Maurice said, "Yeah?" Sounding suspicious.
"You have to understand, first of all," Jean Shaw said, "he has a way about him. Very friendly, comes on with a certain country-boy charm. If you know the type I mean."
"Looks up at the condos with his mouth open," Maurice said, "scratching his ass."
"He looks you right in the eye, and he grins," Jean Shaw said. "He grins quite a lot. And he stands right on top of you when you're talking. He comes on like he's trying to be friendly, a nice guy, you know? But there's something intimidating about him. He's a little scary."
Maurice said, "I never saw the guy in my life I can tell you what his game is, Christ."
LaBrava listened.
"All the rich broads that live down here, lonely, don't know what to do with themselves..."
"Thanks a lot," Jean said.
"Not you. But even you, you gotta be careful."
"The ladies in the building think he's cute."
"Yeah? You think he's cute?"
"In a way, I suppose. He's attractive... He's awfully big though."
LaBrava did not think Nobles was cute in any way, by any supposition or measurement. He believed Nobles was dangerous, that you could look at him funny and set him off. But he said nothing. He listened.
"They come in all shapes and sizes looking for a score," Maurice said. "Find 'em in all the classier lounges."
Jean Shaw said, "Maury, I think I can spot a snake faster than you can. Don't worry about it."
"Then what're we talking about?"
"I haven't said this guy's out for anything in particular." She paused. "Other than what they're usually out for."
LaBrava saw her eyes come to him and hold for a moment as she sipped her drink. A familiar look from long ago, the calm dark eyes. A screen gesture... Or was it real?
"So what's his game?" Maurice said.
"He's a little too... familiar. That's all."
"He call you? Want to go out?"
"I did meet him a couple of times. Just for a drink."
"Jesus Christ," Maurice said.
"I didn't encourage him, I was being friendly. I'm not a snob."
"I'll tell you something," Maurice said. "At times you're not very smart either. Guys you get mixed up with."
She said, "Let's keep it simple, all right? I've never had trouble dealing with men, because I don't play games with them. I'm not a tease."
LaBrava listened. He didn't like the sound of "dealing with men." For a moment, thinking of her with other men, he was uncomfortable.
"But you happen to let this guy get too close," Maurice said. "That why you called me last week? You tell me you have a problem, then you don't want to talk about it." He glanced at LaBrava for confirmation.
She said, "Oh," and nodded with that look of resignation. She said, "Well, I was beginning to get a little scared. So I called you. But then as we were talking I thought, no, you're going to think I sound dumb. You're going to say all the things you've been saying, I'm a big girl and should know better. So I kept quiet... It's not your problem anyway."
LaBrava could close his eyes and listen and see her on the screen. The easy delivery, the slight huskiness in her voice, serious but calm, almost off-hand about it.
Maurice said, "So what happened you got scared?"
"He was in my apartment that afternoon, the day I called you." She seemed to be picturing it. "It was the way he made himself right at home. Like he was taking over."
Maurice said, "Wait a minute. He was in your apartment. You let him in?"
LaBrava listened.
"Months ago, like the first or second time we talked, I promised I'd show him one of my pictures."
Maurice said, "One of your movies."
"See, the way it started, he didn't believe I was an actress. We were talking about it and, in a weak moment, I promised I'd run one of my pictures for him. I have video cassettes of a couple. I think the only two available."
Maurice looked at LaBrava. "You catch that 'in a weak moment'?"
LaBrava was wondering which movies she had.
"I didn't invite him," she said, "he just came. I opened the door, there he was."
"Forced his way in."
"He talked me into it."
"Musta taken at least ten fifteen seconds," Maurice said, "talk a movie actress into showing one of her hits. So what would you say it was outweighed common sense? You miss being a celebrity? What?"
"He's standing there at the door, hat in hand. Grinning."
"Hat in hand--so you sit him down, just the two of you. The place is dark--"
"It was the middle of the afternoon."
"You show the movie, there you are, the star, bigger than life on the silver screen."
"On a television set, Maury."
