'Hey, I was offering my service--'
'Richard.'
'Yeah. Go on.'
'They can't convict you with pictures. They've got to catch you in the act, destroying property, threatening someone. So I don't think the photographs are going to do us any harm. We have to have a suspect to make it believable and, Richard, I have to say, you're perfect.'
He said, 'I appreciate that.'
'They might question you.'
'I know it.'
'They'll be convinced you're the guy.'
'So?'
'It's going to be up to you, Richard, whether we succeed or not. You're the star.'
'I am?'
'They could put a lot of pressure on you.'
'I been in some ass-tighteners. Don't worry about it.'
'And the guy who's going to help us,' Jean said, 'he'll have to understand a few things. At least he'll have to think he does.'
'I know what you mean.'
'You have someone in mind?'
'Already hired him. Cute little booger does anything I tell him. He's half queer, done hard time in Cuba--listen, you was to draw a picture of the one you got in mind, I'd turn this boy over and you'd say, that's him, don't let him get away.'
'He's Cuban?'
'Pure-D. Listen, he told me a idea was crude, but didn't sound too bad. He's a nasty little booger. I wish you could meet him.'
'I'm the victim, Richard.'
'I know. I haven't told him any different. I'm just saying I think you'd get a kick out of him. Dances go-go when he feels like showing off. Wears a earring. Little Cundo Rey, the Cuban hot tamale. You know what they say the weather is down there? They say chili today and hot tamale.'
He grinned, waiting for her to loosen up, but she was being serious about something and he could hear the ocean again.
In that quiet she said, 'Why are there pictures of you and none of him?'
'I done the selling. I was gonna save Cundo for the dirty work.'
'Did he like the idea?'
'Well, I wouldn't say he was real tickled. He believes you have to break the guy's window first, then sell him the protection. Maybe that's how they do it down in Cuba, I wouldn't know.'
Jean said, 'Richard, that's not unlike the way we're going to do it. Isn't that right?'
He had to think about that. 'Yeah, sorta.'
'Are you sure he'll do whatever you tell him?'
'No problem. The little fella's greedy.'
She was staring at him now, hard.
When he'd decided she didn't intend to speak, Nobles said, 'Listen, maybe we ought to get our heads together here,' coming around the coffee table to ease down next to her, 'get this deal fine-tuned.' But he was no sooner down, she was up.
Going over to the television set with her straw bag, telling him, 'Stay there, I'll be back.'
Not sounding mad or anything, just peculiar. He watched her pick up a couple of video cartridges and shove them into the straw bag, a big roomy one. She dropped the bag over on a chair, like she didn't want to forget it when she left. Then she stooped down, opened the cabinet beneath the shelves and he stared at her fanny as she brought out a third video cartridge. This one she snapped into the VCR, the movie player, and turned on the television set, telling him he could carry the recorder down to the car after.
'After what? We gonna see a movie?'
'Part of one.' She stepped away from the set.
Nobles laid his arm across the sofa's backrest, waiting for her, but she stood there watching the screen as music came on over the Columbia Pictures logo. The music quit. For a moment the screen was black. Then the picture's musical score began, dirge-like, a promise of doom, as the screen turned white and the main title appeared, a single word within a black border, OBITUARY.
'I saw this one.'
'I want you to see it again. The first part.'
'That's all I ever seen, like half of it. How's it end?'
'Be quiet,' Jean said.
'There you are,' Nobles said, reading the titles. 'Starring Victor Mature. Jean Shaw. Victor Mature--yeah, I remember this one, he's the cop. Which one's Shepperd Strudwick?'
'My husband.'
'Henry Silva. Which one's he play?'
Nobles looked up. Jean was walking out of the room. He said, 'Hey, get us a cold drink, okay?' He wouldn't mind something to eat, either, and raised his voice. 'You know how to make a Debbie Reynolds?'
No answer.
Maybe she'd surprise him. Yeah, he remembered this one. Starts with the funeral. Jean Shaw standing there dressed all in black with her husband, old enough to be her daddy, biting his lip, man with a nervous stability, rich but afraid of dying, having to leave the cemetery in a hurry. Running off to his limousine. There, going in close to Jean Shaw watching him leave. Looking through her veil at her eyes. Something going on in her head and not sweet affection for her hubby, from the look of it.
Jean came back in the room holding something in both hands wrapped in tissue paper he hoped was a snack of some kind. She sat down next to him on the sofa, close, and Nobles said, 'What a we got there, hon?' She didn't answer. She unwrapped the tissue paper and handed him--Jesus Christ--a little bluesteel automatic.
'The hell's this for?' Nobles looked at it, read on the side Walther PPK/S Cal. 9mm and some words in a foreign language. It was a little piece, the barrel only a couple of hairs better than three inches long.
Jean said, 'I want you to show me how it works. I used to know, but I've forgotten.'
'Where'd you get it?'
'It was my husband's. Be careful, I think it's loaded.'
'Hey, I know how to handle guns. What do you want this peeshooter for?'
'Just in case.'
'We ain't robbing a bank, sugar.'
She said, 'Let's watch the picture. You can show me later.'
Her tone sounded encouraging, soft and husky again. She could sound pissy one minute and like she was in heat the next. He brought his arm down from the back of the sofa and she snuggled right up against him. Yeah, she seemed to be getting in the mood herself, staring at herself in the moving picture. It tickled him to see her watching herself, hardly ever blinking her eyes, her mouth open just a speck.
He bent his head to whisper to her, 'My but that's a cute-looking woman. I wouldn't mind loving her up some.'
She said, 'Shhhh,' but laid her hand on his thigh, the red tips of her fingers touching the inside seam of his blue jeans. She began to pick at the seam as she watched herself. Pretty soon she'd begin to scratch him. He liked it when she scratched him. She was a good scratcher.
Chapter 17
FRANNY SAID, 'Oh man. Man oh man.' She said, 'I bet there's a guy somewhere right now--he's in Boston,
