La Brava

by Elmore Leonard

  "Ah," Johnbull said. "Perhaps what you see is disdain."

  "Perhaps."

  "Mon say to me, the fare, 'Did you learn your English here?' No, in Lagos, when I am a boy. 'Oh,' he say, 'and where is Lagos?' " Johnbull's twin knife scars became vivid, underlining the white-hot pissed-off expression in his eyes. "When I am a child in school, for God sake, I can draw a map of the United States. I can show you where Miami is, I can show you where Cleveland is. But nobody here, they don't know where Lagos is, where you get the second most oil from any place in the world."

  "I'm looking for a guy," LaBrava said, "who doesn't know where his ass is. Big blond guy staying at the Paramount." LaBrava handed Johnbull a ten-dollar bill. "Watch for a black Pontiac Trans Am, late model. If it picks up the big blond guy, follow it. Then give me a call. I'll pay for whatever time you spend on it. If you have to leave, tell the other guys, I'll give 'em the same deal."

  "I want a picture for my mother," Johnbull said. "This one smiling."

  "Let's see a big one," LaBrava said. He raised his camera and shot the Nigerian framed in his window, grinning white and gold.

  * * *

  The woman in the office of the Sharon Apartment-Motel said, "Tell me you arrested him and you want Mr. Fisk to take a look it's the same one... Nuh, no such luck, uh? Oh well. Mr. Fisk is lying down he's so upset. Soon as the other police left he had to lie down. You know what he's worried you don't find him? What if he comes back?"

  LaBrava waited.

  Mr. Fisk came in, wary.

  "You don't look like no cop to me, would wear a shirt like that. With a camera. What is this, you're on your vacation?"

  LaBrava said, "We like to take a few pictures when we process a crime scene, Mr. Fisk. You by any chance speak to Sgt. Torres?"

  "I don't know--they come in a car with the lights. You know how long it took them? Twenty-five minutes."

  "See, they make out a U.C.R.," LaBrava said. "That's a Uniformed Crime Report. Then the Detective Bureau follows up. Did he give you his name? The big blond guy?"

  "He showed me a gold star and the name of the company, something that says 'Private protection means crime prevention,' and his name printed there, typed. But I don't remember it. I should a wrote it down."

  "What'd he say exactly?"

  "I told the two other cops were here. I told them all that."

  "In case you might've left out something important."

  "Okay, he wants to sell me protection. What else is new? I tell him I don't need any, I tell him I've got the Miami Beach Police Department one minute away from here down the street. That's how dumb I am. I don't know it takes you to drive from First Street to Twelfth Street in a police squad car full speed with the siren and everything twenty-five minutes."

  "How much did he ask for?"

  "Five hundred. In advance, of course. He says for a year's protection guaranteed. Oh yeah? Next month he's back for another five hundred. I grow up, live forty years of my life in Crown Heights, I don't know this kind of business goes on?"

  "He threaten you? Say what would happen if you didn't pay?"

  "Get ready. You want me to tell you exactly what he said?"

  Mrs. Fisk said, "We can't prove he said anything. The policeman was here said unless the other places he did the same thing, we all speak up, then maybe."

  "Tell me what he said, Mr. Fisk."

  "He gives me the pitch, all this protection I'm suppose to get for five hundred dollars. I ask him, against what? What could happen to my place? The guy says, 'Well, let's see.' He goes over to the door, looks out. He says, word for word, 'Somebody could come around and take a dump in your swimming pool every night.' Wait. Listen. Then he says, 'That wouldn't be too nice, would it?' Not, he's gonna smash all my windows, he's gonna throw a bomb in, blow the place up, like they used to do it. Or even threaten to break my legs. No, this big blond-hair son of a bitch is gonna poo poo in my swimming pool."

  LaBrava shook his head. After a few moments he said, "Would you step outside here, Mr. Fisk? Thank you. Over by the pool more. Yeah, right there. Now give me kind of a pissed-off, defiant look. If you would, please."

  "Then the cop comes," Mr. Fisk said, "and what does the cop do? He takes my picture. I'm telling you..."

