There she was in his mind again with Victor Mature. Blowing smoke at him. Bits of the picture coming back. He believed it was the same Jean Shaw picture Franny had seen and mentioned the other night.
Now it was the morning of the day after the note was delivered. He had not yet seen Jean or Maurice. He knocked on Franny’s door, waited, went down to the lobby and there she was surrounded by Della Robbia ladies. At first he thought she was giving them a skin-cream demonstration, using one of the old ladies, Mrs. Heffel, who sat rigidly in front of her.
But she wasn’t. Franny was sketching the woman in pastels. She looked up at him and said, “Well, say it, Joe.”
He was surprised. “I thought you did hotels.”
“Sit down, I’ll tell you about it.”
At this point he saw the cop across the lobby motion to him: a young, clean-cut guy in plainclothes standing by the alcove that led to the darkroom and the command post in the hotel kitchen. Walking away he heard Franny say, “Hey, Joe, what’s going on?”
The young cop glanced around before saying, “Sergeant Torres, I’m suppose to tell you, wants you to meet him at the M.E.’s office, Jackson Memorial.”
“For what?”
“They got a floater he wants you to identify.”
“Why me?”
The young cop didn’t know.
The body of Miney Combs lay naked, autopsied and closed, on a metal tray-table inside a refrigerated semitrailer.
The Dade County Morgue, Jackson Memorial Hospital, had become overbooked since Miami’s jump in population, the 120,000 who rode in on the Mariel boat-lift. Some of them were now killing each other. So the Medical Examiner had rented the refrigerated semitrailer to accommodate the overflow. It stood behind the morgue and at one time had displayed the name Burger King on the side panels. But the words had finally been painted over and it was no longer something to write about in the paper.
LaBrava stared at the man’s face, bloated, mutilated, no longer a face he would recognize, as Buck Torres told him about gunshot entrance wounds in the back of the head, one through and through, one hollow-nose .38 caliber slug deflected—hard-headed old guy—lodged within the frontal lobe of the brain. The old man’s body had been picked up by the Coast Guard on its way out Government Cut on the tide. He had been in the water close to twenty-four hours. LaBrava was called because his name and address were found in Miney Combs’ wallet, written in ballpoint pen on a five-by-seven memo sheet imprinted with the name STAR SECURITY, Private Protection Means Crime Prevention. The dead man’s pickup truck had been found in front of the abandoned Biscaya Hotel.
His gray work clothes, work shoes, keys, a can of Copenhagen, wallet containing a driver’s license and thirty-eight dollars, were in a paper bag wedged between legs that resembled marble tubes about to burst. A white tag was attached to the big toe of his right foot. Torres said no, they didn’t find a snuff stick. What was a snuff stick?
LaBrava stared at the bulge of the old man’s body, the crude incision from breastbone to navel, and again at the mutilated face.
LaBrava said, “He’s Richard Nobles’ uncle.” He said, “I sent him over there, to Richard’s hotel.” After several moments he said, “Well, you have a reason to pick him up now, don’t you?”
He could hear himself, his voice, amazed that he sounded as calm as he did. He was not calm inside his body. He felt his waiting period coming to an end.
He went home. Jean’s car stood on the street, whole again. He wanted to see her, but he went to the darkroom instead and printed a set of Richard Nobles eight-by-tens. Then sat alone in his living room looking at the former rent-a-cop Franny thought was a hunk. A hunk of what? He wanted to say to Franny, “Look at him closely. Watch him move. Listen to him talk.”
Could you lean on a guy like Richard? Scare him? Make him run?
Torres called in the late afternoon and said to stop by.
LaBrava walked down Collins. Was the guy dumb or not? When he reached the La Playa Hotel he hesitated. Was the boat-lifter running it or had he pulled out? LaBrava continued on to the MBPD Detective Bureau, the windowless stucco building built like a blockhouse on the corner of First and Meridian.
