"That's how you do it, huh?"
"Listen, maybe even you use the guy you want to shoot anyway. Is it possible? If he's on drugs maybe?"
"Little shit, he's gonna need something for pain, anyhow."
"But the best part--"
"That's if I don't put him all the way outta his misery."
"You listening to me?"
"I thought you was through."
"The best part," Cundo Rey said, "see, the woman is so ascared she pays the money. She leaves it some place the letter tells her. You comprehend? See, then you shoot the guy. The guy is dead and the police, nobody, they look in the guy's place, but nobody can find the money. You like it?"
Nobles said, "You been reading the funnypaper, haven't you? I love to hear boogers like you talking about setting people up and shooting 'em--Lord have mercy, like you done it all and taken the midnight train more'n once, huh? Cundo, you little squirt, let's go get us something to eat."
A place called Casa Blanca looked fine to Cundo. Nobles said he didn't feel like eating Mex. Cundo tried to tell him it was a Cuban place, there was a big difference. Nobles said dago chow was dago chow. He picked Eli's Star Deli on Collins near Fourteenth, saying he had never ate any Jew food before, he'd like to give her a try.
So they went in. Nobles had a Henny Youngman on rye, said hey, boy, sucking his teeth, and ordered a Debbie Reynolds on pumpernickel. He told Cundo, watching him pick at his cole slaw, he ate like a goddamn owl. He picked--why didn't he eat?
Cundo Rey tried Nobles with, "See, they all in the yard, all around the embassy of Peru, all these thousands of people waiting to leave Havana when it first started, when Fidel decided okay. But they don't have no food. So you know what they ate? They ate a papaya tree, man. The whole tree. Then they ate a dog. You know what else they ate? They ate cats, man. They killed and ate the cats."
Nobles said, "Yeah?" admiring the thickness of his Debbie Reynolds, tucking in the fat ends of corned beef hanging out.
There was no way to make him sick, to make him even stop to make a face. Look at him, sucking his teeth, waving at the man in the apron behind the meat counter, telling him he wanted a dish of potato salad.
Cundo Rey said, "Would you pay thirty dollars for a chicken? A cooked one?"
"Fried or roast chicken?"
"If you were starving?"
"Would I get biscuits and gravy?"
"At Mariel it was like a parking lot of boats waiting to leave, a thousand of them, it was so crowded with all kinds of boats. We sitting there for days and days, everybody running out of food and water. Now this boat is like a cantina comes to you. Is painted blue. The man on it offer you a cooked chicken for thirty dollars. Black beans, ten dollars a pound. Bottle of rum, eighty dollars."
"Where's this at?"
"I just tole you. Mariel. You never hear of Mariel?" Almost gritting his teeth, Christ, trying to talk to this guy. "The name don't mean nothing to you?"
"Yeah, I heard of it. You're talking about your boatlift back--when was that, three four years ago, brought all you boogers up here. Yeah, shit, I'd had me a boat I'd a gone down there made some dough."
"You know what it cost to leave Havana? What they charge people? Thousand dollars. More than that--some of them, they think you have the money, they charge you ten thousand dollars."
"It's what I'm saying. Get a old beat-up shrimper cheap, pack about five hundred of you squirts aboard--shit, you could retire, never work again long as you live."
"If you don't get fined, put in jail by the Coast Guard when you come back from there," Cundo Rey said. "Listen, they put twenty of us on a cruiser, a charter-boat, a nice one about ten meters with the name Barbara Rose on the back. From Key West."
"That's Barb'ra Rose, you spook."
"The captain, this tough guy, say he only suppose to pick up five people, that's all he was paid for. See, he got their names, given to him by their people in Miami. They came down to Key West to hire the boat. Thousands of people were doing that, to get their relatives. But see, the G-two man from Fidel say to the captain, you think so, but you going to take four for one, twenty people. See, so the rest of us on the boat, with this family that was paid for, we all from Cambinado. Brought to Mariel in a truck."
"What's Camba-nato?"
"Jesus Christ, it's the prison, Cambinado del Este. I told you I was in there--I picked up a suitcase in a hotel I find out belong to a Russian. I sell his big Russian shoes for ninety dollars--is how bad it is in Cuba, man--and a shirt, you know, that kind with the reptile on it. Where did the Russian get it? I don't know, but I sell it for fifty dollars. They give me life in prison."
