LaBrava (3 page)

“Gene Tierney?”
Laura
. He’d watched it on television in Bess Truman’s living room. “How’s she spell her name?”

“Jean. How do you spell Jean? J-e-a-n.”

Jean Harlow was dead. LaBrava looked at the rearview mirror, watched headlights lagging behind, in no hurry. “Jeanne Crain?”

“Naw, not Jeanne Crain. Get ready,” Maurice said. “Not after this car but the one after it, I think you can make it.”

THEY PARKED IN THE REAR
and walked around to the front of the one-story building on Northeast Fourth Street, Delray Beach. From the outside the place reminded LaBrava of a dental clinic: stucco and darkwood trim, low-cost construction; a surface that appeared to be solid but would not stop a bullet. A laminated door that would not stop much of anything. LaBrava, former guardian of presidents and people in high places, automatically studying, making an appraisal. Oh, man, but tired of it. In an orange glow of light they read the three-by-five card taped to the door.

They had to ring the bell and wait, Maurice sighing with impatience, until a girl about twenty-one with long blond hair opened the door and Maurice said, “I come to get Mrs. Breen.”

“You’re Mr. Zola, right? Hi, I’m Pam.”

She locked the door again and they followed her—broad hips compacted within tight jeans—through an empty waiting room and hallway, LaBrava looking around and judging this place, at the low end of institutional decor. He had never seen so many stains and burns. Like people came in here to throw up or set the place on fire with cigarettes. There were cracks and broken holes in the dull-yellow drywall, fist marks. He could see people trying to punch their way out. They came to a doorway, the room inside was dark.

“She’s in here. Asleep.”

Maurice stuck his head in. “She’s on the floor.”

“There’s a mattress,” Pam said. “She’s fine, didn’t give us a bit of trouble. The cops that brought her in described her condition as staggering, speech slurred, I guess she didn’t know where she was.”

Maurice said, “Was there a problem, a disturbance of any kind?”

“Well, not really. I mean there’s no charge against her. She was walking down the street with a drink in her hand.”

Maurice frowned. “A drink? Outside?”

“They said she came out of a bar, on Palmetto. They saw her on the sidewalk with the drink and when they pulled over she threw it at them. Not the glass, the drink. I guess she was, you know, so bombed they thought they better bring her here.” Pam looked at the doorway. “Why don’t you go in with her? Let her wake up to a familiar face.”

“Why don’t I get her out of here,” Maurice said. He went in the room.

LaBrava followed Pam. They came to a room filled with fluorescent light that was about fifteen-by-twenty: a metal desk standing between two mattresses on the floor, a line of metal chairs along the inside wall and a back door wtih double locks. The stains and burn marks seemed magnified in here. LaBrava saw skinny legs with dried sores, a light-skinned black girl asleep on the mattress in front of the desk. He saw a drunk, dirty from living in doorways, that familiar street drunk, soft mouth nearly toothless, cocking his head like a chicken. The drunk sat in the row of folding chairs. Next to him an elderly man sat rigid, his shirt collar buttoned, hands flat on bony thighs. He said to LaBrava, “You ever see an eagle?”

Pam, sliding behind the metal desk that was covered with forms and scrawled notes, said, “Walter—”

LaBrava said, “Yeah, I’ve seen an eagle.”

The rigid man said, “Did it have hair?”

“The one I saw had feathers.”

The rigid man said, “Oh.” He looked at Pam now. “You ever see an eagle?”

Pam said, “Excuse me, Walter, but I have to finish with Earl first. Okay? Be nice.” She glanced down at a clipboard. “Earl, if I call this person Eileen, will she come and get you?”

“She don’t keep up her house,” the drunk said. “You go in the kitchen . . . I tell her, Jesus Christ, get some wash powder. I can’t live in a place like that.”

Pam looked up at LaBrava in the doorway. “Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

He took the end seat, two metal chairs away from the drunk hunched over his crossed legs, the drunk staring, trying to focus, saying, “Do I know you?”

“I don’t know,” LaBrava said, “we might’ve met one time. How you doing?”

“See, I don’t want to go to court drunk. I don’t want to go in there, maybe get sick.”

Pam said, “Earl, I told you, there no charges against you.” She said, “You ever drink anything like aftershave?”