The squad room inside was like all the squad rooms he had ever seen in older police buildings: different types of desks and tables bunched in rows to conserve space, a few men at desks who might have been athletes at one time, solidly built, or had the look of career noncoms in civilian clothes. No one wore a shoulder holster anymore; they packed Smiths on their hipbones, short-barreled mags with big grips. In a corner of the room was the holding cell—and this was different than all the others he had ever seen—made of wrought-iron bars, the kind of ornamental grillwork you might find on a Spanish patio.
Buck Torres’ desk was in the opposite corner, next to the door that led to the lavatory, the coffeemaker and the four-and-a-half by five-and-a-half interrogation room. LaBrava sat down and Torres pushed Richard Nobles’ Advice of Rights toward him, the Miranda sheet.
“We interviewed Richie.”
LaBrava saw Richard’s initials after each statement on the sheet—the Buck Torres method of avoiding surprises in court. Interviewees read their rights aloud, initialed each one as they went along and signed just below the Waiver of Rights statement. The signature read Richie Nobles.
“You show him Miney Combs?”
“First, before we brought him here. Driving over to Miami he says, ‘You guys are making a big mistake. You maybe think you have something’—called me partner—‘but you can’t touch me for nothing.’ “
LaBrava listened to each word.
“We take him inside the truck over there. I’m going to tell you something,” Torres said. “It was a shock to him. He wasn’t acting, it was a shock.”
“Is he dumb?” LaBrava said.
Torres hesitated. “He’s not smart enough to fake it.”
“You have to be smart to be an actor?”
“Joe, he wasn’t faking it. He sees the old guy, he couldn’t believe it.”
“He identified him?”
“Sure. His Uncle Miney. Surprised. ‘What is Uncle Miney doing here?’ “
“So you sat down with him in the little room, the closet, and got intimate.”
“He says he had no idea the old man was down here. Swears he didn’t see him. The desk clerk at Richie’s hotel puts the old man in the lobby a couple hours or more the evening of the day before yesterday. But he can’t put Richie with him. He can put a little Latin dude with him . . .”
“Like a boat-lifter?”
“Like maybe a boat-lifter, guy with wavy hair and an earring. But he can’t put Richie with him.”
“You ask Richie if anybody he knows saw the old man?”
“Sure. He says no. Let’s say the Latin dude is the boat-lifter. Okay, I can put him with the old man, but I can’t put him with Richie. I want to, man, but I can’t.”
“You know Johnbull, drives for Central?”
“Guy, he’s always pissed off about something?”
“That one. He can put Richie with the boat-lifter. Find out if Johnbull saw the boat-lifter’s Trans Am at the hotel the same time the desk clerk saw the Latin dude and if they left together in the car.”
“No, they must’ve left in the old man’s truck, because it was sitting at the Biscaya and the old man had the keys. We got latents, all over that truck. Okay now, if it’s the boat-lifter, this guy Cundo Rey, we got to get his prints from Volusia County, where they had him on possession of a stolen motor vehicle. That would be pretty nice if we can put him in the truck. Richie swears he never saw it.”
“Maybe,” LaBrava said, “but he knew the old man was looking for him. Talk to the guy, Joe Stella, at Star Security, Lantana, where Richie used to work. There’s no way he can be clean. You’re gonna find out he sent the boat-lifter to get rid of him. What do you think?”
“To kill him?”
“That’s one way.”
“R
ichie was shocked, Joe. I’m not kidding.”
“How many floaters has he seen, gunshot? You can know a person’s dead, but when you see him like that . . . You know what I mean.”
“Joe, the guy let us look in his room.”
LaBrava was aware of voices in the squad room for the first time, a telephone ringing.
“It was clean,” Torres said. “Like he had the maid come in every hour.”
“He show you his gun?”
“And his license. He hands me the piece, says, ‘Here, you want to check it?’ “
“Looking you right in the eye.”
“He didn’t do the old man, Joe.”
There was a silence again, until LaBrava said, “You mind if I suggest something?”
“What?”
“Pick up a guy at the La Playa Hotel named David Vega, he’s a Marielito, and ask him about the boat-lifter. See if you can find out if Cundo’s got a gun and happened to buy any hollow-nose, steel-jacket thirty-eights. There’s a guy at the hotel sells guns and ammo, anything you want.”
