to think about that. "Yeah, sorta."

  "Are you sure he'll do whatever you tell him?"

  "No problem. The little fella's greedy."

  She was staring at him now, hard.

  When he'd decided she didn't intend to speak, Nobles said, "Listen, maybe we ought to get our heads together here," coming around the coffee table to ease down next to her, "get this deal fine-tuned." But he was no sooner down, she was up.

  Going over to the television set with her straw bag, telling him, "Stay there, I'll be back."

  Not sounding mad or anything, just peculiar. He watched her pick up a couple of video cartridges and shove them into the straw bag, a big roomy one. She dropped the bag over on a chair, like she didn't want to forget it when she left. Then she stooped down, opened the cabinet beneath the shelves and he stared at her fanny as she brought out a third video cartridge. This one she snapped into the VCR, the movie player, and turned on the television set, telling him he could carry the recorder down to the car after.

  "After what? We gonna see a movie?"

  "Part of one." She stepped away from the set.

  Nobles laid his arm across the sofa's backrest, waiting for her, but she stood there watching the screen as music came on over the Columbia Pictures logo. The music quit. For a moment the screen was black. Then the picture's musical score began, dirge-like, a promise of doom, as the screen turned white and the main title appeared, a single word within a black border, OBITUARY.

  "I saw this one."

  "I want you to see it again. The first part."

  "That's all I ever seen, like half of it. How's it end?"

  "Be quiet," Jean said.

  "There you are," Nobles said, reading the titles. "Starring Victor Mature. Jean Shaw. Victor Mature--yeah, I remember this one, he's the cop. Which one's Shepperd Strudwick?"

  "My husband."

  "Henry Silva. Which one's he play?"

  Nobles looked up. Jean was walking out of the room. He said, "Hey, get us a cold drink, okay?" He wouldn't mind something to eat, either, and raised his voice. "You know how to make a Debbie Reynolds?"

  No answer.

  Maybe she'd surprise him. Yeah, he remembered this one. Starts with the funeral. Jean Shaw standing there dressed all in black with her husband, old enough to be her daddy, biting his lip, man with a nervous stability, rich but afraid of dying, having to leave the cemetery in a hurry. Running off to his limousine. There, going in close to Jean Shaw watching him leave. Looking through her veil at her eyes. Something going on in her head and not sweet affection for her hubby, from the look of it.

  Jean came back in the room holding something in both hands wrapped in tissue paper he hoped was a snack of some kind. She sat down next to him on the sofa, close, and Nobles said, "What a we got there, hon?" She didn't answer. She unwrapped the tissue paper and handed him--Jesus Christ--a little bluesteel automatic.

  "The hell's this for?" Nobles looked at it, read on the side Walther PPK/S Cal. 9mm and some words in a foreign language. It was a little piece, the barrel only a couple of hairs better than three inches long.

  Jean said, "I want you to show me how it works. I used to know, but I've forgotten."

  "Where'd you get it?"

  "It was my husband's. Be careful, I think it's loaded."

  "Hey, I know how to handle guns. What do you want this peeshooter for?"

  "Just in case."

  "We ain't robbing a bank, sugar."

  She said, "Let's watch the picture. You can show me later."

  Her tone sounded encouraging, soft and husky again. She could sound pissy one minute and like she was in heat the next. He brought his arm down from the back of the sofa and she snuggled right up against him. Yeah, she seemed to be getting in the mood herself, staring at herself in the moving picture. It tickled him to see her watching herself, hardly ever blinking her eyes, her mouth open just a speck.

  He bent his head to whisper to her, "My but that's a cute-looking woman. I wouldn't mind loving her up some."

  She said, "Shhhh," but laid her hand on his thigh, the red tips of her fingers touching the inside seam of his blue jeans. She began to pick at the seam as she watched herself. Pretty soon she'd begin to scratch him. He liked it when she scratched him. She was a good scratcher.

