LaBrava

by Elmore Leoanrd

"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 me 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.

  He compared it also to the National Hotel in Havana. The National Hotel was as dirty as this place, but instead of people who looked like convicts, there were Russians staying there, Russians smelling of garlic, talking in loud voices, complaining. They complained like children who didn't like their dinner. They didn't complain of things worth complaining about. What did they know? They didn't work on the housing brigade
in Alamar twelve hours a day breathing cement dust. The Russian he had known was an engineer or a technician of some kind. In his room he had vodka, bars of chocolate, boxes of rubbers and dirty picture books he had bought in New York City. The Russian hated Cuba. Say Cooba with his garlic breath and spit on the floor. Cundo Rey, aching to leave, dying for the chance, defended his country because he hated the Russian and had gone back to the man's room late at night. He had almost wasted his life because of the Russian, using the Russian's own gun.

  Thinking, Oh well, that was done.

  Then thinking about the guy in the wheelchair again, because that wasn't done.

  How many guys who lived in the Della Robbia Hotel took photographs of people from a distance, unseen, with a telephoto lens? Sure it was the same guy who had taken the photographs of Richard--oh shit, seeing Richard in his mind again...

  And seeing a guy who was called David Vega coming into the lobby. David Vega had looked at him as though he knew him, but had never approached to speak to him. So he watched David Vega whenever he saw him.

  When Javier came in David Vega was still in the lobby, drinking a Coca-Cola from the machine. So Cundo didn't greet Javier, pretending not to notice him. Javier would see this and do the same.

  Cundo waited several minutes before going up to Javier's room. He accepted a glass of rum as a formality and listened as Javier expressed his desire to move to South Miami. There was no hurry. Listening to Javier kept him from thinking about his car in the hands of Richard the swamp creature. Javier finished his rum before he brought the metal footlocker out of the closet, worked the combination and opened the lid to display his wares.

  "Any pistol you want," Javier said, "wholesale price to a Marielito. Machine gun one-third off. MAC-10 cost you eight hundred."

  "Something small," Cundo Rey said.

  "You want a snubbie. This one, .38 Special, two-inch barrel. Same kind the Charlie's Angels use."

  "Yeah?"

  "Also Barney Miller."

  "Wrap it up," Cundo Rey said.

  Chapter 16

  NOBLES HAD HIS GRIN READY. The door opened and he said, "Well, look-it who's here, huh?"

  He'd decided she would be all eyes, surprised as hell. But she wasn't. Or didn't act it. She gave him a stare like she wasn't going to move.

  He said, "Sugartit, I don't want to knock you down but I been in the car it seems like all day. I gotta go pee pee so bad I'm gonna be spitting in another minute. It just come on me."

  So she had to get out of his way--it was a fact, he would have picked her up and moved her--had to let him through to run down the hall to her bathroom.

  Nobles loved it in here, it was full of perfume bottles, bath oils and powder in pale-colored boxes, all kinds of good-smelling stuff. He would like to look in her medicine cabinet sometime, poke around and find intimate things. It was so clean in here, no rust stains in the toilet or the washbasin. He looked around at all her girlish stuff relieving himself, groaning sighs and finally shuddered. Oh man.

  She was still in the parlor, sitting at one end of the sofa now, her straw bag on her lap, legs crossed to show him her knee above the chrome coffee table. She seemed calm now, not drilling him with her eyes, though not with what he'd call a sweet expression, either.

  He said, "You glad to see me?"

  Huh-uh, she didn't look too. She said to him, "Richard, what are you doing here?" Calm and patient, like she was talking to a child.

  He said, "I missed you. Did you miss anybody?"

  She said, "What am I going to do with you, Richard?"

  That was better. He gave her a grin. "Well, let's see..."

  She said, "You're just a big loveable bear, aren't you?"

  He had never thought of himself that way. Shit--a bear. He said, "You got anything cold to drink? Man, I'm thirsty from sitting in that car." He started for the dining room, all shiny glass and silver in there, to go through to the kitchen.

  When she said, "Richie?" and he glanced over, walking past her, he saw the pictures laid out on the coffee table, his own familiar self looking up at him and he stopped, not too thirsty anymore.

  He put his hands on his hips. The first thing he thought to say was, "Man, I would like to know what's going on--this guy taking my pitcher." He squinted his eyes, looking up at Jean then. "Wait a minute. How'd you get 'em?"

  Jean said, "Richard, you're priceless."

  "I want to know how you got 'em."

  "He gave them to me. How else?"

  "What's he doing--he with a newspaper or what?"

  "No, he's not with a paper. He goes out and takes pictures of people." She seemed to think about it a moment, not quite sure. Then nodded. "That's what he does."

