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.
Chapter 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, Espanola, 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?