  Chapter 17

  FRANNY SAID, "Oh man. Man oh man." She said, "I bet there's a guy somewhere right now--he's in Boston, but I forget what school it is--he's looking at a seismograph and he's going, 'Holy shit, look at this,' like he's got about a seven point five on his Richter and there's got to have been a major earthquake in the last five minutes or a volcano, another Mt. St. Helens, and this guy's seismograph is going crazy--a major disturbance, look, somewhere in Florida, and they narrow it down however they do it and the guy goes, 'Look, in South Beach. Ocean Drive and Thirteenth. Wait. Room two-oh-four, the Della Robbia Hotel. But what could it've been?' You know what it was? It was everything coming together--and I don't mean it that way, but that's true too, huh?--no, I mean everything, the light, the sepia tones, the room, the mood, Smokey and the Miracles, Marvin Gaye and then no sound at all, absolute silence right after. Did you notice?"

  "You're saying you had a good time?"

  "To feel my loins consumed by a scorching torrent of liquid fire? It wasn't bad."

  "You make a lot of strange sounds."

  "I know I do. I can't help it."

  "You talk, too."

  "Yeah, but I keep it relevant."

  "You keep it basic."

  "You make faces."

  "Out of control."

  "No, even before. But mostly you smile. You look a person right in the eye..."

  "You want your wine?"

  "Goddamn pillow. There's one that's digging into me... There. Next time however..."

  "What?"

  "I don't want to sound presumptuous."

  "Next time in the bedroom."

  "The next time you take my picture."

  "I'll shoot it now if you want."

  "I have to tell you something, LaBrava. I love your name--I'm gonna call you LaBrava from now on. I have to tell you, there's no guy in New York I want to send a self-portrait to. I lied."

  "Women who want to be shot in the nude, they want their picture taken. It's okay with me."

  "That wasn't it. I wanted to go to bed with you. You know why?"

  "Tell me."

  "Because I knew it would work. I mean I knew it would be the complete, ultimate act, every part of it first rate."

  "First rate--"

  "Certain types, when you see the person you just know. You know what I mean? Also I like older guys. You're not that old, but you're still older. You've been to bed with the movie star, haven't you?"

  "You can't ask a question like that."

  "I know, but the reason I did--well, I'm sure you have, otherwise you'd have said no, you haven't. I think. But the reason I mention it--"

  "This's gonna be good."

  "If it was just for fun and not serious--I mean if you're not in love with her, and I don't think you are or you wouldn't be here. Some guys, it wouldn't matter, but not you. Anyway, if it was just for fun with the movie star, you weren't exactly disappointed, but it wasn't the big thrill you thought it was gonna be either. How do I know that? Because you like it sorta wacky, goof around and have a good time. I knew that just from talking to you. But she's too much into herself for that. I don't mean because she's especially proper or ladylike. I can tell she gets right down to business and it's more like jogging with somebody than making love. You know what I mean? Of course you do."

  "You're sure of that."

  "Oh shit--now you're mad at me."

  "What'm I supposed to say?"

  "What're you doing now, pouting? Christ--"

  "I'm not doing anything."

  "I'm sorry. I thought we were pals."

  There was a silence.

  "We're pals. Here's your wine."

  "Thanks."
<
br />   "You said you thought she was nice."

  "I do, I like her."

  "But you think she's too much into herself."

  "I get the feeling she's always on stage."

  "Not altogether honest?"

  "No, I don't mean she's devious. It's just that she's never right out in front. Movie stars, they either seem to fade away or James Dean out, but Jean--maybe she's played so many different parts she doesn't know who she is anymore."

  "She always played the same one."

  "Well, there you are. What do I know."

  "But you like her."

  "Sometimes, that quiet way you have of sneaking up--you know what you sound like?"

  "A cop?"

  "You sound like a cop."

  Nobles told her sometime he'd like to see how it ended, it was just getting good. She asked if he thought the beginning slow. He said no, he meant it was getting even better. It was a real good movie. It was fun to watch her put on that sexy look and work her scheme.

  He said, "Just tell me, do they catch you or not?"

  Jean said, "No, but something happens I never expected."