  "You don't have to get permission?" Nobles said, indignant now. "Just take pitchers of anybody you want?"

  "Would you like to sue him? How about invasion of privacy?"

  "Shit, it oughta be against the law."

  She said, "You could go to the police..."

  Wouldn't that be something. Get some cop he knew, like Glenn Hicks up in Boca, to come down on the scudder.

  "Except they're going to find out about you anyway. He wants to give them a set of pictures."

  Nobles had to squint again, trying to see this business in his head. It was a queer feeling to know somebody had been watching every move he made, like every time he stepped out of the daylight darkness of that black car. He was right back where he started, asking, "What in the hell's going on?" Asking, "Who is he, anyway?"

  Jean said, "It's not so much who he is--his name is Joe LaBrava--but what he used to be. Joe was a Secret Service agent for nine years, Richard. He keeps his eyes open, doesn't miss a thing."

  Nobles felt just a little bit relieved and said, "Hell, I know boys work as gover'ment agents. You help them out, they help you out. You work a deal."

  She said, "Richie, do you know what you're talking about?"

  He didn't like that bored goddamn ho-hum tone at all and she'd better watch it. He stayed calm though and listened. Heard her say:

  "This man knows all about you. He knows you've been bothering me. He knows I can't discourage you, no matter how hard I try."

  Learning amazing things from her now.

  "Wait. You told him that?"

  And saw her eyes catch fire.

  "I had to, you dummy. He saw you. He asked me about you."

  It stung him. But he kept his mouth shut and she seemed to settle back and it was quiet. He could hear the ocean.

  She said, "Why you came to the clinic--God, I'll never know."

  "I wanted to get you out of there."

  She said, "Richard," her normal calm self again, "why do you think I got drunk? Why did I walk out of the bar? Do you know how long I had to wait for a police car? I thought I was going to have to go find one. Richard, before I left, what did I say?"

  "The bar?"

  "Before I walked out with the drink."

  "What'd you say? You said a lot of things."

  "I asked you not to drink so much."

  "I was keeping up with you is all."

  "I said trust me. Do you remember that?"

  "Yeah, I remember."

  "I wrote it on a napkin. Trust me. And told you to put it in your pocket. Trust me and wait, I'll call you. The police drive me to the place in Delray. I have them call Maurice and he comes immediately, anxious to take care of me."

  "Yeah?"

  "I stay with him. We talk. He feels even closer to me than before. He feels responsible for me. He wants to help me no matter what happens..."

  "Yeah, but you didn't tell me any of that part--how you were gonna bring him in."

  "If you trust me, Richard, I don't have to tell you anything... Do I?"

  "Well, you could a told me something. Shit, I didn't know." He began to get tender feelings again, admiration. This little lady had put it all together, thought it up all by herself.

  She said, "What did you do, the night at the clinic, start
a fight? I was afraid you'd get into something."

  "It was the guy, the one you're talking about. The scudder blindsided me while I'm talking to the girl there."

  "Well, you picked the wrong guy, Richard."

  "I didn't pick him--"

  She said, "Listen to me. All right?"

  She could be so calm no matter what, keeping her voice low and a little bit husky. He would look at her and get that tender feeling and not care how old she was. She was good looking, she smelled good, had nice legs--that knee looking at him, a little thigh showing...

  "You've brought a man into it," she was telling him now, "who knows how to watch people, how to follow them. He was onto you for days and you didn't see him, did you?"

  "I wasn't looking especially."

  "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. The police are going to get involved anyway, sooner or later, so maybe it doesn't make any difference. You're going to be the obvious suspect. Especially now. You've not only been bothering me, you've practically advertised--with pictures to prove it--you're into extortion, in one form or another."

  "Hey, I was offering my service--"

  "Richard."

  "Yeah. Go on."

  "They can't convict you with pictures. They've got to catch you in the act, destroying property, threatening someone. So I don't think the photographs are going to do us any harm. We have to have a suspect to make it believable and, Richard, I have to say, you're perfect."

  He said, "I appreciate that."

  "They might question you."

  "I know it."

  "They'll be convinced you're the guy."

  "So?"

  "It's going to be up to you, Richard, whether we succeed or not. You're the star."

  "I am?"

  "They could put a lot of pressure on you."

  "I been in some ass-tighteners. Don't worry about it."

  "And the guy who's going to help us," Jean said, "he'll have to understand a few things. At least he'll have to think he does."

  "I know what you mean."

  "You have someone in mind?"

  "Already hired him. Cute little booger does anything I tell him. He's half queer, done hard time in Cuba--listen, you was to draw a picture of the one you got in mind, I'd turn this boy over and you'd say, that's him, don't let him get away."