LaBrava

'Yes?'

'Then steals it from him.'

'She's some woman.'

'Very determined. You know, hardheaded. She says she doesn't want to buy the typewriter.'

'She doesn't? Why?'

'Because of her honor. She won't be forced to do it. She doesn't think you'd give the typewriter to the police.'

'No?'

'No, because if you turn her in--she said for me to tell you--she'll give them your name. They already have your picture, your fingerprints... Is that true?'

'Yes, is true.'

'So if she goes to jail, you go to jail.'

'What about you, yourself?'

'What did I do?'

'You kill Richard?'

'I never said that. But I see what you mean. You got a point.'

'I do?'

'Yeah, she could lay Richard off on me. Try to.'

'So why don't you kill her? You want me to?'

'I don't think we have to go that far. But I don't think you should try and sell her the typewriter, either.'

'No?'

'See, if the cops even suspect her, they search her place and find it?'

'Yes?'

'She could be pissed off enough she'd finger both of us.'

'Yes, so what do we do?'

'You give me the typewriter. I'll take care of it.'

'Give it to you... What do I get?'

'Half the money.'

Cundo had to bite on his lip and think about it. 'Three hundred thousand dollars?'

'That's right.'

'How would you do it?'

'No problem. She already gave me the money, to hide. See, in case they search her place. So I give half to you and you give me the typewriter.'

'What does she do then? Her money's gone.'

'Who gives a shit? The typewriter's gone, too; she can't even prove she did it. She tries to put the stuff on us, it's her word against ours. What can she prove?'

'Nothing.'

'So, all you have to do is give me the typewriter.'

Cundo thought about it again. He said then, 'You give me half the money, okay, I get rid of the typewriter.'

'If I knew you better,' LaBrava said, 'if we were friends it would be no problem. But I don't know you. You understand? You give me the typewriter, you get half the take, and neither one of us has to worry. What do you say?'

Cundo thought some more and began to nod. 'All right, half the money. Keep your camera, I don't want it.'

'When?'

'Maybe tonight. After I go-go.'

'Why not right now? Three hundred thousand, you don't need to hang around here shaking your ass.'

'I like to do it.'

'Okay, then later on?'

'Let me think.'

LaBrava let him. He looked at those cat whiskers painted on Cundo's face and said, 'You know, one time I was as close to Fidel Castro as I am to you right now. It was in New York.'

'Yeah? Why didn't you shoot him? Maybe I wouldn't go to prison if you did.'

'What were you in for?'

'I shot a Russian guy.'

'Just trying to hustle a buck, uh?'

'Man, is tough sometime. You got to think, is somebody want to kill me? You never know.'

LaBrava, nodding, had to agree. 'As Robert Mitchum once said, 'I don't want to die, but if I do I'm gonna die last.' '

The Cuban with the cat whiskers painted on his face stared at him and said, 'Who's Robber Mitchum?'

* * *

Cundo Rey was back at the place on Bonita now.

The first thing he had decided: there was no sense in the picture-taker giving him half the money when he could give him all of it.

The second thing: he needed light to see it. Make sure it wasn't some money on top of newspaper; he had enough newspaper. He didn't want to go to the woman's apartment where, the picture-taker said, the money was still in the trash bag; he didn't want to go anyplace he had never been. He didn't want to go to a bar or a cafe or some all-night place where people came in. He didn't want to go outside, in a park, where there wasn't any light.

He went through all this before coming around to the place he already had, on Bonita, a perfect place. Nobody on the street knew him or maybe had even seen him. All he had to do was leave the picture-taker here, go over the Seventy-ninth Street Causeway to the Interstate, be in Atlanta, Georgia, tomorrow. Go anyplace he wanted after that with his bag of money. Somebody would find the picture-taker in a week, two weeks, they would smell him and call the cops and break into the place.

He couldn't get over the picture-taker being so simple and trusting. He had thought the country people recruited for the housing brigade in Alamar were simple. This guy was as simple as those people. Either he believed he could trade half the money for the typewriter, or he believed he could pull a trick, get the typewriter and keep the money. Either way he would be very simple to think he could do it.

Cundo could feel his snubbie pressing into his spine, silk shirt hanging over it. Let the guy come in. Make sure the money was in the bag--no newspaper. Then do it. No fooling around. Do it. Leave the guy. He could drive out maybe to Hollywood, California, see how things were doing out there. Sure, get some new outfits, go Hollywood.

He was getting excited now, looking out through the Venetian blinds to the street that curved past the apartment. Empty. It always looked empty, even during the day. He was getting anxious waiting for the guy to arrive here. He rubbed a finger under his itchy nose, looked at his hand and saw the black Magic-Marker on his finger, from his cat whiskers he had forgot to wash off, from being anxious and excited. It was okay. Take half a minute.

Cundo left the window, moved from the living room through the short hall to the bathroom. That snubbie was hurting him. He pulled it out of his pants, laid it on the toilet tank. Wrap a facecloth around it after he washed off his cat whiskers, try it that way stuck in his pants, so the hard edges wouldn't hurt...

A sound came from the front.

He ran into the living room, looked out through the blinds. The street was still empty. Right behind him then, a few feet away, someone knocked on the door and Cundo jumped. He moved to the door and listened. The knocks came again in his face.

'Who is it?'

'It's me,' LaBrava said. 'Guy with the money.'

Cundo opened the door, stood holding it for the picture-taker and right away could feel a difference in him. Like a different guy...