LaBrava (9 page)

“What guy?”

“He didn’t see him,” LaBrava said. “Maurice was with you the whole time.”

“Did he get rough? Threaten to punch anybody?”

“Well, the girl in charge called the police . . . He calmed down. No, I just wondered if you were the one he came to get. I had a feeling.”

“
What
guy?”

“Maury, sit down, rest your engine,” Jean Shaw said. “We’re talking about someone I met a few months ago, a security cop in Boca.”

Maurice said, “You’re going with a security cop now?” He eased into the La-Z-Boy, his body stiff; he seemed swallowed by the chair’s contour, laid his head on his shoulder to look at Jean past his pointy shoes. “What happened to the bartender and the guy works at Hialeah?”

“I’m not
going
with anyone. I met him, I was nice to him . . . I mean I didn’t tell him to get lost. But that might’ve been a mistake.” She glanced at LaBrava.

Maurice said, “Wait a minute. How do you know this guy?”

“He works for the security service the building hired. I happened to meet him one night. I was out taking a walk. He was making his rounds.” Choosing her words with care. “We started talking . . .”

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?”