  They had talked, going over the plan in detail. Now Jean had him sitting at her desk in what she called her study. It was full of books and framed pictures of guys Jean told him were famous movie producers and directors. Nobles did not know any of them or was able to read the names they signed. One guy, Harry Cohn, she said he'd owned a movie studio but acted more like a gangster than any real gangster she had ever known. She had told Nobles about some of the S & G Syndicate people her husband worked for and they hadn't sounded very tough to him. They sounded like any dagos that dressed up in suits and snap-brimmed hats and showed off by spending money. That wasn't being tough. Being tough was doing brutish work as a boy, getting into fights on Saturday night and drinking till you foundered. Being tough was going into dark places with a .357 and a sap and praying to Jesus some nigger would try to jump you. Being tough--shit, it was not poking your fingers at a typewriter that looked like a little toy one.

  He'd told her he didn't know how to work it. She said he showed her how to use the gun, she'd show him how to use the typewriter. He was suppose to put what she dictated to him into his own words.

  Like Jean said, very slowly, "You know what will happen to you now. You will die. If you don't--"

  He said, "Wait, hold it." He kept forgetting to press down the key on the left side, hold it down, to make a capital letter. She told him to type the capital letter over the small letter. It would be all right if it was messy. Nobles said, "Neatness don't count in a deal like this, huh?"

  "If you don't leave the money--" She stopped and said, "No, start over. In all capital letters--push the one right above it down and it locks. Here." She did it for him, leaning over him, giving him her nice perfume smell. "Now, the first line, all in caps, your life is worth six hundred thousand dollars. Go ahead."

  He typed, YOUR LIFE IS WORTH $--)),)))

  He said, "Shit, I can't type."

  She didn't get mad. She pulled the sheet out and rolled in a clean one, regular tablet paper with lines, telling him not to touch it, and he decided schemers had to be patient so as not to seriously fuck up. She bent over the side of the desk and began writing in the tablet, printing the words faster than he had ever seen anybody write. She said, "There," when she'd finished, "that's what the note should say. But you have to put it in your own words."

  He read what she had written and said, "This here looks fine to me."

  She said, "Listen to yourself. That's what I want it to sound like."

  It didn't make any sense to him that writing would sound like a person. Writing was writing, it wasn't like talking. But he did as he was told, fought that dinky typewriter and finished the note.

  Jean said, "All right, read it to me."

  " 'Your life is worth six hunnert thousand dollars,' " Nobles began, rolling the sheet up out of the typewriter, remembering not to touch it. " 'You have three days to get the money. It must be used money with nothing smaller than a twenty and nothing bigger than a hunnert dollar bill and don't say you can't get it. You are worth a sight more than that.' " Nobles looked up. "I added that part."

  "Fine," Jean said. "Go on."

  "Let see. 'Get four thousand hunnerts, three thousand fifties and twenty-five hunnert twenties.' " Nobles paused. "How you know the bag'll hold it?"

  "It will," Jean said. "Go on."

  " 'You are to put the money in a Hefty thirty-gallon, two-ply trash bag. Put this one in another Hefty trash bag of the same size and tie it closed with some type of wire. Hay-baling wire is good. You will be told where to take the money. If you do not do as you are told you will die.' I like that part. '... you will die.' Underlined. 'If you try any tricks you will die. If you tell the police or anybody you will die. Look at your car. You know this is not just a threat. You have two days to get the money and your car fixed. I am watching you.' Underlined. I said baling wire there, so it won't come undone. Is that okay?"

  "Good idea," Jean said. She leaned close to him to look at the note. "You misspelled baling, as in hay-baling wire."

  "Shit," Nobles said.

  "That's all right, leave it," Jean said. "But if the police question you they might get tricky and pick up on that word, ask you how to spell it."

  "Yeah?"

  "There's no e in it. It's b-a-l-i-n-g."

  "That's balling," Nobles said and started to grin and said, "Hey, puss..."

  "Richard, we have a lot of work to do and I have to get back."

  He hunched in to look at the note with her. "Hey, what should we sign it?"