"You poor little bugger, I thought they put you away for being queer."
"They put plenty of them in Cambinado, yes, and plenty of them come here, too."
"Let's go find some," Nobles said, "and kick the shit out of 'em." He licked mustard from his fingers. "Yeah, I wish I had me a boat that time."
"Not if you talk to the captain of the Barbara Rose," Cundo said. "He look at twenty people crowded in his boat, no food, a hundred and ten miles of ocean and if he reaches here he's going to make five thousand dollars."
"I don't know if I'd get seasick or not. I doubt it, but I don't know. Biggest boat--you might not believe this--I ever been in's a canoe."
"You hear what I'm telling you? The captain, this tough guy, don't like it. So all he does is complain."
"No, I been in a bird-dog boat, too, up on the Steinhatchee. But it wasn't no bigger'n a canoe."
"Listen, the captain of the boat is complaining, he's saying, 'Oh, I could go to jail. I could be fined. I could lose my business, this sixty-thousand-dollar boat because of you people. Why did I come here? Look at the ocean, the choppiness all the way.' Man, all he did was complain."
"Yeah, but he took you to Key West, didn't he? And he made out pretty good."
"First we had to lock him up in the below part, while we waiting for the approval to leave."
"You did?"
"Then, it's time to go, he say it's a mutiny, he wants to leave the boat. No, first call the Coast Guard on the radio, then leave the boat. But then, finally, we leave."
"He saw the light."
"He saw the knife we got holding against his back. We leave Mariel, but still he complain, never shut up. He complain so much," Cundo Rey said, "we come to think, this is enough. So we throw him in the ocean and take his boat up to a place, it isn't too far from Homestead, and run it in the ground, in the sand. We have to walk, oh, about a hundred meters in the water to get to shore, but is okay, we make it."
Nobles said, "Well, you little squirt, you surprise the hell outta me."
Cundo was staring back at him, giving Nobles his nothing-to-it sleepy look.
"Why you think I was in Cambinado del Este?"
"You said you stole a suitcase, belonged to a Russian."
Cundo had Nobles' attention now, Nobles hooked, hanging on, wanting to know more.
"I took it out of his room, yes."
"And the Russian got a good look at you, huh?"
"Yes, of course. Why else would I have to kill him?"
The little Cuban dude kept staring right at him, playing with his earring in his girlish way, nose stuck up in the air like he was the prize.
It took Nobles a few moments to adjust--wait a sec here, what's this shit he's pulling?--and think to say, "Well, you shoot one of those fellas up here you don't even need a per-mit. Now you want me to tell you my idea? How me and you can make some quick bucks while we're waiting on the big one?"
Chapter 12
HE WAS SMILING before Franny reached the porch with her sack of groceries and saw him, holding the door open.
She said, "What do you do, just hang out?"
"I'm locking up."
"This early?"
It was twenty past seven. He closed the glass door and set the lock, Franny inside now looking around the empty lobby, the last of daylight dull on the terrazzo floor
that was like the floor, to LaBrava, of a government building. He turned on the cut glass chandelier and Franny looked up at it, not impressed.
"The place needs more than that, Joe."
"Color? Some paintings?"
She waited as he turned on lamps and came back. "It needs bodies, warm ones. I'm not knocking the old broads..."
"Bless their hearts," LaBrava said.
"Listen," Franny said, "I'm gonna be an old broad myself someday, if I make it. But we could use a little more life around here. So far we've got you and me and the movie star and things haven't improved that much. Joe, there's a carton behind the desk with my name on it UPS dropped off. Would you mind grabbing it for me? I've got my hands full." She waited and said, "Let's see," when he brought it out and said, "Oh, shit, I was afraid of that. Another case of Bio-Energetic Breast Cream. Apply with a gentle, circular massaging motion to add bounce and resiliency." Into the elevator and up. "Do you know how much bounce and resiliency it's gonna add to the dugs around here? Contains collagen and extract of roses, but not nearly enough, I'm afraid, for South Beach bazooms. They've served their purpose, we hope. Right?" And down the hall to 204. "Maybe I can sell a couple bottles to your movie star... You're not talking, uh? I saw you having lunch, it looked like you were giving each other bites. When you were in there close, Joe, did you notice any little hairline scars?"