“No, not ever. Just some home brew, some wine. Eileen, if I’m staying over there, she fixes these toddies are nice. Bourbon and ice cubes, you sprinkle some sugar on top. ’bout a teaspoonful’s all . . .”

A scream came from a room close by, a wail of obscenities that rose and died off, and LaBrava looked at Pam, expecting her to get up.

“It’s okay. One of our consumers,” Pam said. “She’s catharting, sort of working it out on her own. But there’s someone with her, don’t worry.”

“Consumer,” LaBrava said.

The girl had a nice smile, very natural; she seemed too young and vulnerable to be working here. Psych major no more than a year out of college. “That’s what we call the people we screen. They’re not, you know, patients technically till they’re admitted somewhere. This’s just a temporary stop more or less.”

The drunk said, “Then I’m leaving.” He got up, stumbling against the rigid man, pushed off and tilted toward the girl lying on the mattress before finding his balance. He reached the back door and began working at the locks.

Pam said, “Come on, Earl, sit down and be good. You have to stay here till you’ve sobered up and you’re a little more appropriate.”

Earl turned from the door, falling against it. “More ‘
pro
priate? Shit, I’m ‘propriate.”

“You are not,” Pam said, a young schoolteacher at her desk. “Please sit down so we can finish.”

The drunk fell against the chairs, almost into the rigid man whose hands remained flat on his thighs. The girl with sores on her legs moaned and rolled from her side to her back, eyes lightly closed, lids fluttering in the overhead light.

LaBrava was looking at her and Pam said, “She’s Haitian. She got stoned and walked out on the Interstate. A car had to swerve out of the way and hit another car and one of the drivers, I don’t know which one, had to have twenty stitches in his head.”

The drunk said, “Shit, I was at Louisville Veterans, they put sixty-four stitches in my leg. Boy jammed a bottle, broke it off, jammed the end of it in my leg. See? Right there. Sixty-four stitches. Doc said he stopped counting.”

“It’s a beauty,” LaBrava said. “Cut you good, didn’t he?” He saw the drunk look up.

LaBrava turned. Maurice was standing over him.

“Get the camera.”

LaBrava kept his voice down. “You sure you want to? Maybe they won’t like it.”

Maurice said to the girl, “Sweetheart, would you do something for my friend here? Unlock the door? He’s got to get a camera outta the car.”

Pam let him out the back telling him to knock and she’d open it again.

What Maurice wanted to do—LaBrava was sure now—was take a picture of his friend smashed, bleary-eyed, then show it to her tomorrow. “See what a beauty you are when you’re drunk?” Shame her into sobriety. But if the woman had a problem with booze it would be a waste of time. He wouldn’t mind, though, getting a shot of Earl. Earl showing his scar. Shoot it from down on the floor. The guy’s leg crossed, pants pulled up, shin in the foreground, shiny crescent scar. Earl pointing with a dirty fingernail. Grinning near toothless, too drunk not to look proud and happy.

Bending over in the trunk LaBrava felt inside the camera case, brought out the Leica CL and attached a wide-angle lens.

Headlights flashed on him, past him. By the time he looked around the car had come to a stop parallel to the building, its dark-colored rear deck standing at the edge of the floodlit area that extended out from the back door. LaBrava felt in the case again for the flash attachment. He straightened, slamming the trunk closed.

A young guy was out of the car. Big, well-built guy in a silver athletic jacket, blue trim. Banging on the door now with the thick edge of his fist, other hand wedged in the tight pocket of his jeans. LaBrava came up next to him. The guy grinned, fist still raised, toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

“How you doing this evening?” Slurring his words.

He was thick all over, heavily muscled, going at least six-three, two-thirty. Blond hair with a greenish tint in the floodlight: the hair uncombed, clots of it lying straight back on his head without a part, like he’d been swimming earlier and had raked it back with his fingers. The guy wasn’t young up close. Mid-thirties. But he was the kind of guy—LaBrava knew by sight, smell and instinct—who hung around bars and arm-wrestled. Homegrown jock—pumped his muscles and tested his strength when he wasn’t picking his teeth.

LaBrava said, “Not too bad. How’re you doing?”

“Well, I don’t idle too good, but I’m still running.” With a back-country drawl greasing his words. “You gonna take some pitchers?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“What of, this pisshole? Man, I wouldn’t keep goats in this place.”