  LaBrava passed up dinner with Jean and Maurice to spend the evening in the darkroom, watching Nobles appear in trays of liquid, pleased with the shots because they were clear and in focus. He liked the ones where there was motion in the foreground, out of focus, the top of a car as it passed, in contrast to the clarity of Nobles' confident, all-American boyish face. Hometown hero--the hair, the toothpick, the hint of swagger in the set of silver-clad shoulders. What an asshole.

  How did they get so sure of themselves, these guys, without knowing anything? Like people who have read one book.

  He hung Nobles up to dry and spent the next two and a half hours with Jean Shaw, in her apartment.

  They did talk about Nobles, recapping, and he told her what Nobles had been up to and that he'd have prints in the morning, confirmation. She seemed fascinated. She sat facing him on the sofa and asked questions, probed for details, listening intently. Yes, it was fascinating--she used the word--that he could follow someone so closely, document the guy's activity, and not be detected. She asked him about the Secret Service and continued to listen until-GCo

  In one of her pictures, she said, there was a subplot about counterfeiting and they began to talk about movies and she told him what she hated most about making pictures: the two-shot close-up face to face with an actor she often couldn't stand. Nowhere but in the movies did people stand so close when they talked--and you'd get these actors with foul morning breath or reeking of booze--the two of them on the sofa getting closer and closer and that was fine, with confident breaths, good smells, aware of nature's horny scent in there, LaBrava ready once again to try for that overwhelming experience. He told her he wanted to see one of her pictures with her. She said she would get one; she was going home tomorrow to pick up some clothes, a few things, she'd bring the tapes. He said he would like to drive her, see her place.

  She said, "Spend the night with me. Tonight."

  That sounded good.

  She got a wistful look and said, "I need you, Joe."

  And that didn't sound so good because--there it was again--it sounded familiar, and he had to tell himself that playing was okay, they were just having some fun. Except that she made it sound serious.

  She said, "Hold me."

  He did, he held her tight and she felt good. Before she felt too good he sneaked a look at his watch.

  LaBrava was in his own bed when Johnbull Obasanjo phoned a few minutes past 2:00 A.M.

  "I have been trying to call you, you never at home."

  "I'm sorry."

  "You tell me you want information--"

  "I apologize."

  "I accept it," the Nigerian said. "Now, you want to know where they went to in the black Pontiac sportcar, I tell you. They went to a place call Cheeky's. I know a man name Chike, he is an Ibo, but not a bad man. I don't believe this place, though, is of the Ibo. I believe it is for men who have pleasure in dressing as women. So they go in there."

  "You saw the driver of the Pontiac."

  "Yes, a Cuban man."

  "What'd he look like?"

  "I told you, a Cuban man. That's what he look like."

  LaBrava wondered if Nigerians told jokes and if they were funny. "Was there anything different about him?"

  "My friend, you have to be different to go in there. I told you that already."

  "I apologize." Maybe they had a sense of humor if you got to know them. "You didn't by any chance get the license number of the Pontiac."

  Johnbull Obasanjo said, "You have a pen? You have the paper, something to write on when you ask such a question?"

  LaBrava turned the light on and got out of bed. Fucking Nigerian. The guy delivered, though, didn't he?

  Five and a half hours later, still
in bed, the phone again lay on the pillow against his face. He raised it slightly as Buck Torres came back on with his NCIC computer report.

  "Cundo Rey. That's the owner's name. You got a pencil, I'll spell it."

  "Please do."

  "You ready?"

  "Spell the goddamn name, will you?"

  Torres spelled it. "You're a bitch in the morning, aren't you?"

  "What else?"

  "Cuban National, came from Mariel during the boat-lift but wasn't processed. Arraigned for transporting a stolen motor vehicle, Volusia County, that's up north, no conviction. Assigned to Chatahoochee for psychiatric evaluation. He disappeared from there."

  "Is there a warrant out on him?"

  "Nobody wants him, figuring we got enough Cubans."

  "You got his picture?"

  "I can get it. Take a couple of days," Torres said. "He looks harmless to me. Refugee, fell in with some bad hombres."

  "Get the picture," LaBrava said. "I think you're gonna need it."

