Now it was turned around and now it was all right to be subjective about staying alive and having to shoot the guy to do it, if you could do it . . . with the .357 Mag an arm’s length away on the typewriter case and the boat-lifter aiming the automatic from about eighteen feet away—LaBrava stepping the distance off with his eyes, less than six strides to the guy who had shot the old man in the back of the head, twice.
Cundo said, “You look at me like that . . . Now you don’t have nothing to say.”
“I got a question,” LaBrava said.
“Oh, you want to make a deal now?”
“No, I was gonna ask, how do you know the gun’s loaded?”
Cundo didn’t answer.
“What is it, a Beretta?”
Cundo didn’t answer.
“It’s probably a Walther. Pray to St. Barbara it isn’t a Saturday-night special and misfires on you. They always misfire.”
Cundo, one eye closed, was trying to look at the gun and keep LaBrava in his sights at the same time.
“If it’s a Walther you’ll see some writing on it, in German. Unless it’s a Czech seven-six-five.”
Cundo was squinting, one eye closed, extending his head now, leaning toward the gun and turning it slightly to read the inscription on the side of the barrel . . .
And LaBrava thought, Jesus Christ, knowing he was going to have to take it all the way right now, before he started to feel sorry for the guy aiming a gun at him, if that was possible—right now all the way—and reached for the .357 Mag on the typewriter case, concentrating on picking it up cleanly . . . Cundo firing . . . and coming around and putting the Mag on him . . . Cundo firing . . . and squeezing the grip . . . Cundo falling back in the chair firing at the ceiling . . . squeezing the grip, squeezing the grip, and shot him three times up the center groove of his rib cage. After that, in silence, the little Cuban with the cat whiskers stared dead at him in the green vinyl chair and then hung his head.
LaBrava locked the Hefty bag in the trunk of the Trans Am, called the Miami Beach Police to report gunfire on Bonita Drive, just to be sure, and left with only what he had come for, the typewriter.
28
* * *
NOW HE WOULD STAY OUT OF IT as long as he could, or until it was settled.
He slept late. He didn’t answer his phone. He kept very still when there were footsteps in the hall and twice during the morning someone knocked on his door. He did not look out the window at the view that was all ocean views. He did look at his photos and decided he didn’t like any of them: all that black and white, all that same old stuff, characters trying to be characters. He said, Are you trying to be a character?
In the afternoon, which seemed like a long time after to him, there was a knock on the door and he opened it when he heard Franny’s voice.
Franny said, “Where’ve you been? . . . Don’t you know I miss you and hunger for you?”
He smiled because it didn’t matter what kind of a mood he was in. When he saw her he smiled and knew he would not have to bother choosing an attitude.
Franny said, “What’s going on? The cops were here again.”
He told her he didn’t know. He didn’t want to learn anything from Franny that might be misinformation or only part of it or speculation. He wanted it to be settled and then learn about it in some official way, facts in order.
She said, “Something’s going on and I’m dying to know what it is. I mean finally we get a little activity around here. Live in a place like this, LaBrava, the high point of the day is some tourist comes in and asks where Joe’s Stone Crab is.”
“Or the mailman arrives,” LaBrava said. “Let me take you to Joe’s tonight, or Picciolo’s, any place you want to go.”
He put on the banana shirt after Franny left and looked at himself in the mirror. He liked that banana shirt. He looked at his photos again and began to like some of them again, the honest and dishonest faces, enough of them so that he could say to himself, You got promise, kid.
Who was it said that?
Who cares?
He took off the banana shirt, showered, shaved, rubbed in Aqua Velva—Maurice had told him, “Use that, you must have cheap skin”—put the banana shirt on again and picked up the typewriter case. It was now seven in the evening. It was time. So he went up the stairs to the third floor, walked past Maurice’s door to Jean Shaw’s, knocked and waited. There was no sound. He walked back to Maurice’s door.
Maurice said, “The hell you been?” Wearing a white-on-white shirt with long collar points, a black knit tie; his black silk suitcoat was draped over a dining room chair.
