He compared it also to the National Hotel in Havana. The National Hotel was as dirty as this place, but instead of people who looked like convicts, there were Russians staying there, Russians smelling of garlic, talking in loud voices, complaining. They complained like children who didn’t like their dinner. They didn’t complain of things worth complaining about. What did they know? They didn’t work on the housing brigade in Alamar twelve hours a day breathing cement dust. The Russian he had known was an engineer or a technician of some kind. In his room he had vodka, bars of chocolate, boxes of rubbers and dirty picture books he had bought in New York City. The Russian hated Cuba. Say Cooba with his garlic breath and spit on the floor. Cundo Rey, aching to leave, dying for the chance, defended his country because he hated the Russian and had gone back to the man’s room late at night. He had almost wasted his life because of the Russian, using the Russian’s own gun.
Thinking, Oh well, that was done.
Then thinking about the guy in the wheelchair again, because that wasn’t done.
How many guys who lived in the Della Robbia Hotel took photographs of people from a distance, unseen, with a telephoto lens? Sure it was the same guy who had taken the photographs of Richard—oh shit, seeing Richard in his mind again . . .
And seeing a guy who was called David Vega coming into the lobby. David Vega had looked at him as though he knew him, but had never approached to speak to him. So he watched David Vega whenever he saw him.
When Javier came in David Vega was still in the lobby, drinking a Coca-Cola from the machine. So Cundo didn’t greet Javier, pretending not to notice him. Javier would see this and do the same.
Cundo waited several minutes before going up to Javier’s room. He accepted a glass of rum as a formality and listened as Javier expressed his desire to move to South Miami. There was no hurry. Listening to Javier kept him from thinking about his car in the hands of Richard the swamp creature. Javier finished his rum before he brought the metal footlocker out of the closet, worked the combination and opened the lid to display his wares.
“Any pistol you want,” Javier said, “wholesale price to a Marielito. Machine gun one-third off. MAC-10 cost you eight hundred.”
“Something small,” Cundo Rey said.
“You want a snubbie. This one, .38 Special, two-inch barrel. Same kind the Charlie’s Angels use.”
“Yeah?”
“Also Barney Miller.”
“Wrap it up,” Cundo Rey said.
16
* * *
NOBLES HAD HIS GRIN READY. The door opened and he said, “Well, look-it who’s here, huh?”
He’d decided she would be all eyes, surprised as hell. But she wasn’t. Or didn’t act it. She gave him a stare like she wasn’t going to move.
He said, “Sugartit, I don’t want to knock you down but I been in the car it seems like all day. I gotta go pee pee so bad I’m gonna be spitting in another minute. It just come on me.”
So she had to get out of his way—it was a fact, he would have picked her up and moved her—had to let him through to run down the hall to her bathroom.
Nobles loved it in here, it was full of perfume bottles, bath oils and powder in pale-colored boxes, all kinds of good-smelling stuff. He would like to look in her medicine cabinet sometime, poke around and find intimate things. It was so clean in here, no rust stains in the toilet or the washbasin. He looked around at all her girlish stuff relieving himself, groaning sighs and finally shuddered. Oh man.
She was still in the parlor, sitting at one end of the sofa now, her straw bag on her lap, legs crossed to show him her knee above the chrome coffee table. She seemed calm now, not drilling him with her eyes, though not with what he’d call a sweet expression, either.
He said, “You glad to see me?”
Huh-uh, she didn’t look too. She said to him, “Richard, what are you doing here?” Calm and patient, like she was talking to a child.
He said, “I missed you. Did you miss anybody?”
She said, “What am I going to do with you, Richard?”
That was better. He gave her a grin. “Well, let’s see . . .”
She said, “You’re just a big loveable bear, aren’t you?”
He had never thought of himself that way. Shit—a bear. He said, “You got anything cold to drink? Man, I’m thirsty from sitting in that car.” He started for the dining room, all shiny glass and silver in there, to go through to the kitchen.
When she said, “Richie?” and he glanced over, walking past her, he saw the pictures laid out on the coffee table, his own familiar self looking up at him and he stopped, not too thirsty anymore.
He put his hands on his hips. The first thing he thought to say was, “Man, I would like to know what’s going on—this guy taking my pitcher.” He squinted his eyes, looking up at Jean then. “Wait a minute. How’d you get ’em?”