"He sees you putting the make on Robert Mitchum, Robert Taylor, whoever, with that sexy come-hither look... Okay, the picture ends, lights're still low, the guy tries to climb all over you and you wonder why."
"That's not what I'm talking about," Jean Shaw said. "I can handle that end of it."
LaBrava listened.
"I'm talking about his attitude. The way he walks around the apartment, looks at my things. He's possessive and he's intimidating, without saying a word. He wants something and I don't know what it is."
"He wants you," Maurice said. "Guy like that, doesn't have any dough. What's he make? He wants you to keep him, buy him presents."
"I don't think so," she said. "He would've given me a few hints by now. Like he can't afford new clothes on his salary, wouldn't mind having a new car." Her eyes moved to LaBrava. "His sister's a cripple and needs an operation."
High Sierra, LaBrava thought.
"What he's doing, he's sneaking up," Maurice said.
Humphrey Bogart and Ida Lupino, LaBrava thought. He couldn't think of the name of the girl with the clubfoot.
"Doesn't want to move too fast and blow it," Maurice said. "Only he's too dumb to realize you can see it coming a mile away."
"See what coming?"
Maurice said, "Jeanie," taking his time, "is this guy in love with you? Is that a possibility?"
"He's in love with himself."
"Okay. Then he's looking for a free ride. Dinner at the club, some new outfits, little spending money... That's how those guys operate. They been around Miami Beach since the day they built the bridge."
"Maybe," she said. "But I think he's got something else in mind."
LaBrava said, "I do too."
Jean Shaw looked over. Maurice looked over.
"I don't think he has a particular lifestyle in mind," LaBrava said. "Dinner at the club... I think what he wants, if he's after anything at all, is a whole lot of money."
"Then there's nothing to worry about," Jean Shaw said, "because I don't have any."
On a stool in the darkroom LaBrava sat hunched over contacts of the stoned Cuban couple, Boza and Mendoza, who had posed for him this morning, moving a magnifier down the strips of miniature prints, deciding Lana had had the right idea ("How about one like this?"), the shot of her exposing herself was the best one. Not because of her bared chest, but because of her eagerness to show breasts that were lifeless and seemed too old for her, and because Paco, sitting below her in the wheelchair, didn't know what was going on. LaBrava felt sorry for the girl; he saw ambition but little about her that was appealing and believed she would be hard to live with.
He could look at this girl, Lana Mendoza, barely a name to him, and know her, while his mind was still upstairs with Jean Shaw, wondering.
Trying to see her clearly.
He caught glimpses of her in black and white from the past and now in soft color, the same person, pale features, the lady in lamplight, dark eyes coming to rest on him. Her eyes could do things to him without half trying. He believed she was beautiful. He believed she was vulnerable. He believed she looked at him in a different way than she looked at Maurice.
He had walked her down the hall to 304.
In the doorway she said, "I'm glad I came here." She kissed him on the cheek. She said, "Thank you," and was still looking at him as she closed the door.
Was that familiar? Seeing her eyes and then the door closing, filling the screen. He wasn't sure.
Why did she thank him?
He didn't do anything, offer advice. He listened.
He listened to her tell Maurice she was serious. She didn't have any money. Really. Not money as you thought of having money. She wasn't living on Social Security. But, she said, she didn't have that much to begin with. Jerry hadn't exactly left her set for life. Not after the IRS got through with him. Three audits in a row. LaBrava listened. All of his tax shelters disallowed. They had to sell the house on Pine Tree. Then his stock portfolio went to hell, he took a bath there. LaBrava listened. Between the government and the market Jerry was almost into bankruptcy when he died. That's what killed him, Jean Shaw said. Maurice didn't say much. He listened, watching her almost sadly, and seemed to nod in sympathy. He did ask her how she was fixed. She said well, she had the income from her piece of the hotel, she had a few stocks, she could sublease the apartment and move to a cheaper place. She said, with that dry delivery, she could always make appearances at condominium openings. "Screen Star Jean Shaw in Person." A developer had suggested it one time. Or, she said, if things got really bad she could team up with Marilyn, the bag lady, work up a routine. Maurice, serious, said come on, don't talk like that. He told her not to worry about her financial situation, not as long as he was around. There was no mention again of Richard Nobles.