Jean Shaw, in a black sheath dress, pearls, stood at the credenza making drinks. She was saying—and it was like a background sound—“Orvis, Dinner Island, Neoga, Española, Bunnell, Dupont, Korona, Favorita, Harwood . . . Windle, Ormond, Flomich . . . Holly Hill, Daytona Beach. There. All the way to Daytona.”
“You left out National Gardens.” Maurice winked at LaBrava standing there holding the typewriter case.
She turned saying, “Where does National Gardens come in?” Her eyes resting on LaBrava.
“After Harwood,” Maurice said. “Look who’s here.”
“I see who’s here,” Jean said. “Is that my typewriter you’re returning?”
“Sit down, get comfortable,” Maurice said. “Jean, fix him one. He likes it on the rocks.”
“I know what he likes,” Jean said.
“Well, it’s all over,” Maurice said. “You missed Torres this morning. Go on, sit in my chair, it’s okay. In fact, I insist.” He waited as LaBrava curved himself, reluctantly, into the La-Z-Boy; being treated as a guest of honor. “There’s a couple a discrepancies they can’t figure out. Like Richard was killed with the Cuban’s gun and the Cuban was killed with Richard’s gun, only he was killed after Richard was killed,” Maurice said, moving to the sofa. “Which has got the cops scratching their heads. But that’s their problem.”
Jean came over with drinks on a silver tray.
“The cops found the money, we got it back,” Maurice said. “Far as I’m concerned the case is closed.”
She handed LaBrava his and he had to look up to see her eyes, those nice eyes so quietly aware.
“The cops can do what they want,” Maurice said.
She handed him his drink, Maurice on the sofa now, and sat down next to him, placing the tray with her drink on the cocktail table. LaBrava watched her light a cigarette, watched her eyes raise to his as she exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
“You can’t have everything,” Maurice said. “I told your friend Torres that, he agreed. You got the two guys you want, be satisfied.”
Her gaze dropped to the typewriter case on the floor next to the recliner, lingered, came up slowly to rest on him again.
“Torres said they always thought there was a third one. Only why didn’t he take the money? Unless he had to get out a there fast once he shot the Cuban and didn’t have time to look for it. Richard’s gun—you know where it was? In the toilet. Listen, there was even another gun in there, in the toilet, they find out shot somebody else. You imagine?”
LaBrava said, “Maybe the third one will walk in, clear everything up.”
Jean was still looking at him.
“I told the cops, be grateful for what you have,” Maurice said. “That third one, whoever, did you a favor. Any loose ends—well, you always got a few loose ends. Who needs to know everything? No, as far as I’m concerned—” He gave Jean a little nudge with his elbow. “What is it they say in the picture business?”
“It’s a wrap,” Jean said.
He nudged her again. “Should we tell him?”
“I don’t see why not,” Jean said.
Maurice got higher on the sofa, laid his arm on the backrest. “Well, we decided last night . . . Jeanie and I are gonna get married.” He brought his hand down to give her shoulder a squeeze. “Look at him, he can’t believe it. Yeah, as a matter of fact we start talking last
night, we couldn’t figure out why we hadn’t thought of it a long time ago. Make life easier for both of us . . . We’re tired a living alone.”
LaBrava didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to say anything he didn’t mean.
The former movie star in her fifties looked younger, much younger, sitting next to the retired bookmaker, natty old guy who didn’t know he was old.
“I’m gonna take good care of her,” Maurice said.
“And I’m going to let him,” Jean said. She said then, “It’s not the movies, Joe.” Looking at him with those eyes. “Maury wants you to be his best man.”
He wasn’t going to say anything he didn’t mean or cover up whatever it was he felt.
What he finally said was, “Swell.”
Then gave them a nice smile: maybe a little weary but still a nice one. Why not?
The Extras
I. ALL BY ELMORE: THE CRIME NOVELS; THE WESTERNS
II. SELECTED FILMOGRAPHY
III. IF IT SOUNDS LIKE WRITING, REWRITE IT
V. MARTIN AMIS INTERVIEWS “THE DICKENS OF DETROIT”
This section was prepared by the editorial staff of HarperCollins e-books, who thank Mr. Gregg Sutter, Elmore Leonard’s longtime researcher and aide-de-camp, for his unstinting support and help in the assembling of this material.