“I imagine they don’t have much of a budget, run by the county,” LaBrava said. Hearing himself, he sounded like a wimp. He had the feeling he would never agree with this guy. Still, there was no sense in antagonizing him.

“Palm Beach County, shit, they got more money’n any county in the state of Florida. But you look at this pisshole kind of shack they put people in—I mean nice people—you’d never know it, would you? You don’t see none of that Palm Beach crowd brought in here. They can be pissing on the squad car, cop’ll go, ‘Get in, sir. Lemme drive you home, sir.’ Shit . . . Hey, you want a take my pitcher? Go ahead, I’ll let you.”

“Thanks anyway,” LaBrava said.

“What paper you with?”

LaBrava paused. He said, “Oh,” a pleasant, surprised tone. It was not recognition of himself, LaBrava the street shooter, but it was recognition of a sort. “What makes you think I’m a news photographer?”

The guy said, “I guess ’cause all you assholes look alike.” He turned away as they heard the locks, the door opening.

LaBrava saw Pam’s expression change, startled, the girl tiny next to the silver jacket. She said, “Hey, what’re you doing—” The guy was taking her by the arm as he entered.

“I come on official business, puss. How you doing? You’re new here, huh? I ain’t seen you before.”

LaBrava edged past them with the camera, walked toward the hall and heard the locks snapping again behind him, heard the guy’s bullshit charm hard at work. “Here, shake hands. I’m Richard Nobles, puss, with the police hereabouts.” He heard Pam say, “Wait a minute. What police hereabouts?” He heard the rigid man say, “You ever see an eagle?” And heard Richard Nobles say, “You kidding me, papa? I’ve cooked and
ate
a eagle . . .”

Maurice was waiting in the hall by the doorway.

“Go in get a shot of her. Wait, what’ve you got, the Leica? Okay, go on.”

“She awake?”

“I’m getting her outta here. Shoot straight down on her. What do you have it set at?”

“I don’t know yet.” LaBrava walked into the room. He saw bare legs in the shaft of light from the hall, sandals with medium heels. Slim legs, one of them drawn up. She was lying on her side, wearing a light-colored dress, her shoulders bare, an arm extended, partly covering her face. Maurice stooped down to move her arm, gently. LaBrava went out to the hall to make his adjustments. When he came back in and stood over the woman on the mattress, framing her in the viewfinder, dark hair against pale skin, Maurice said, “What’d you set it at?”

“Sixtieth at eight.”

“I don’t know . . .”

LaBrava didn’t wait. The flash went off as he triggered the camera tight to his right eye, cocked it with his thumb, shot the second time, cocked and shot again.

“Set it lower and get another one.”

“That’s enough,” LaBrava said.

“I want to be sure we got something.”

“We got it,” LaBrava said. “Take her out the front and I’ll bring the car around.”

There was another girl in the office now who seemed only a few years older than Pam but more grown up, in charge. Coming into the room again LaBrava heard her tell Nobles she was the supervisor and wanted to see some identification or there would be nothing to discuss. Right away LaBrava liked her confidence. He liked her slim build in jeans standing with long legs apart, arms folded, brown hair waved to her shoulders. A good-looking girl who knew what she was doing.

Nobles dug a wallet out of his back pocket, turning sideways and brushing his silver jacket open so they would see the checkered walnut grip of a revolver stuck in the waist of his jeans. Saying, “Boca police brought this lady here happens to be a friend of mine. See, I checked with them and they said it would be okay to release her to my custody. They said fine, go ahead.” He flipped open the wallet to show a gold shield on one side, an I.D. card bearing his photograph on the other. “See what it says there? Palm Beach County.”

The slim girl took a half step, extending her hand and he flipped the wallet closed. She said, “Palm Beach County what? If the Boca Police said it was okay, they’d have called to let us know. That’s how it works.”

Nobles shook his head, weary. “Look, I’m doing you a favor. Lemme have the lady and we’ll say nighty-night, let you all go on back play with your nuts.”

“No one leaves without authorization,” the slim girl said, standing right up to him.

“I’m
giving
you authorization. Jesus Christ, I just now showed it to you.”

LaBrava said, “Excuse me. Would somebody like to open the front door?”

Nobles gave him a look, cold, with no expression, and the slim girl said, “Show me identification or get out. That’s the way it is. Okay?”