Now, in the darkroom, Joe LaBrava wondered which of her movies she had showed Nobles. He wondered why she had said, "The way he walks around the apartment, looks at my things." Like Nobles had visited her more than that one time, to see the movie.
He wondered about her eyes, too, if she used them in a studied, theatrical way. Twice, while Maurice was speaking, he had felt her eyes and turned to see her watching him. He saw her eyes as she sipped her drink... as she closed her door.
I'm glad I came here.
And heard a girl's voice say, "Boy, you put in long hours, don't you?"
Franny Kaufman stood in the doorway. He smiled, glad to see her. He liked her, with the strange feeling they were old friends. "The Spring Song girl. You moved in?"
"Sorta. A friend of mine has a van helped me with the heavy stuff, the boxes. I still have some junk to get tomorrow."
"What room're you in?"
"Two-oh-four. It's not bad, I get morning light. I haven't seen any bugs yet." She wore jeans and a gas-station shirt that said Roy above the pocket, intricate silver rings on her fingers. She turned, looking around. "I didn't know you had all this."
"It's the old man's, really."
"I was just nosing around, seeing what's here." She came over to the counter. "Can I look?"
"Here, use the loupe," he moved aside, off the stool.
Franny took off her round glasses, bent over to study the contacts through the Agfa magnifier, inching it over the pictures, stopping, moving on. He looked at her strange hair that he liked, frizzed out on both sides--it seemed part of her energy--and looked at the slender nape of her neck, the stray hairs against white skin.
She said, "I've seen him around, but I haven't seen her. Which ones're you gonna print? No, wait. I bet I know the one you like the best. The one, the girl showing her tits. Am I right?"
"I think so," LaBrava said. "I'm gonna play with it, print it different ways, see what I get."
"It's sad, isn't it?" Franny said. "Except I get the feeling she's a ballbuster. I feel sorry for her, you know? But only up to a point. Was the pose your idea?"
"No, hers."
"What's her name?"
"Lana."
"Oh, that's perfect."
"Yeah, Lana gets the credit."
"But it didn't turn out the way she thought it would. You got something better. You do good work, Joe."
"Thank you."
"You do any nudes?"
"I have. A lady one time had me shoot her sitting on a TV set naked."
"Coming on to you?"
"No, she wanted her picture taken."
"Far out."
"It wasn't bad. She started with a fur coat on. Then she says, 'Hey, I got an idea.' Lets the coat fall open, she's got nothing on under it. They always say that, 'Hey, I got an idea,' like they just thought of it."
"I got an idea," Franny said. "Shoot me nude, okay? I want to do a self-portrait in pastels, send it to this guy in New York. I'm thinking life-size, reclined, very sensual. What do you charge for a sitting? Or a lying."
"You can buy lunch sometime."
"Really? But you have to promise not to send it to Playboy. This is for art, like Stieglitz shooting Georgia O'Keeffe in the nude. You ever see those?"
"They were married then."
She said, "They were?" surprised. She said, "You know what you're doing, don't you?"
"Sometimes."
"Are you tired? I mean right now."
"Not especially."
"Let's go outside, look at the ocean. That's the only reason to live here, you know it? The ocean and these weird hotels, both of them together in the same place. I love it."
They walked through the empty lobby.
"Yeah, I think reclined. Unless you've got some ideas."
"It's your painting."
"I'm gonna render myself about twelve pounds lighter and straighten my hair. See if I can turn the guy on."
They crossed the street past locked parked cars.
"I like your hair the way it is."
"Really? You're not just being nice?"
"No, I mean it."
And crossed the grass to the low wall made of cement and coral where she raised her face to the breeze coming out of darkness, off the ocean. "I feel good," Franny said. "I'm glad I came here."
