LaBrava

'Miccosukis. Some of 'em with runaway nigger slave blood in 'em. They appealed to my imagination.'

'And your pocketbook.'

'I made some good friends. Buffalo Tiger, Sonny Billy, they taught me to drink corn beer. We had some laughs, I got some good shots... And I don't give money to 'em. It's a foundation--send a few Miccosukis to school every year 'stead of selling airboat rides and shooting the heads off frogs. What's wrong with that?'

'Jerry thought you were crazy,' Jean said. 'I used to love to hear you argue. He couldn't believe it--all the money you were giving away.'

'Yeah, well, I'm giving some to the whales, too. What would Jerry say about that, uh? I'd started a foundation for used-up lawyers he'd a loved it.'

She said, 'Well, Jerry wasn't the brightest guy I ever married.' She sighed. 'I thought he was going to be a winner, too.'

Maurice said, 'He stayed with the wrong guys too long, Jeanie, you and I both know that. They ate him up-- used him, used his dough, he had no recourse. Who's he gonna go to, the FBI? He hadn't died of a heart attack, he'd a died a much worse kind of way, even thinking about pulling out. Up to Kefauver everybody's having a ball, nothing to it, you could deal with those guys. Frank Erickson, Adonis, any of 'em. After Kefauver, no way, they don't trust nobody.'

She said, 'Jerry was dumb. There's no other way to describe him.'

'May he rest in peace.'

'Yeah, wherever he is--died and gone to hell. But it doesn't help my situation.'

Maurice said, 'Jeanie, any woman I know would trade places with you in a minute. You got the looks, guys're attracted to you--sometimes the wrong type, I'll grant you. You got a nice life...'

'Go on.'

'What's your problem? I know--don't tell me. But outside a money, what? You want money? I'll give you money. Tell me what you need.'

She walked over to the television set, built into black formica shelves. 'I don't want to forget the recorder.' She picked up two tape cartridges in boxes. 'Or the movies. You want to see them?'

'Of course I do. You know that.'

She said, 'Maury, I already owe you, what, sixty thousand.'

He said, 'You want to get technical we're up to seventy-two-five. But have I asked you for it?'

She said, 'If I had money to invest, something working for me--'

'Jeanie. Have I asked you for it?'

'Or if you'd buy me out. Maury, I could pay you back, get out from under it.'

'From under what? How many times have I said it? If you don't have it, you don't owe me. It's that simple. I buy you out, your share's worth about a hundred grand. Say a hundred and a quarter. You pay me back outta that, where are you? If I go, the hotel's yours. Don't worry about it, it's in the agreement. Until that happens--which is something I don't think about. I'm not afraid of going, it's gonna happen, but it's not something I sit down and think about. Until then, you need money, you let me know. It's that simple.'

'Like an allowance.'

Maurice said, 'Sometimes--I don't know, Jeanie.'

She put the videotapes down and seemed restless, though she didn't move. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I'm not ungrateful, I'm frustrated. Maury, you're the best friend I've ever had. I love you, I love to be with you...'

'But what?'

'I feel useless, and it makes me mad.'

'Then do something. Get back into acting.'

'Maury, come on. I'm not going to play somebody's mother. And I'm not going to do the little-theater bit, work in a converted barn, wring my hands in Fiddler on the Roof. I've done all that.'

'Big screen or nothing,' Maurice said. 'You know what I think of that particular kind of pride--from eighty- years experience, from knowing all kinds of successful people with all kinds of dough who are now dead or else in jail? I think it's a bunch of shit. Money and success've got nothing to do with making it on a day to day basis, and that's all that counts.'

'I love rich old guys who say that--and don't have a worry in the world.'

'Aw, Jeanie, come on'--he sounded tired--'you're smarter than that. Quit thinking, start doing something. Girl with your intelligence, your talent... I'm telling you, money ain't it.'

'Joe thinks you're practically down and out.'

'Let him think it. Either way, it wouldn't matter to him, he's an artist. He doesn't know it yet, but he is. He's gonna be a name.'

She said, 'Yeah, well, I wish him luck.'

'Quit worrying, you get lines in your forehead.'

'I always love your advice.'

'Then listen to it. We ready?'

'I guess so.'

'The suitcase and the two hanging bags--that's it?'

'If you'll take those,' Jean said, 'I'll bring the recorder. I'm going to drive, too. I want my car down there.'

'For what?'

'Maury, let me feel at least a little independent.'

The glare hit Nobles smack in the eyes coming up out of the Trans Am, had him squinting with a painful expression. Man, it was hot out. Walking toward the high-rise entrance he could feel the blacktop burning mushy under his cowboy boots, the heels sticking.

He had figured this deal wrong, but it was working out anyway. He believed the old man was taking Jean Shaw home, would drop her off and scat. But the old man was up there it seemed an hour--the black car ticking in the heat--then he had come out with a grip and what looked like her clothes and drove off with them.

Which meant she was going back to South Beach. Shit.

But if she wasn't home for good, least she was home now. Would she be glad to see him? He'd sure be glad to see her--thinking of words like alone at last. He could hardly wait.

Inside the air-conditioned elevator he pushed '10' and began to wonder what she'd say when she opened the door, what kind of look she'd have on her face.

Franny was still in the mauve string bikini.

She had a pinkish tan, freckles on her chest. She had a deep groove between her breasts, round bare hips and naked belly, like a young belly dancer on her day off--except for her round tinted glasses and that wiry hair; that hair was Franny and nobody else. She wasn't the least self-conscious. She poured wine, left the bottle on the glass table. She asked him if he was going to keep his hat on; he could if he wanted; she loved it, she thought it looked like Vincent van Gogh's a little, and didn't say much after that. She was quieter this afternoon.

He could hear the air-conditioning unit working hard. He was okay, he was just a little nervous, wanting to act as natural as this girl but knowing she had a lead on him, had not had to unlearn as many customs of propriety. He had decided she was going to fool around, make the moves on him and here he was, a guy who had gone to bed with a movie star, trying to act natural and not think of the movie star, not think at all. It wouldn't be cheating. How could it be cheating? He hardly knew the movie star. He felt he knew Franny longer, if he wanted to look at it that way. No, he was here because she'd invited him up... Franny wasn't sweating it. She'd probably decided it would happen or it wouldn't. No big deal. She was quieter though, at first.

Thinking about something. Rearranging the pillows, a pile of them on the daybed. She straightened and said, 'Oh.' Went into the bedroom and came out in less than a minute wearing a white cover, soft cotton, plain, that buttoned down the front and reached to her tan bare feet. She asked him if he wanted ice in his wine and after that began to talk. She asked how long his marriage had lasted.

'Thirty-eight months.'

'You say it like that, it sounds like a long time.'

'It was.'

'Any kids?'