The Cuban-looking guy said, 'What're you doing, taking pictures?'
His hair was slicked down across his forehead and he wore a gold earring. But even without it LaBrava would have known him. The way he moved, for one thing, the way his hand drifted up to touch the wavy ends of his hair.
LaBrava was happy to see him and gave him a smile and said, 'Yep, that's what I'm doing, taking pictures.'
'You down here on your vacation?'
'Just enjoying life,' LaBrava said.
'Tha's nice, you can do that.'
The guy wore a black shirt that might be silk and fit him loose. He was skinny under there, a welterweight with that high compact ass in his cream-colored slacks, the shoes white, perforated.
'Tha's a nice camera you have.'
'Thanks. How about if I take a picture of you?'
'No, tha's okay.'
'I like to get shots of the natives.'
'Man, you think I'm a native?'
'I mean the people that live here, in Florida.'
The Cuban-looking guy said, 'Tha's an expensive camera, uh?' He hadn't taken his eyes from it.
'With the lens it runs about seven and a quarter.'
'Seven hundred dollars?'
'The camera cost me five hundred.'
'Oh, man, is a nice one, uh? You let me see it?'
'If you're careful.' LaBrava had to take his hat off to lift the strap over his head.
'No, I won't drop it. Is heavy, uh?'
'Hang it around your neck.'
'Yeah, tha's better.'
LaBrava watched him raise the camera, almost as though he knew what he was doing, and sight toward the ocean, the breeze moving strands of the guy's raven hair.
Lowering the camera, looking at it, the guy said, 'Yeah, I like it. I think I'll take it.'
LaBrava watched the guy turn and walk off. Watched the easy, insolent movement of his hips.
Watched him take four, five, six strides, almost another one before he stopped--knowing the guy was going to stop, because the guy would be thinking by now, Why isn't he yelling at me? Now the guy would be wondering whether or not he should turn around, wondering if he had missed something he should have noticed. LaBrava saw the guy's shoulders begin to hunch. Turn around and look--the guy would be thinking--or take off.
But he had to look.
So he had to turn around.
LaBrava sat in the wheelchair waiting, his curvy-brimmed Panama shading his eyes, the guy fifteen to twenty feet away, staring at him now.
'What's the matter?'
Holding the camera like he was going to take LaBrava's picture.
The guy said, 'I have to ask you something.'
'Go ahead.'
'Can you walk?'
'Yeah, I can walk.'
'There's nothing wrong with you?'
'You mean, you want to know if you took off could I catch you and beat your head on the pavement? There is no doubt in my mind.'
'Listen--you think I was going to take this camera?'
'Yeah, I did. You changed your mind, uh?'
'No, man, I wasn't going to take it. I was kidding you.'
'You gonna give it back to me?'
'Sure. Of course.'
'Well?'
The guy lifted the strap, brought it over his head. 'I could leave it right here.' Stepping over to the low cement wall. 'How would that be?'
'I rather you hand it to me.'
'Sure. Of course.' Coming carefully now, extending the camera. 'Yeah, is a very nice one... Here you are,' reaching sideways to put it in LaBrava's hand and stepping back quickly, edging away.
'What's the matter?'
'Nothing is the matter. No...'
'I'd like to take your picture. What do you say?'
'Well, I'm busy now. We see each other again sometime.'
'I mean in my studio.' Motioning, thumb over his shoulder like a hitchhiker. 'Up the street at the Della Robbia Hotel.'
The guy's reaction was slight, but it was there, in his eyes for part of a moment, then in his casual gesture, touching the curly ends of his hair.
'Tha's where you live, uh?'
'I've got like a studio right off the lobby. When you want to come?'
He hesitated now. 'Why you want to take my picture?'
'I like your style,' LaBrava said, not sure how many movies it was from. Ten? A hundred? 'You ever do any acting?'
The guy was saying something. It didn't matter. LaBrava raised the Nikon and snapped his picture. Snick.
Chapter 15
MAURICE STOOD ON THE BALCONY that ran the length of Jean Shaw's tenth-floor apartment. The Atlantic Ocean was right there. All of it, it seemed to Maurice, the whole ocean from right downstairs to as far as you could see. It was too close, like living on a ship. He said, 'I sat out here at night with that surf making noise, I'd drink too. It drive you crazy.'
She said from the living room, 'You know that isn't my problem.'
'Yeah? Well, I would a thought I drank more than you do,' Maurice said, 'but I never threw a glass at a cop car.'
'I didn't throw the glass. I explained that, I was in a funny mood.'
'They laugh? You were a guy the cops would a beat your head in, for showing disrespect. You know what your problem is? Living in a place like this. There's no atmosphere. All you got is a view.' He moved to the doorway, looked into the silvery, mirrored living room. Jean stood with two hanging bags draped over a chair done in white satin. 'You got to be careful not to confuse class with sterility. Clean can be classic. It can also bore the shit outta you.'
She said, 'Well, you built the place.'
'I didn't build it.'
'You know what I mean. You've been into more developments like this than anyone I know... Living on South Beach like a janitor.'
'Manager's fine. Don't put me down.'
'What're you into now?'
'I'm resting my money, mostly tax-free bonds. We get a Democrat in there, everything'll pick up again.'
'You still giving to the Seminoles?'