"Somebody else told me that, just a little while ago." He sat down on the wall, facing the Della Robbia, looked up at the windows. Faint light showed in 304. "I'll tell you who it was. Jean Shaw."
Franny turned from the ocean, her face still raised. "Who's Jean Shaw?"
"You never heard of Jean Shaw?"
"Joe, would I lie to you?"
"She was a movie star. She was in pictures with Robert Mitchum."
"Well, obviously I've heard of Robert Mitchum. I love him."
"And some others. She was my favorite actress."
"Wow, and she's a friend of yours, uh?"
"I met her today."
"Is she the one, dark hair, middle-aged, she came out of the hotel this evening with you and Mr. Zola? We were in the van, we'd just pulled up."
"We went out to dinner." He thought about what he was going to say next and then said it, before he changed his mind. "How old you think she is?"
Franny said, "Well, let's see. She looks pretty good for her age. I'd say she's fifty-two."
"You think she looks that old?"
"You asked me how old I think she is, not how old I think she looks. She's had a tuck and probably some work done around the eyes. She looks about forty-five. Or younger. Her bone structure helps, nice cheekbones. And her complexion's great, you can tell she stays out of the sun, and I'll bet she buys protein fiber replenishers by the case. But her actual age, I'd have to say fifty-two."
"You think so?"
"Joe, you're talking to the Spring Song girl."
"Okay, how old am I?"
"You're thirty-eight."
He said, "You're right."
"But you don't look a day over thirty-seven."
Cundo Rey was driving his black Pontiac Trans Am that he had bought, paid for, black with black windows that Nobles said you couldn't see for shit out of at night, lights looked real weak, yellowish and you couldn't read signs at all. Cundo Rey let him bitch. He loved his Trans Am, he loved going slow in it like they were doing now even better than letting it out, because you could hear the engine rumble and pop, all that power cooking und
er the hood. Cundo was wearing blue silk with a white silk neckerchief, one of his cruising outfits. Nobles was still wearing his uniform, blue on blue, both the shirt epaulets hanging, the buttons torn off. Nobles said somebody had tried to give him a hard time. Cundo said, "It look like they did, too."
They were creeping along south on Ocean Drive, the strip of Lummus Park and the beach on their left, the old hotels close on their right, the other side of the bumper-to-bumper parked cars. "Netherland," Cundo Rey said, hunched over the steering wheel, looking up at signs. "Cavalier... There, the Cardozo. See? On that thing sticks out."
"The awning," Nobles said. "Okay, slow down."
"I'm going slow as this baby can go." He pushed in the clutch and gave it some gas to hear that rumble, get a few pops out the ass end.
A man and a girl with strange electric hair, crossing the street in the headlight beams, looked this way.
"There it is, on the corner. Della Robbia. I don't see a number but that's it," Nobles said, "where her friend took her." And then said, "Jesus Christ--" turning in his bucket seat, both hands moving over the door. "Where's the goddamn window thing?"
Cundo Rey glanced at him. "What's your trouble now?"
"Open the goddamn window."
"Man, I got the air on."
"Open the fucking window, will you! Turn around."
"Hey, what's the matter with you?" Cundo scowling.
Guy acting like he was going crazy, like he was trapped, clawing at the door.
"That's the guy, the fucker 'at hit me."
"Where? That guy with the girl?"
"Turn the fuck around, now."
They had to go down to Twelfth. Cundo backed into the street and came out to move north on Ocean Drive.
"Put your window down."
"I can see okay. Be cool. Why you want to get excited for?"
"I don't see 'em." Nobles hunched up close to the windshield.
"There," Cundo Rey said. "On the porch."
Nobles turned to look past Cundo, and kept turning.
"Guy is opening the door with a key," Cundo Rey said. "So he must live there too, uh? Is that the guy?"
"That's the guy," Nobles said, calm now, looking out the back as they crept past the Cardozo. "That's him." He didn't straighten around until they came to Fifteenth, where Ocean Drive ended and they had to go left over to Collins.
LaBrava Page 7