  Chapter 14

  NOBLES HAD HALF OF a Debbie Reynolds to finish and a few half-done fries left. Little Eli could make a sandwich, damn, but he couldn't deep-fry worth shit. Nobles said to Cundo Rey, who was playing with his coffee spoon, "You do any good last night?" and took a big bite of his Debbie.

  "I don't make so much in that place as a Ladies' Night place. See, they know I don't fuck the same way they do. I mean--you know what I mean."

  "That's good to hear," Nobles said. "Jesus, but that place is scary, you know it? All them queers dressed up like girls. I had to get outta there."

  "I thought you might see one you like to take out and rob him. That was a good idea."

  "Yeah, but I don't believe I could touch the fucker to do it. I mean they are scary. How'd you make out?"

  "I made a couple hundred. Man, I need money. I have to go home and get some."

  "Pretty soon." Nobles shoved the rest of the Debbie Reynolds into his mouth. "You ready?"

  "What?"

  Nobles chewed and chewed. "I said, you ready? Get the wax outta your ears."

  "I was ready before you start eating."

  "Go on out. I don't want Eli to see us together when I talk to him."

  "He already see us together, now."

  "Yeah, but he won't remember you. All you boogers look alike. Go on outside, wait in the car."

  "It isn't going to work."

  "Go on. Scat."

  Nobles walked over to the counter, laid his check on the rubber pad next to the cash register, fished a few toothpicks out of the tray. The man that owned the place, little Eli, came over wiping his hands on his apron, sort of a worried look on his face, or sad. The Jew should shave and clean hisself up, Nobles thought, he'd feel better.

  "Well, how we doing today, partner?"

  Eli didn't answer him, eyes cast down. He rang up the bill, came back to the rubber pad and now had to look up, there was no money on the counter.

  "Put her on account," Nobles said, "and tell me what you think of the deal I offered you."

  The guy seemed afraid to move or speak.

  "Hey, wake up."

  What was the matter with him? He looked sickly. Refused to say a word, nod his head or blink. Nobles watched him turn to the counter behind him, move some stuff out of the way, a telephone book--the hell was he doing? The guy came back around holding up a photograph, holding it in front of his face, so that Nobles was looking at the picture and the guy's knuckles bony white pointing at him.

  "Where'n the hell'd you get that?"

  A shiny black and white shot of Richard Nobles coming out of Eli's Star Deli: so sharp and clear you could see the toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

  The guy's shaky voice behind the shaky photograph was telling him to get out "... and don't ever come back again or I call the cops!"

  It was getting scary. Sitting in the Trans Am with Cundo, hidden from humanity and street glare behind smoked glass, Nobles said, "You believe it?"

  "I tole you it wasn't going to work."

  "Guy holds it up--same kind of pitcher. That little fucker with the swimming pool, now this guy. What in the hell's going on? Somebody taking my pitcher... I gotta try another place. There's that dry cleaner up the street."

  "I tole you," Cundo Rey said.

  "You told me? What? You told me you saw this guy following me with a camera?"

  "I tole you it wasn't going to work."

  "You gonna keep saying that?"

  "You want to work that kind of deal," Cundo Rey said, "you break the guy's window first, then you go in, sell him the protection. I tole you, it's how to do it."

  "Yeah, well I want to know who's taking my pitcher."

  "They hire somebody. They got more protection than you think."

  "No, these people--what do you think they call 'em Jews for? They Jew you down, don't spend a dime less they have to. They ain't gonna hire a guy take pitchers."

  "It couldn't be that girl," Cundo said. "No, it wouldn't be her."

  "What girl?"

  "She live over at the hotel where the woman is."

  Nobles was half listening, staring at people going by on the sidewalk. Cundo began tapping his ring on the steering wheel and Nobles turned to him. "Cut it out."

  "What am I doing?"

  "I'm thinking." After a moment he said, "Oh, man, I don't know what's wrong with me. The dink I been looking for for Christ sake's a photographer. With a newspaper."

  "You haven't seen him, have you?"

  "I haven't seen him, but shit, he's seen me. It's got to be him."

  "How could he know you down here?"

  "He's seen us. How else you think, for Christ sake. He's seen me, anyway. Goddamn it."