Further riches await the reader at the website that Mr. Sutter maintains, www.elmoreleonard.com, and in “The Extras” sections of other HarperCollins editions of Elmore Leonard’s novels (“All by Elmore” and “Selected Filmography” come standard in each e-book).
All by Elmore: The Crime Novels; The Westerns
The Crime Novels
The Big Bounce (1969); Mr. Majestyk (1974); 52 Pickup (1974); Swag* (1976); Unknown Man #89 (1977); The Hunted (1977); The Switch (1978); City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit (1980); Gold Coast (1980); Split Images (1981); Cat Chaser (1982); Stick (1983); LaBrava (1983); Glitz (1985); Bandits (1987); Touch (1987); Freaky Deaky (1988); Killshot(1989); Get Shorty (1990); Maximum Bob (1991); Rum Punch (1992); Pronto (1993); Riding the Rap(1995); Out of Sight (1996); Be Cool (1999); Pagan Babies (2000); “Fire in the Hole”* (e-book original story, 2001); Tishomingo Blues (2002); When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories (2002).
The Westerns
The Bounty Hunters* (1953); The Law at Randado* (1954); Escape from Five Shadows* (1956); Last Stand at Saber River* (1959); Hombre* (1961); The Moonshine War* (1969); Valdez Is Coming* (1970); Forty Lashes Less One* (1972); Gunsights* (1979) Cuba Libre (1998); The Tonto Woman and Other Western Stories* (1998).
As of November 2002: Unless otherwise indicated (*), all titles are available from HarperCollins e-books. All titles are available in print form in dazzling new editions by HarperTorch paperbacks, with the exception of: The Moonshine War (1969); Swag (1976); “Fire in the Hole” (2001). “Fire in the Hole” is available within HarperCollins e-book and William Morrow hardcover editions of When the Women Come Out to Dance (2002).
The Crime Novels
The Big Bounce(1969)
Jack Ryan always wanted to play pro ball. But he couldn’t hit a curveball, so he turned his attention to less legal pursuits. A tough guy who likes walking the razor’s edge, he’s just met his match — and more — in Nancy. She’s a rich man’s plaything, seriously into thrills and risk, and together she and Jack are pure heat ready to explode. But when simple housebreaking and burglary give way to the deadly pursuit of a really big score, the stakes suddenly skyrocket. Because violence and double-cross are the name of this game — and it’s going to take every ounce of cunning Jack and Nancy possess to survive . . . each other.
Houston Chronicle: “[Leonard is] a sage poet of crime.”
From the novel:
She was facing him now, her cold look gone and smiling a little. Of course it’s loaded.
“You going to shoot something?”
“We could. Windows are good.”
“So you brought a gun to shoot at windows.”
“And boats. Boats are fun.”
“I imagine they would be. How about cars?”
“I didn’t think about cars.” She seemed pleasantly surprised. “Isn’t that funny?
“Yeah that is funny.”
“There’s a difference,” Ryan said, “between breaking and entering and armed robbery.”
“And there’s a difference between seventy-eight dollars and fifty thousand dollars.”
Nancy said, “How badly do you want it?”
Mr. Majestyk(1974)
Vincent Majestyk saw too much death in the jungles of Southeast Asia. All he wants to do now is farm his melons and forget. But peace can be an elusive commodity, even in the Arizona hinterlands — and especially when the local mob is calling all the shots. And one quiet, proud man’s refusal to be strong-armed by a powerful hood is about to start a violent chain reaction that will leave Mr. Majestyk ruined, in shackles, and without a friend in the world — except for one tough and beautiful woman. But his tormentors never realized something about their mark: This is not his first war. Vince Majestyk knows more than they’ll ever know about survival . . . and everything about revenge.
Bergen Record: “First rate . . . an excellent thriller . . . well-plotted and smoothly written and crackles with suspense.”
