LaBrava

but I forget what school it is--he's looking at a seismograph and he's going, 'Holy shit, look at this,' like he's got about a seven point five on his Richter and there's got to have been a major earthquake in the last five minutes or a volcano, another Mt. St. Helens, and this guy's seismograph is going crazy--a major disturbance, look, somewhere in Florida, and they narrow it down however they do it and the guy goes, 'Look, in South Beach. Ocean Drive and Thirteenth. Wait. Room two-oh-four, the Della Robbia Hotel. But what could it've been?' You know what it was? It was everything coming together--and I don't mean it that way, but that's true too, huh?--no, I mean everything, the light, the sepia tones, the room, the mood, Smokey and the Miracles, Marvin Gaye and then no sound at all, absolute silence right after. Did you notice?'

'You're saying you had a good time?'

'To feel my loins consumed by a scorching torrent of liquid fire? It wasn't bad.'

'You make a lot of strange sounds.'

'I know I do. I can't help it.'

'You talk, too.'

'Yeah, but I keep it relevant.'

'You keep it basic.'

'You make faces.'

'Out of control.'

'No, even before. But mostly you smile. You look a person right in the eye...'

'You want your wine?'

'Goddamn pillow. There's one that's digging into me... There. Next time however...'

'What?'

'I don't want to sound presumptuous.'

'Next time in the bedroom.'

'The next time you take my picture.'

'I'll shoot it now if you want.'

'I have to tell you something, LaBrava. I love your name--I'm gonna call you LaBrava from now on. I have to tell you, there's no guy in New York I want to send a self-portrait to. I lied.'

'Women who want to be shot in the nude, they want their picture taken. It's okay with me.'

'That wasn't it. I wanted to go to bed with you. You know why?'

'Tell me.'

'Because I knew it would work. I mean I knew it would be the complete, ultimate act, every part of it first rate.'

'First rate--'

'Certain types, when you see the person you just know. You know what I mean? Also I like older guys. You're not that old, but you're still older. You've been to bed with the movie star, haven't you?'

'You can't ask a question like that.'

'I know, but the reason I did--well, I'm sure you have, otherwise you'd have said no, you haven't. I think. But the reason I mention it--'

'This's gonna be good.'

'If it was just for fun and not serious--I mean if you're not in love with her, and I don't think you are or you wouldn't be here. Some guys, it wouldn't matter, but not you. Anyway, if it was just for fun with the movie star, you weren't exactly disappointed, but it wasn't the big thrill you thought it was gonna be either. How do I know that? Because you like it sorta wacky, goof around and have a good time. I knew that just from talking to you. But she's too much into herself for that. I don't mean because she's especially proper or ladylike. I can tell she gets right down to business and it's more like jogging with somebody than making love. You know what I mean? Of course you do.'

'You're sure of that.'

'Oh shit--now you're mad at me.'

'What'm I supposed to say?'

'What're you doing now, pouting? Christ--'

'I'm not doing anything.'

'I'm sorry. I thought we were pals.'

There was a silence.

'We're pals. Here's your wine.'

'Thanks.'

'You said you thought she was nice.'

'I do, I like her.'

'But you think she's too much into herself.'

'I get the feeling she's always on stage.'

'Not altogether honest?'

'No, I don't mean she's devious. It's just that she's never right out in front. Movie stars, they either seem to fade away or James Dean out, but Jean--maybe she's played so many different parts she doesn't know who she is anymore.'

'She always played the same one.'

'Well, there you are. What do I know.'

'But you like her.'

'Sometimes, that quiet way you have of sneaking up--you know what you sound like?'

'A cop?'

'You sound like a cop.'

Nobles told her sometime he'd like to see how it ended, it was just getting good. She asked if he thought the beginning slow. He said no, he meant it was getting even better. It was a real good movie. It was fun to watch her put on that sexy look and work her scheme.

He said, 'Just tell me, do they catch you or not?'

Jean said, 'No, but something happens I never expected.'

They had talked, going over the plan in detail. Now Jean had him sitting at her desk in what she called her study. It was full of books and framed pictures of guys Jean told him were famous movie producers and directors. Nobles did not know any of them or was able to read the names they signed. One guy, Harry Cohn, she said he'd owned a movie studio but acted more like a gangster than any real gangster she had ever known. She had told Nobles about some of the S & G Syndicate people her husband worked for and they hadn't sounded very tough to him. They sounded like any dagos that dressed up in suits and snap-brimmed hats and showed off by spending money. That wasn't being tough. Being tough was doing brutish work as a boy, getting into fights on Saturday night and drinking till you foundered. Being tough was going into dark places with a .357 and a sap and praying to Jesus some nigger would try to jump you. Being tough--shit, it was not poking your fingers at a typewriter that looked like a little toy one.

He'd told her he didn't know how to work it. She said he showed her how to use the gun, she'd show him how to use the typewriter. He was suppose to put what she dictated to him into his own words.

Like Jean said, very slowly, 'You know what will happen to you now. You will die. If you don't--'

He said, 'Wait, hold it.' He kept forgetting to press down the key on the left side, hold it down, to make a capital letter. She told him to type the capital letter over the small letter. It would be all right if it was messy. Nobles said, 'Neatness don't count in a deal like this, huh?'

'If you don't leave the money--' She stopped and said, 'No, start over. In all capital letters--push the one right above it down and it locks. Here.' She did it for him, leaning over him, giving him her nice perfume smell. 'Now, the first line, all in caps, your life is worth six hundred thousand dollars. Go ahead.'

He typed, YOUR LIFE IS WORTH $--)),)))

He said, 'Shit, I can't type.'

She didn't get mad. She pulled the sheet out and rolled in a clean one, regular tablet paper with lines, telling him not to touch it, and he decided schemers had to be patient so as not to seriously fuck up. She bent over the side of the desk and began writing in the tablet, printing the words faster than he had ever seen anybody write. She said, 'There,' when she'd finished, 'that's what the note should say. But you have to put it in your own