  "So, what difference does it make? Let's go see him, take his pictures away from him." Cundo paused, watching Nobles staring out the window. "What are you worried about? Take his pictures. Go in there, take the picture from the Debbie Reynolds guy. Get the picture from the swimming pool guy. Get all the pictures he has."

  Nobles said, "I don't know..."

  Cundo studied him. This Richard, most of the time you could read his face. Right now, though, it was empty, like he had been smoking some of the sky blue reefer from Santa Marta that paralyzed you, made you numb. Cundo said, "You know something? I haven' seen you hit anybody. Man, I even haven' seen you break anything. How come you not get mad?" He turned the ignition key, heard the engine come instantly awake, rumble and pop its muscle. He turned the radio on and heavy riffs filled the car, everything working now.

  Cundo said, "Okay. We go see the guy."

  * * *

  LaBrava had taken the new issue of Aperture from his mail slot, opened it as he turned and got as far as the registration desk, held by a series of color photographs made by a painter, a fine artist, who shot into mirrors and got startling effects.

  He had placed an envelope sleeve on the countertop. He laid the magazine over it, resting his arms on the edge, on cool marble, and wandered to the text to read that a still picture is more powerful than a motion picture, more memorable, that images from movies that stay with you are reasonably still... He would agree with that. Because the film pictures of Jean Shaw in his mind all seemed to be stills. Jean Shaw in black and white giving--he caught a glimpse of her giving Victor Mature the look.

  Then saw her in muted color, a skirt, a top with a narrow belt, a straw bag, the real-life Jean Shaw coming off the elevator, not smiling, now trying on a faint smile as she saw him. She said, "What time did you leave?"

  "It was about one-thirty. I couldn't sleep."

  "Did you think about waking me up?" With almost a sly, bedroom look. But after the fact in a hotel lobby the next morning. He wondered what would have happened if he'd started in again, Jean drowsy, half awake, maybe less mechanical.

  "I think the reason I couldn't sleep, I was expecting a phone call." And knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Giving her second billing.

  She said, "Oh
." Any hint of a sly look gone.

  "It was important. The guy called about two."

  She said, "Maurice wants to take me. You don't have to bother." Not icy, but not warm, either.

  "I'd be glad to help."

  "I'm just going to get a few things. Clothes, mostly. Maurice insists. I think he wants to talk." Her tone beginning to lose its stiffness. "What about the pictures?"

  "Right here." He moved the magazine aside, brought the black and white eight-by-tens of Nobles out of the manila sleeve and laid them on the counter facing Jean.

  She said, resigned, "Yeah, that's Richie. Are you sure he didn't see you?"

  "I used a telephoto from across the street. The blur along the edge, that's a car going by. This one, I'm in a park across from the motel, the Sharon. No, I'm pretty sure he didn't see me."

  Jean's eyes remained on the photos. "You're positive he's doing something illegal."

  "He doesn't work for Star Security anymore," LaBrava said, "so he has nothing legal to sell. Even if he was still with them, they're not licensed in Dade County."

  "But there's no way to prove he's doing something illegal, is that it?"

  "Not till they catch him with a stink bomb, or breaking windows. Then they could get him for malicious destruction. But he's fooling with extortion. That's a tough one to prove."

  Jean said, "If Richie knew you had these--" She shook her head slowly and seemed almost to smile.

  "How about if he thought the police had a set? Would that shake him up?"

  She looked at LaBrava, brown eyes wide for a moment. "Are they after him?"

  "I haven't given them the pictures yet, but I think it might be a good idea. Before somebody gets hurt." He gathered the photos together, slipped them in the envelope. "So that's your friend Richie Nobles."

  "The all-American boy," Jean said. "Can I have them?" When LaBrava hesitated she said, "For my own protection. In case Richie ever comes around again." She looked over as they heard the elevator land, the door open. "Let's tell Maury about it later, okay? Or I'll never get out of here."

  Maurice was taking off his nubby silk jacket as he crossed the lobby. He wore a yellow sport shirt with long collar points, the top button fastened. "You think I need a coat?"

  Jean picked up the envelope with her straw bag. "If it makes you happy."