From the novel:
Majestyk was running across the open scrub, weaving through the dusty brush clumps, by the time Renda got out of the car and began firing at him with the automatic, both hands extended in the handcuffs. Majestyk kept running. Renda jumped across the ditch, got to the fence, and laid the .45 on the top of a post, aimed, and squeezed the trigger three times, but the figure out in the scrub was too small now and it would have to be a lucky shot to bring him down. He fired once more and the automatic clicked empty.
Seventy, eighty yards away, Majestyk finally came to a stop, worn out, getting his breath. He turned to look at the man standing by the fence post and, for a while, they stared at one another, each knowing who the other man was and what he felt and not having to say anything. Renda crossed the ditch to the Jag and Majestyk watched it drive away.
52 Pickup (1974)
Detroit businessman Harry Mitchell had had only one affair in his twenty-two years of happy matrimony. Unfortunately someone caught his indiscretion on film and now wants Harry to fork over one hundred grand to keep his infidelity a secret. And if Harry doesn’t pay up, the blackmailer and his associates plan to press a lot harder — up to and including homicide, if necessary. But the psychos picked the wrong pigeon for their murderous scam. Because Harry Mitchell doesn’t get mad . . . he gets even.
Chicago Tribune: “A splendid thriller.”
From the novel:
The Gray Line sightseeing bus was approaching the foot of Woodward Avenue when Bobby Shy started up the aisle in his light-gray business suit and sun-glasses, past the thirty-six heads he had counted from his seat in the rear. They were mostly couples, out-of-town conventioneers and their wives, middle-aged or older, almost all of them wearing glasses and name tags.
“That beautiful structure on the left is the City-Country Building,” the driver was saying into the mike clipped to his lapel. “And the statue in front is the world-famous ‘Spirit of Detroit.’ Sitting there, that man is sixteen feet high and weighs over sixteen thousand pounds. Ahead of us now you see the Detroit River.”
As the bus turned left onto Jefferson, heads raised and gazes shifted to look at the river and dismal gray skyline beyond.
“Across the way, beautiful downtown Windsor, Ontario,” the drive said. “You can get over to Canada by tunnel or bridge. There used to be a ferry, but I believe he was arrested some time back. The amazing thing is that, at this particular point, Canada is south of the United States.”
At the front of the bus now Bobby Shy ducked his head to look out. Straightening again he reached inside the jacket of his light-gray business suit, came out with a .38 Colt Special and placed the barrel gently against the driver’s e
ar.
“Give me the mike, man,” Bobby Shy said.
Swag (1976)
Three guys with illegal expertise, a plan to snag a tax-free hundred grand, and a taste of summertime Detroit’s sweet life. But it means committing armed robbery. And being smart enough to get away with it.
Publishers Weekly: “An electrifying novel . . . with a murderous, well-timed suspenseful finale.”
The New York Times: “Leonard is nobody’s follower, and he has a style of his own. “Swag” is one of the best of the year.”
From the novel:
There was a photograph of Frank in an ad that ran in the Detroit Free Press and showed all the friendly salesmen at Red Bowers Chevrolet. Under his photo it said Frank J. Ryan. He had on a nice smile, a styled moustache, and a summer-weight suit made out of that material that’s shiny and looks like it has snags in it.
There was a photograph of Stick on file at 1300 Beaubein, Detroit Police Headquarters. Under the photo it said Ernest Stickley, Jr. 89037. He had on a sport shirt that had sailboats and palm trees on it. He’d bought it in Pompano Beach, Florida.
The first time they ever saw each other was the night at Red Bowers Chevrolet Telegraph when Stick was pulling out of the used car lot in the maroon ’73 Camaro. Frank walked up to the side window as the car stopped before turning out on the street. He said, “You mind if I ask where you are going?”
Unknown Man #89(1977)
Detroit process server Jack Ryan has a reputation for being the best in the business at finding people who don’t want to be found. Now he’s looking for a missing stockholder known only as “Unknown Man #89.” But his missing man isn’t “unknown” to everyone: a pretty blonde hates his guts and a very nasty dude named Royal wants him dead in the worst way. Which is very unfortunate for Jack Ryan, who is suddenly caught in the crossfire of a lethal triple-cross and as much a target as his nameless prey.
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