  "Well, Cordially, would be nice," Jean said. "No, that's fine the way it is. Now we'll write what you're going to say when you call, so you'll have it word for word. You'll tell me to go to a phone booth, you'll call me there at a certain time." Nobles was shaking his head. She said, "What's the matter?"

  "Nuh-uh, they're gonna have traps on the phone. Shit, I know that much. I seen the feds do it when I was on the Opa-locka Police, setting up drug busts. They can't prove what I write, but they can sure as hell get my voice print on a phone. You have to tell 'em where you're suppose to go, don't you? Make it look real?"

  "Yeah, you're right."

  "By the time you get to Boca they got a trap on the phone booth. It tells 'em right away what number I'm calling from. See, it's different from a movie. They got equipment now, shit, you don't have a chance of doing something like that. You might as well give 'em your phone number."

  Jean said, "All right, we'll do it with notes. Instead of a call I receive a note at the hotel, telling me where to go..."

  "Find it on the porch, say."

  "I'll go to the phone booth in Boca, find another one--"

  "Hold it there. I'm being watched how'm I gonna put the note in the phone booth?"

  "I'll have it with me," Jean said. "Make it look as though I found it. Hello--what's this?"

  "That'd work."

  "The note tells me to go to my apartment." She gave him a wink. "Got it?"

  "Gotcha."

  "I find another note, slipped under the door."

  "You have it with you too."

  "Or we write it now and leave it here."

  "Yeah?" Nobles was thinking. "You know where you go next?"

  "Of course."

  "Got the whole deal worked out, haven't you?"

  "Every step. The only change, notes instead of phone calls. I like it even better--they'll be playing with all their electronics for nothing."

  "They love it, the feds, all that technical shit. Where's my little Cuban come in at?"

  "The next stop."

  "You're still gonna have a tail on you, you know that."

  Jean nodded, smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a slow stream. Boy she was calm.

  "All I'll need is to be out of their sight for about twenty seconds."

  "You got the place?"

  "I've got the place. I'm pr
etty sure. But I'm going to look at it again when I leave here."

  "Cundo's gonna take it from you by force."

  "There's no other way," Jean said. "But I'll cooperate, you can be sure of that. Does he have a gun?"

  "Doesn't like guns or rough stuff. Talks big but being half queer he's girlish."

  Jean said, "Okay, we'll write the notes. We'll need three..." She paused. "You'll have to take the typewriter with you when we're finished here."

  "Yeah, I guess I better."

  "Drop it in the Intracoastal. That area just before you come to the Hillsboro Inlet, there're a lot of trees."

  "It's a shame, it's a nice typewriter."

  "Richard?"

  "Don't worry, I'll get rid of it. Or I could sell it."

  She said, "Oh, Christ."

  "Just kidding. Don't you worry, it's good as done."

  She was thinking or worrying about something though. This little schemer--boy, she was a sketch.

  She said, "Does your friend Cundo know where you live?"

  "You mean up here or down there?"

  "In Lake Worth."

  "Nobody does, 'cept you."

  "You can't go there while you're being watched."

  "I know it."

  "Promise?"

  Nobles said, "Hey, you think I'm stupid or something?"

  She thought of handkerchiefs and how simply it was done in the movies: Henry Silva making phone calls with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, in a time before electronic surveillance; the movie cop using a handkerchief to pick up the murder weapon. Henry Silva had used a second-hand typewriter and dropped it off the side of his boat on their good-luck cruise to Catalina, their last time together before her husband would receive the letter--$150,000 or you're dead. Impressive enough as a pre-inflation demand; today it would hardly be worth the risk. She remembered her line: "You can't come near the boat as long as the cops are tailing you." (Beat) "Promise?" And Henry Silva's line: "Do I look stupid?"

  Some of it was different, some of it almost exactly the same. One thing she was certain of, it wouldn't end the way the movie did.

  Chapter 18

  THE OLD MAN SAID it was Joe Stella up in Lantana had given him this address, so he had come on down in his pickup truck. There it was across the street. It had dust-settle on top of that salt stickiness and he hadn't had no place to wash it, being too busy looking for his sister's boy, Richard Nobles. The old man said his name was Miney Combs.