“How do you know that?”
“I took his picture. Holding a sawed-off shotgun.”
“Jesus Christ,” Torres said.
“I asked him, ‘You don’t care who sees your picture?’ He’s stoned most of the time. He said, no, it would be good for his business.”
“Jesus Christ,” Torres said.
“David Vega’s the guy you want. If he gives you the gun seller, do whatever you feel like, but ask him about Cundo first. If you can’t find David Vega look for a guy named Guilli, he deals out on the Pier.”
Torres said, “How do you know all these guys?”
“They like to have their picture taken. But let’s get back to Richie. Was he nervous anytime?”
“Once we got here he was cool. Or he acted surprised at everything.”
“Acted,” LaBrava said.
“Eyes open real wide. Who, me? They all do that. But I think he was waiting to see if I’m going to mention a note or the six hundred thousand or if he knows a movie star.”
“You didn’t though.”
“I can play dumb too. But he knows we know. Last night and this morning he’s walking around Collins Avenue, Lincoln Mall, he goes in a place, comes out the back, or all of a sudden he crosses the street against the light. Bullshit stuff. He follows girls a lot, makes the moves, then looks around, wants to make sure he has an audience. He does everything but wave at my guys. I’m finished talking to him about the old man, he says, ‘There anything else you want to ask me about?’ You see what I mean? He knows. He’s telling us he knows.”
“You turn him loose?”
“What have I got? Man, if I brought in every suspect fits something like this I’d have to pick up half the neighborhood. I told him to stay close by.”
“It didn’t bother him?”
“He gives me some you-all shit, he be obliged we get the scudder ‘at done it.”
“Is he dumb?” LaBrava said.
“Guy’s a showoff.”
“But is he dumb?”
“I think it could be what you said before. The boat-lifter’s running it and Richie’s the beard.”
“Put a clown suit on him,” LaBrava said, thoughtful, wondering. “Got him in the trick bag and he doesn’t know it. You think?”
“Could be.”
“If he’s dumb enough,” LaBrava said. “It keeps coming back to that.”
“And if the boat-lifter is smarter than he is.”
“Or if there’s somebody else smarter than both of them,” LaBrava said. “Have you thought of that?”
“Maybe I should talk to the movie star again,” Torres said. “See who else’s been in her life since she became a widow.”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” LaBrava said.
21
* * *
PACO BOZA CAME FOR HIS WHEELCHAIR, a happy guy. Lana was back with him. She hated Hialeah, it was like in the country and she was a big-city girl. She loved her photograph. She wanted LaBrava to send it someplace, some magazine, be a centerfold girl. It was early evening and they were out on the sidewalk, the street quiet, Paco wearing his straw hat cocked, about to take off in his wheelchair.
LaBrava said, “You know the big blond guy.”
“The Silver Kid,” Paco said, “of course.”
“I want somebody to deliver a note to him, at his hotel.”
“Sure.”
“And write it.”
“What does it say?”
“I want him to come to the park tonight, 1:00 A.M., across from the Play House Bar.”
“Sign your name?”
“No, sign it C.R.”
“Just C.R.”
“That’s the Marielito, the one with the earring.”
“Oh,” Paco said, “yes, I remember.”
“But I have to make sure the big blond guy gets the message and not the police.”
Paco said, “Man, you got something going on.”
“If I can, I’d like to get hold of a baseball bat,” LaBrava said. “But I think the stores are closed.”
“You and this guy going to play ball? In the dark? Never mind, don’t tell me,” Paco said. “I got one for softball, you can use.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” LaBrava said.
Nobles wished he had a car; he’d take the cops on a tour of Dade County, see if they were any good at tailing. Man, he would love to get them up in the Big Scrub, lose their ass in two minutes. This walking the streets, stopping at bars, was getting to be a bunch of shit. One more day he could take off. Tomorrow night sometime.
