LaBrava

'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.'

'Nah, we're not going anyplace, are we?' He folded the jacket inside out and laid it on the counter. 'Joe, lock it in the closet for me, will you? We're going up to Boca, get a few things of Jeanie's.'

LaBrava said to her, 'What about the tapes? You said you have a couple of your movies?'

She hesitated. 'You really want to see them?'

'You kidding? With the star?'

'If you promise you won't fall asleep. We'll have to bring the VCR and plug it into Maury's TV.'

Maurice said, 'What? What're we talking about?'

'Jean's movies,' LaBrava said and looked at her again. 'What ones do you have?'

'Just the two available on tape. Shadowland and Let It Ride.'

'I can hardly wait,' LaBrava said, not sure if he had seen either of them. 'It's been a long time.'

They'd crept past the Della Robbia, past the Cardozo to park across the street from the Cavalier, on the beach side of Ocean Drive. Nobles had curled his size into an almost fetal position in the front seat, face pressed against the inside edge of the backrest so he could stare out that smoky rear window and see the Della Robbia, the bunch of old ladies sitting lined up on the porch.

Cundo Rey said, 'Man, we don't have no air. How about I open it just a little?'

Nobles didn't answer him. In a moment a draft of salt air touched his face and it felt pretty good. He reached behind him and opened the window on his side a few inches. Yeah, that was better.

'I don't want to see her just yet. Till we're ready. You understand?'

Cundo said, 'Sure,' even though he didn't. Why ask him questions? He was acting strange.

'What I'm getting at, I walk in there I'm liable to see her. Or be seen with her, I mean. You follow me? Best we wait for him to come out.'

They had been parked here more than a half hour. Cundo couldn't believe it, Nobles becoming cautious, not wanting to go in there and get the guy's pictures, take the guy in his hands, throw him out a window if it was high enough. He would like to have a look at this guy in the light, see him good. The guy didn't seem to scare Nobles, no, but seeing the pictures of himself had changed him; he didn't seem to know what he was doing.

Cundo said, 'If the guy works, then why would he be there?' Nobles didn't answer. He didn't know anything, so why ask him?

Cundo said, 'I don't like that place I'm living, La Playa. I'm going to move.' The reason they were at different hotels, Nobles had said they shouldn't be seen together too much. He had asked why and Nobles had said, because. That was his answer. Because.

'I'm going to find a good place, move my things down from West Palm. What about you? You want to move your things?'

Nobles wasn't listening, he was pushing up straight against the backrest, stretching his neck, saying, 'Jesus Christ, there she is.'

Cundo had to press his face against the side window, his neck twisted, to see. He said, 'Tha's the movie star? Man, she look pretty nice. Who's that old guy?'

'Must be the one she's staying with, one picked her up.' Nobles watched them cross the street like they were going to the beach in their good clothes, but now they stopped. He watched the old man pull open a car door and get in while Jean Shaw went around to the other side. They were going someplace. Just her and the old man.

As soon as Nobles had his idea he said, 'They go by, you get out. I'm own take the car, meet you later on.'

'You want to take this?'

Nobles' head turned with the Mercedes going past them. 'Okay, get out.'

'Man, this is my car.'

Nobles said, 'You little booger--' Got that far.

Cundo saw the look and stepped out of the car saying, 'Sure, please take it.' Stood in the road saying, 'Go with God,' and watched until the insane creature from the Big Scrub turned left on Fifteenth Street.

Franny came out of the ocean like a commercial, body glistening in two strips of mauve material, Coppertone clean with an easy stride, letting her hips move on their own as she came up on the beach. It was empty in front of her, all the way to the park.

Where was Joe LaBrava when she needed him?

He was across the street, coming out of the Della Robbia with Paco's wheelchair, sitting in it now on the sidewalk, trying it out, talking to the old ladies leaning out of their chairs, reassuring them. By the time Franny reached the grass, he was wearing a plain, beachcomber Panama with a curvy, shapeless brim, a camera hanging from his neck, waving to the ladies as he wheeled off.

Franny yelled his name. He looked over, made an awkward turn and stroked his wheels across the street.

'How do you get up curbs?'

She helped him, came around in front of him again and he was aiming a Nikon at her. Snick.

'I wasn't ready.'

'Yes, you were. You look good. You're the first girl in a bathing suit I've ever shot.'

'None of that commercial stuff.'

He gave a shrug. 'Maybe there's a way to do it.'

'The bathing suit in contrast to something. How about sitting on a TV set?'

He smiled and she watched him reach around to the camera bag hanging behind him, watched him bring it to his lap, the hat brim hiding his face as he snapped off the wide-angle lens, put on a long one and aimed the camera down a line of palm trees to a group of elderly people sitting on a bench.

'What're you gonna shoot, the regulars?'

'Get 'em when they aren't looking.'

'Why don't you come up after... do me.'

She was serious or she was having fun. Either way, it didn't matter.

He said, 'I don't have any color.'

She said, 'Whatever you want to use, Joe, is fine with me.'

He remembered sore feet from all that standing around steely-eyed in front of hotels and at rallies and fund- raisers, protecting important people. A numb butt from sitting in cars for days doing surveillance. Tired eyes from reading presidential pen-pal letters. Not even counting protective-detail duty in Mrs. Truman's living room, a life that sounded exciting was 80 percent boredom.

It had certainly taken a turn lately.

He cruised Lummus Park in the Eastern Airlines wheelchair, using the Nikon with a 250-mm lens now to shoot across Ocean Drive to get porch sitters: panning a gallery of weathered faces, stopping on permanent waves, glasses flashing sunlight, false teeth grinning--peeking into their lives as he picked them off one at a time. Later on he would see their faces appear in clear liquid, in amber darkroom light, and would be alone with them again and want to ask them questions about where they'd been and what they'd seen. Raped by Cossacks, Franny said, or mugged by...