Jean said, “Richard, you’re priceless.”
“I want to know how you got ’em.”
“He gave them to me. How else?”
“What’s he doing—he with a newspaper or what?”
“No, he’s not with a paper. He goes out and takes pictures of people.” She seemed to think about it a moment, not quite sure. Then nodded. “That’s what he does.”
“You don’t have to get permission?” Nobles said, indignant now. “Just take pitchers of anybody you want?”
“Would you like to sue him? How about invasion of privacy?”
“Shit, it oughta be against the law.”
She said, “You could go to the police . . .”
Wouldn’t that be something. Get some cop he knew, like Glenn Hicks up in Boca, to come down on the scudder.
“Except they’re going to find out about you anyway. He wants to give them a set of pictures.”
Nobles had to squint again, trying to see this business in his head. It was a queer feeling to know somebody had been watching every move he made, like every time he stepped out of the daylight darkness of that black car. He was right back where he started, asking, “What in the hell’s going on?” Asking, “Who is he, anyway?”
Jean said, “It’s not so much who he is—his name is Joe LaBrava—but what he used to be. Joe was a Secret Service agent for nine years, Richard. He keeps his eyes open, doesn’t miss a thing.”
Nobles felt just a little bit relieved and said, “Hell, I know boys work as gover’ment agents. You help them out, they help you out. You work a deal.”
She said, “Richie, do you know what you’re talking about?”
He didn’t like that bored goddamn ho-hum tone at all and she’d better watch it. He stayed calm though and listened. Heard her say:
“This man knows all about you. He knows you’ve been bothering me. He knows I can’t discourage you, no matter how hard I try.”
Learning amazing things from her now.
“Wait. You told him that?”
And saw her eyes catch fire.
“I had to, you dummy. He saw you. He asked me about you.”
It stung him. But he kept his mouth shut and she seemed to settle back and it was quiet. He could hear the ocean.
She said, “Why you came to the clinic—God, I’ll never know.”
“I wanted to get you out of there.”
She said, “Richard,” her normal calm self again, “why do you think I got drunk? Why did I walk out of the bar? Do you know how long I had to wait for a police car? I thought I was going to have to go find one. Richard, before I left, what did I say?”
“The bar?”
“Before I walked out with the drink.”
“What’d you say? You said a lot of things.”
“I asked you not to drink so much.”
“I was keeping up with you is all.”
“I said trust me. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I wrote it on a napkin. Trust me. And told you to put it in your pocket. Trust me and wait, I’ll call you. The police d
rive me to the place in Delray. I have them call Maurice and he comes immediately, anxious to take care of me.”
“Yeah?”
“I stay with him. We talk. He feels even closer to me than before. He feels responsible for me. He wants to help me no matter what happens . . .”
“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me any of that part—how you were gonna bring him in.”
“If you trust me, Richard, I don’t have to tell you anything . . . Do I?”
“Well, you could a told me something. Shit, I didn’t know.” He began to get tender feelings again, admiration. This little lady had put it all together, thought it up all by herself.
She said, “What did you do, the night at the clinic, start a fight? I was afraid you’d get into something.”
“It was the guy, the one you’re talking about. The scudder blindsided me while I’m talking to the girl there.”
“Well, you picked the wrong guy, Richard.”
“I didn’t pick him—”
She said, “Listen to me. All right?”
She could be so calm no matter what, keeping her voice low and a little bit husky. He would look at her and get that tender feeling and not care how old she was. She was good looking, she smelled good, had nice legs—that knee looking at him, a little thigh showing . . .
“You’ve brought a man into it,” she was telling him now, “who knows how to watch people, how to follow them. He was onto you for days and you didn’t see him, did you?”
“I wasn’t looking especially.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. The police are going to get involved anyway, sooner or later, so maybe it doesn’t make any difference. You’re going to be the obvious suspect. Especially now. You’ve not only been bothering me, you’ve practically advertised—with pictures to prove it—you’re into extortion, in one form or another.”
“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.
17
* * *
FRANNY SAID, “Oh man. Man oh man.” She said, “I bet there’s a guy somewhere right now—he’s in Boston, 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.”