When he got back to the hotel, about ten, the desk clerk waved and held out a plain white envelope with his name printed on it in pencil. It was not only sealed, there was a hunk of pink chewing gum stuck to the flap. The desk clerk worked his eyebrows up and down as he said a girl delivered it, a little Latin mama. Nobles said, a girl uh? He took the envelope across the lobby, looking at his name that some kid or halfwit might’ve printed. The message inside, on plain white paper, printed in pencil, said for him to come to the park tonight . . . and Do not bring police and Do not phone. Signed, C.R.
It didn’t make sense. Cundo was supposed to be long gone, hiding somewhere until it was his turn again. Unless something had happened to him or they were watching him.
But the cops didn’t know anything about Cundo. How could they?
Maybe the little booger was sick.
What Nobles finally decided, he’d slip out of the hotel and go have a look. It would be like a dry run, disappear in the night. Then do it the same way tomorrow when he’d take off for good. He wondered if he should pay his hotel bill before he left. Shit, he needed money. The idea came to him then: long as he was out, going over to the park anyway, he could mug a queer and pick up some change. Queers—he couldn’t imagine why—always had jobs that paid good money. Slip out like old Zorro used to do it with his mask and sword. Zip, zip, zip, mark a big fucking Z on the wall. Soldiers come busting in, old Zorro he’s back sitting by the fire, pretending he’s queer. There were enough real ones out there, hanging around the south end of the park, he ought to be able to cut a straggler. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Man, he needed something to do.
* * *
At 1:05 A.M. Buck Torres got a call at home from one of his guys on the Paramount Hotel surveillance detail. Nobles had temporarily disappeared. Torres, lying in bed in the dark, said, “Temporarily. Oh, that means he told you he was coming back?” No, it meant he didn’t have anything with him, any luggage. Torres said, “Oh, did he check in with luggage?” Then said, “Forget it, tell me what happened.” Resigned himself and listened to the flat, boring tone of the guy’s story: how Richard had walked out of the hotel at 12:32 giving them the same old shit, looking back every once in a while, walked south on Collins to Sixteenth, over Sixteenth to the St. Moritz, walked through the hotel to the beach and that was the last they saw of him. There was no way tw
o guys could keep a subject under surveillance out on that beach, a beach that big, at night. You would have to stay within twenty feet of the subject and even then it would be almost impossible with just two guys. There was a moon but also clouds; it was supposed to rain tomorrow, intermittent showers until sometime in the afternoon. Torres listened to the weather report, his guy trying to give him at least some predictable information. Torres suggested they go back to the Paramount and wait. He called the Della Robbia command post and told them to keep their eyes open, Richard was loose.
* * *
Hell, he just waited till there was cloud cover, ducked over that hump of sand that was like a low hogback down the length of the beach near the water, kept to the smooth hardpack where the surf was washing in and headed south. Nothing to it. Around Tenth Street he came up, crossed the beach to Lummus Park and had it made. From here down there was more vegetation—lot of screw pine and what looked like pitchapple, but was probably seagrape trimmed back; kind of dark, creepy place he was used to. Hardly any people. Pairs here and there on benches he’d pass and leave be. First rule of fairy-hawking, pick a stray. Let the sweet boy have the first word. H’ar you tonight? Just fine, h’ar you? Beautiful night, ain’t it? Ain’t it though. Are you tired? Would you like me to give you a back rub? No, but you can do old Hank the shank if you’ve a mind. Let the boy get down there and gobble, then as you feel the juice commence to flow, club that sucker with a right hook to put him away. Pick him clean as he whimpers and moans. Then walk, don’t run. Only thing queers don’t blow is a whistle.
There was one.
Sweet boy sitting on the wall with his hands folded.
But he’d better check on Cundo first. So Nobles walked out to the street. The Play House Bar was almost right across the way. There didn’t seem to be any little Cubans hanging around anyplace. Well, it wasn’t one o’clock yet. He’d make a quick score and then look for him. So he cut back through the trees to where that boy was waiting, sitting on the low cement wall, waiting for a lover. Shit, guy like that, anybody’d do.