'What do you want the camera for?'
'Maybe I want to take a picture.'
'The woman?'
'Maybe. I don't know yet. I have to see how she is.'
'She a good friend of yours?'
Maurice said, 'I'm going out this time of night to help somebody I don't know? She's a very close friend.'
'How come if she lives in Boca they took her to Delray Beach?'
'That's where the place is they take them. It's run by the county. Palm Beach.'
'Is it like a hospital?'
'What're you asking me for? I never been there.'
'Well, what'd the girl say on the phone?'
'Something about she was brought in on the Meyers Act.'
'It means she was drunk.'
'That's what I'm afraid of.'
'They pick you up in this state on a Meyers Act,' LaBrava said, 'it means you're weaving around with one eye closed, smashed. They pick you up on a Baker Act it means you're acting weird in public and're probably psycho. I remember that from when I was here before.'
He had spent a year and a half in the Miami field office of the United States Secret Service, one of five different duty assignments in nine years.
He had told Maurice about it one Saturday morning driving down to Islamorada, LaBrava wanting to try bonefishing and Maurice wanting to show him where he was standing when the tidal wave hit in '35. LaBrava would remember the trip as the only time Maurice ever asked him questions, ever expressed an interest in his past life. In parts of it, anyway.
He didn't get to tell much of the IRS part, the three years he'd worked as an investigator when he was young and eager. 'Young and dumb,' Maurice said. Maurice didn't want to hear anything about the fucking IRS.
Or much about LaBrava's marriage, either--during the same three years--to the girl he'd met in accounting class, Wayne State University, who didn't like to drink, smoke or stay out late, or go to the show. Though she seemed to like all those things before. Strange? Her name was Lorraine. Maurice said, what's strange about it? They never turn out like you think they're going to. Skip that part. There wasn't anything anybody could tell him about married life he didn't know. Get to the Secret Service part.
Well, there was the training at Beltsville, Maryland. He learned how to shoot a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, the M-16, the Uzi submachine gun, different other ones. He learned how to disarm and theoretically beat the shit out of would-be assassins with a few chops and kicks. He learned how to keep his head up and his eyes open, how to sweep a crowd looking for funny moves, hands holding packages, umbrellas on clear days, that kind of thing.
He spent fifteen months in Detroit, his hometown, chasing down counterfeiters, going undercover to get next to wholesalers. That part was okay, making buys as a passer. But then he'd have to testify against the poor bastard in federal court, take the stand and watch the guy's face drop--Christ, seeing his new buddy putting the stuff on him. So once he was hot in Detroit, a familiar face in the trade, they had to send him out to cool off.
He was assigned to the Protective Research Section in Washington where, LaBrava said, he read nasty letters all day. Letters addressed to 'Peanut Head Carter, the Mushmouth Motherfucker from Georgia.' Or that ever-popular salutation, 'To the Nigger-loving President of the Jewnited States.' Letters told what should be done to the President of the USA, 'the Utmost Supreme Assholes' who believed his lies. There was a suggestion, LaBrava said, the President ought to be 'pierced with the prophet's sword of righteousness for being a goddamn hypocrite.' Fiery, but not as practical as the one that suggested, 'They ought to tie you to one of those MX missiles you dig so much and lose your war-lovin ass.'
Maurice said, 'People enjoy writing letters, don't they? You answer them?'
LaBrava said usually there wasn't a return address; but they'd trace the writers down through postmarks, broken typewriter keys, different clues, and have a look at them. They'd be interviewed and their names added to a file of some forty thousand presidential pen pals, a lot of cuckoos; a few, about a hundred or so, they'd have to watch.
LaBrava told how he'd guarded important people, Teddy Kennedy during the Senator's 1980 presidential campaign, trained to be steely-eyed, learned to lean away from those waving arms, stretched his steely eyes open till they ached listening to those tiresome, oh my, those boring goddamn speeches.
Maurice said, 'You should a heard William Jennings Bryan, the Peerless Prince of Platform English, Christ, lecture on the wonders of Florida--sure, brought in by the real estate people.'
LaBrava said he'd almost quit after guarding Teddy. But he hung on and was reassigned to go after counterfeiters again, now out of the Miami field office, now getting into his work and enjoying it. A new angle. He picked up a Nikon, attached a 200-mm lens, and began using it in surveillance work. Loved it. Snapping undercover agents making deals with wholesalers, passers unloading their funny money. Off duty he continued snapping away: shooting up and down Southwest Eighth Street, the heart of Little Havana; or riding with a couple of Metro cops to document basic Dade County violence. He felt himself attracted to street life. It was a strange feeling, he was at home, knew the people; saw more outcast faces and attitudes than he would ever be able to record, people who showed him their essence behind all kinds of poses--did Maurice understand this?--and trapped them in his camera for all time.
He got hot again through court appearances and was given a cooling-off assignment--are you ready for this?--in Independence, Missouri.
After counterfeiters?
No, to guard Mrs. Truman.
A member of the twelve-man protective detail. To sit in the surveillance house watching monitors or sit eight hours a day in the Truman house itself on North Delaware. Sit sometimes in the living room looking around at presidential memorabilia, a picture of Margaret and her two kids, the grandfather's clock that had been wired and you didn't have to wind--which would have been something to do--listening to faint voices in other rooms. Or sit in the side parlor with Harry's piano, watching movies on TV, waiting for the one interruption of the day. The arrival of the mailman.
'Don't get me wrong, Mrs. Truman was a kind, considerate woman. I liked her a lot.'
The duty chief had said, 'Look, there guys would give an arm and a leg for this assignment. If you can't take pride in it, just say so.'
He glanced at Maurice sitting there prim, very serious this evening. Little Maurice Zola, born here before there were roads other than a few dirt tracks and the Florida East Coast Railway. Natty little guy staring at this illuminated interstate highway--giant lit-up green signs every few miles telling where you were--and not too impressed. He had seen swamps become cities, a bridge extended to a strip of mangrove in the Atlantic Ocean and Miami Beach was born. Changes were no longer events in his life. They had happened or they didn't.
One of the green signs, mounted high, told them Daytona Beach was 215 miles.
'Who cares?' Maurice said. 'I used to live in Daytona Beach. First time I got married, October 10, 1929-- wonderful time to get married, Jesus--was in Miami. The second time was October 24, 1943, in Daytona Beach. October's a bad month for me. I paid alimony, I mean plenty, but I outlived 'em both. Miserable women. In '32, when I worked for the septic tank outfit and wrestled alligators on the weekends? It was because I had the experience being married to my first wife.'
'What about the lady we're going to see?'
'What about her?'
'You ever serious with her?'
'You're asking, you want to know did I go to bed with her? She wasn't that kind of girl. She wasn't a broad you did that with.'
'I meant did you ever think of marrying her?'
'She was too young for me. I don't mean she was too young you wanted to hop in the sack with a broad her age, I mean to get married and live with. I had all kinds of broads at that time. In fact, go back a few years before