He said, "That's not nice," and was surprised he didn't feel protective or take offense. He was with Franny and they were old pals.
"But you looked, didn't you? Come on in. Don't lie to me, Joe." She went to the kitchen and he looked around the room, surprised at its lived-in appearance after only two days. It was all the color that gave the effect. The colors in the unframed canvases on the walls--bold abstract designs in shimmering gold, blues and tans--and the pillows in striking colors and shapes, on the floor and piled on the daybed she used as a sofa. Wicker chairs held stacks of books and magazines. Her voice remained with him as he looked around. "I'm jealous, if you want to know the truth." The venetian blinds were pulled up, out of the way, the evening blue in the windows faded, pale next to the paintings. "You asked me to lunch, sorta, and I see you over there with your movie star." There were cartons stenciled SPRING SONG, a portable television. She came out of the kitchen with white wine in stem glasses.
"Sit down and look at my Polaroids."
"You take pictures you don't fool around."
"I got about forty today. This bunch is sorta in order, starting at First Street and working up. But I don't like it around there; so I came up to Fifteenth, decided to work down, get the good stuff first." She sat next to him among pillows on the floor, their wine on a glass cocktail table. "I want consecutive views. Maybe do the whole street on a canvas about thirty feet wide. The face of South Beach."
He looked up at her paintings. "Like those?"
"That was my Jerusalem spacy period. I wanted to get the spirit, you know, the energy of the sabras, but what stands out? The Mosque of Omar, the part that's gold. Now I'm into echo-deco, pink and green, flamingoes and palm trees, curvy corners, speed lines. I'm gonna pop my colors, get it looking so good you'll want to eat it. Hey, how about staying for dinner?"
"Maurice asked me."
"And that star of the silver screen--here she is, Jean Shaw!... She gonna be there? I'll get you yet, Joe."
"Will you sell me one of your new paintings?"
"I'll trade you one for that shot of Lana showing her depressing tits. That poor girl, I keep thinking about her."
LaBrava held up a Polaroid. "She lives right around the corner from here, the Chicken Shack." He began looking at storefronts and bars along the south end of Ocean Drive. The Turf Pub. The Play House, an old-time bar with photos of Jack Dempsey and Joe Louis on the walls. There were bikers outside this afternoon, in the Polaroid shots. He saw people he knew. A drunk named Wimpy. A pretty-boy Puerto Rican dealer named Guilli. He looked at figures standing, moving in suspended motion. Another one, in shadow, who seemed familiar and he studied the shot for several moments. Another figure, in the sunlit foreground, stood facing the camera with an arm raised.
"Is he waving at you?"
"Let's see. Yeah, I ran into him a couple of times."
"This the guy you were talking to, you were sitting on the wall?"
"You noticed me. I thought you'd be too busy with your movie star."
"Is it the same guy?"
"Yeah, very friendly. A little swishy maybe. He gets into a goof"--she snapped her fingers--"like that. It's hard to tell when he's serious."
"What's he do?"
"He sells real estate. What do you mean what does he do? He's looking for some kind of hustle, like all the rest of 'em. They deal or they break and enter."
He was looking at a hotel now on the north end of the street. "Here we are, the Elysian Fields."
He passed it to Franny and she said, "Ten million cockroaches down in the basement holding it up, straining their little backs."
He looked at several more hotels, then went back through the shots he'd already seen till he found the one he wanted, a view of the south end.
"There's a guy going in the Play House--you can only see part of him, he's right behind your friend."
"The guy in the doorway?"
"The other one. He's got on, it looks like a white silk shirt."
Franny said, "Oh, the lifeguard. Yeah, I remember him. I don't know if he's a lifeguard, but he sure is a hunk."
"Was he with your friend, the goof?"
"Gee, I don't know. Let me see those again." She went through the prints saying, "I think he's in one other one... Yeah, here. See the guy I was talking to? He's got his back turned, but I know it's him. Standing with the biker. That's the hunk right behind him."
"I didn't notice him in this one."
