appearance before the license division... I gotta show cause on my own time why they're full a shit and ought never've put me on probation. I have to show 'em it wasn't my fault the insurance lapsed one week, that's all, and long as I'm there show 'em in black and white all my guys are licensed, every one of 'em. Fine, they stamp a paper, I'm pardoned of all my sins I never committed. I'm back in business. I'm clean. So why don't you get the fuck out and leave me alone, okay? Otherwise I'm gonna have to get up and kick you the fuck out and I'm tired this morning, I had a hard night.'
LaBrava got ready during Joe Stella's speech. When the man finished, sitting immovable, a block of stone, LaBrava said, 'The other thing we have in common, besides both of us being from the Windy City, we'd like to keep the Director of Internal Revenue happy. Wouldn't you say that's true?'
Joe Stella said, 'Oh, shit,' and did sound tired.
'You're familiar with form SS-8, aren't you?'
'I don't know, there so many forms'--getting tireder by the moment--'What's SS-8?'
LaBrava felt himself taking on an almost-forgotten role--Revenue officer, Collection Division--coming back to him like hopping on a bike. The bland expression, the tone of condescending authority: I'm being nice, but watch it.
'You file payroll deductions, withholding, F.I.C.A.?'
'Yeah, a course I do.'
'You never hire guards as independent contractors? Even on a part-time basis?'
'Well, that depends what you mean...'
'You're not aware that an SS-8 has ever been filed by a former employee or independent contractor? It's never been called to your attention to submit a reply?'
'Wait a minute--Jesus, you know all the forms you gotta keep track of? My bookkeeper comes in once a week, payday, she's suppose to know all that. Man, I'm telling you--try and run a business today, a bonded service. First, where'm I gonna get anybody's any good'd work for four bucks an hour to begin with?... Hey, you feel like a drink?'
'No thanks.'
'You know who I get?'
'The cowboys.'
'I get the cowboys, I get the dropouts, I get these guys dying to pack, walk around the shopping mall in their uniform, this big fucking .38 on their hip. Only, state regulation, they're suppose to pin their license--like a driver's license in a plastic cover--on their shirt. But they do that they look like what they are, right? Mickey Mouse store cops. So they don't wear 'em and the guy from the state license division sees 'em and I get fined a hunnert bucks each and put on probation ninety days. I also, to stay in business, I gotta post bond, five grand, and I gotta have three-hundred-grand liability insurance, a hunnert grand property damage. The insurance lapses a week cause the fucking insurance guy's out at Hialeah every day and it's my fault, I'm suspended till I show cause why I oughta not get fucked over by the state of Florida where I'm helping with the employment situation. I'm not talking about the federal government you understand. You guys, IRS, you got a job to do--keep that money coming in to run the government, send guns to all the different places they need guns, defend our ass against... you know what I'm talking about. Fucking Castro's only a hunnert miles away. Nicaragua, how far's that? It isn't too far, I know.'
'Richard Nobles,' LaBrava said, 'he ever been arrested before?'
Joe Stella paused. 'Before what? Jesus Christ, is that who we're talking about? Richie Nobles? Jesus, you can have him.'
'You know where I can find him?'
'I think he quit. I haven't seen him in three days. Left the car, no keys, the dumb son of a bitch. All those big good-looking assholes, I think they get hair instead of brains. What's the matter, Richie hasn't paid his taxes? I believe it.'
'What I'm curious about--guy applies for a job, you ask him if he's ever been arrested, don't you?'
'I did I'd be in violation of your federal law, invasion of privacy. I can't ask if the guy was ever a mental patient either. I can ask him, have you ever been convicted of a felony, or have you ever committed one and didn't get caught? But I can't ask him if he's ever been arrested.'
'You did issue him a handgun.'
'They buy their own.'
'So he's got a license.'
'You apply, you want to be an armed guard, you gotta get clearance through the FBI and the State Department of Law Enforcement. The guy--it takes months--he gets his license or he gets a certified letter in the mail saying he's turned down. But they don't notify me, ever.'
'Have you seen his license?'
'Yeah, he showed it to me.'
'Then he must be clean, uh? They checked him out.'
Joe Stella said, 'You ready for a drink now?'
LaBrava nodded. 'Sounds good.'
He watched Joe Stella push up from his desk. The man moved with an effort to get a bottle of Wild Turkey and glasses from a file cabinet, ice and a can of Fresca from a refrigerator LaBrava had thought was a safe. Pouring double bourbons with a splash of Fresca Joe Stella said, 'First one today. What time is it? Almost ten-thirty, that's not bad. Long as you had breakfast.' He handed a drink to LaBrava and sat down with the bottle close to him on the desk.
LaBrava took a good sip.
'Nice drink, huh?'
'Not bad.'
'Refreshing with a little bite to it.' Joe Stella took down half his drink. Poured another ounce or so of bourbon into it, and added a little more. He said, 'Ahhh, man...'
'I bet he's been arrested,' LaBrava said, 'but never convicted, uh?'
Joe Stella said, 'Richie's from upstate. Some of the boys here call him Big Scrub when he's in a good mood, call him Big Dick he'll grin at you. Otherwise nobody talks to him. You understand the type I mean?'
'I know him,' LaBrava said.
'He was arrested up there, you're right, for destruction of government property. The son of a bitch shot an eagle.'
'I understand he ate it,' LaBrava said.
'I wouldn't be surprised. Richie'll eat anything. He'll drink almost anything. He came to work here he gave me a half gallon of shine with peaches in it, whole big peaches... That's a good drink, isn't it?'
'Nice.'
'He shot the eagle he was living up around Ocala, the Big Scrub country. Richie was a canoe guide, he'd take birdwatchers and schoolteachers back in the swamp, show 'em nature and come out somewhere up on the St. Johns River. He wasn't doing that he'd run supplies for a couple of moonshiners, few hundred pounds a sugar a trip. These two brothers he knew had a still in there. So when he got busted for the eagle he traded off, gave the feds the two brothers and they got two to five in Chillicothe. I asked him, didn't it bother him any to turn in his friends? He says, 'No, it weren't no hill to climb.' ' Joe Stella drank and topped it off again, the color of his drink turning clear amber in the window sunlight. 'No, it weren't no hill to climb. He's around here more'n ten minutes I start to sound like a fucking cracker.' Joe Stella took another drink and sat back. 'You ever hear of Steinhatchee?'
'Sounds familiar.'
'Way up on the Gulf side, where the Steinhatchee River comes out. Sleepy little place, the people there, they cut timber for Georgia-Pacific or fish mullet outta the river, use these skiffs they call bird-dog boats, make ten thousand a year, top. Till they saw their first bale of marijuana and found out they could make ten thousand a night--buy it offa shrimp boats'd come in there and wholesale it. These hardshell Baptists, all of a sudden they're getting rich in the dope business. They never smoked it, you understand, they just ran it. Well, Richie Nobles had a relative living over there and found out about it. So what do you think Richie does?'
'If he got rich,' LaBrava said, 'I know he didn't declare it.'
'No, Richie believes marijuana is for sissies. But it bothers him these people that don't know shit're making all that money. So he tells the DEA and they send him in, see if he can join the business.'