"No, the biker catches your eye. The beer gut."
"His shirt doesn't look white here. It looks silver."
"You're right. I remember now, it is silver. But it's not a shirt, it's a jacket, like the kind jocks wear. Yeah, I remember him now--real blond hair, the guy's a standout, Joe, you oughta shoot him."
"Not a bad idea," LaBrava said. "Where's the one you took of your friend? You were sitting on the wall."
"You don't miss a thing, do you?" Franny found it, handed it to him. "This one."
LaBrava studied the pose, the Cuban-looking guy fooling with his ear. "What's he doing?"
"I don't know--he uses his hands a lot. Let's see... Oh, yeah. He's playing with his earring. That's why I thought he might be gay, but you can't tell."
"What's his name?"
"I don't think he told me. He talked all the time, but really didn't say anything. Asked me where I live, if it's a nice place, would I like to have a drink with him--no, thank you--all that."
"Did he tell you, by any chance, he's Geraldo Rivera?"
Franny paused, about to raise her glass from the table. "Are you putting me on, Joe?"
"I just wondered. He looks familiar."
"You think he looks like Geraldo Rivera? He doesn't look anything like him. Joe, tell me what your game is? Are you a narc?"
Dinner at Maurice's, the picture gallery; fried sirloin and onions in candlelight with a '69 Margaux. Jean Shaw said, "If this is railroad-style it must be the Orient Express." Maurice said it was the pan, the cast-iron frying pan that was at least 100 years old he'd swiped out of a Florida East Coast caboose.
After dinner, sitting in the living room with cognac, Maurice said, "It's a fact, they go in threes. You want the latest ones? Arthur Godfrey, Meyer Lansky and Shepperd Strudwick, the actor. Jeanie, you remember him? Seventy-five when he died."
"Yeah, I read that," Jean said. "Died in New York. We did one picture together."
LaBrava knew the name, he could picture the actor and caught a glimpse of his snow-white hair, a scene in a cemetery. "Shepperd Strudwick, he was your husband in Obituary. Remember? We were trying to think who it was."
She
looked surprised, or was trying to recall the picture. She said, "You're right, he was my husband."
"Shepperd Strudwick," LaBrava said. "You wanted to dump him. You got together with Henry Silva... Didn't you hire him to kill your husband?"
"Something like that."
"I know Henry Silva was the bad guy," LaBrava said. "I remember him because he was in a Western just about the same time and I saw it again in Independence. The Tall T, with Richard Boone and, what's his name, Randolph Scott. But I can't remember the good guy in Obituary."
"Arthur Godfrey's on the front page of every paper in the country," Maurice said. "Meyer Lansky gets two columns in the New York Times, he could a bought Godfrey. Arthur Godfrey gets a street named after him. What's Meyer Lansky get? A guy, I remember with the FBI, he said Meyer Lansky could a been chairman of the board of General Motors if he'd gone into legitimate business." Getting out of his La-Z-Boy, going over to a wall of photographs, Maurice said, "I'll tell you something. I bet Meyer Lansky had a hell of a lot more fun in his life than Alfred P. Sloan or any of those GM guys."
LaBrava said to Jean, "I don't think the plan was to kill Shepperd Strudwick. It was something else. I remember he kept getting newspaper clippings that announced his death. To scare him..."
"Maier Suchowljansky, born in Russia," Maurice said, "that was Meyer Lansky's real name." He traced his finger over a photograph of the Miami Beach skyline.
LaBrava said, "I can't remember who played the good guy."
Jean said, "Maybe there weren't any good guys."
"Right here," Maurice said, "this is where he lived for years, the Imperial House. His wife's probably still there. That's Thelma, his second wife. She used to be a manicurist, some hotel in New York. Met Lansky, they fell in love..."
"Victor Mature," LaBrava said.
But Jean was watching Maurice. "Did you know Lansky?"
"Did I know him?" Maurice said, moving to another photograph. "MacFadden-Deauville... Lansky used to come in there. They all used to come in there. You know what I paid for a cabana, by the swimming pool, so I could run a horse book right there, for the guests? Woman'd send her kid over to place a bet. Forty-five grand for the season, three months. And that doesn't count what I had to pay S & G for the wire service, Christ."
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