The view was the same. It didn’t change.
She started to get up and he said, “Where you going?”
“To buy a typewriter.”
Good line. He liked the way she said it; it gave him a feeling for her again.
He said, “Put your bra on and relax. I’ll go talk to him, see if he wants to turn himself in.”
“Why would he?”
“It’s better than getting shot . . . I’ll need the key to your apartment, to pick up the money.”
“Swell,” Jean said.
“Save that one,” LaBrava said. “It’s not over yet.”
27
* * *
IT WAS LADIES’ NIGHT at Skippy’s Lounge. Ladies Only. Drinks two for one till 9 P.M.
So LaBrava hung a Leica and a camera bag on him and told the manager he was doing a photo story for the Herald’s Sunday magazine, “Tropic,” and the manager said to be his guest—but don’t shoot any housewives supposed to be at K-mart shopping and a movie after unless you get a release. There were about a hundred of them, all ages, crowded around the circular stage watching the all-male go-go show. LaBrava said, “Let me get one of you while we’re standing here, Skip.” The manager said, “I look like a Skip to you? Those assholes up there with the razor cuts and the baby oil all over ’em are the Skips.”
Five of them plus Cundo Rey doing their show opener.
The five Debonaires wore wing collars with little black bow ties, cuffs with sparkly cuff links and black bikinis. Cundo Rey wore a leopard jock and cat whiskers painted on his face, streaked out from his nose to his ears. He was the one and only Cat Prince, extra added attraction, who hung back in the opening number and did not new-wave-it the way the serious all-white Debonaires did. It was their set, repetitious, robotic, each Debonaire dancing with his own ego, three of the five in front of the beat, stepping all over it; they ducked and hopped to I Do coming out of the sound system and set J. Geils back ten years.
Cundo Rey came on for his solo with his raven hair, his earring, his painted-on whiskers, with West African riffs out of a Havana whorehouse, and Cundo was the show, man turned on with flake and blood into the cat-stud prince come to set the ladies free; his body glistened, his moves purred with promise, said stuff a five into my polyester leopard-skin, ladies, and we’ll all be richer for it.
Many of them did and Cundo followed the waitress to LaBrava’s table counting his sweaty wet take. He eyed LaBrava, smiled at the camera, blinked in the flash.
“So, the picture-taker.”
LaBrava lowered the camera. “The boat-lifter.”
Cundo ordered a sugar-free soft drink from the waitress, slipped into a chair still glistening, smelling of cologne, cat whiskers waved by his smile. “So, you and the woman. Is all the same to me. I sell you the typewriter, a nice one. I think you have to give me the camera, too. Is it the same one?”
“A better one,” LaBrava said. “Older but more expensive.”
“That’s okay, I’ll take it.”
“Why didn’t you try to take the other one?”
“I didn’t know it would be so easy like this.”
LaBrava said, “Is it?” He pushed the camera bag toward Cundo, who leaned over the table to look inside. As he looked up, LaBrava pulled the bag back, closer to him.
“Tha’s Richard’s gun?”
LaBrava nodded.
“What happen to him?”
“He got shot.”
“I believe it,” Cundo Rey said. “Guy like him, he would get shot. Did it kill him?”
LaBrava nodded.
“That guy, he don’t know what he was doing. I don’t know what he was doing either. Or you, or the woman. But I know what I’m doing, man, I’m going to sell you a typewriter or that woman is going to jail. Maybe you going too.”
LaBrava said, “What would you think—you give me the typewriter, then give yourself up?”
Cundo said, “Give myself to the police?” He sat back as the waitress, with dollar bills folded through her fingers, placed a glass in front of him and filled it from a can of Tab. She walked away and Cundo leaned in, frowning. “I look crazy to you?”
“I don’t know you,” LaBrava said. “You could be some broke dick going from failure to failure, never gonna make it. See, if you’re like that maybe you ought to turn yourself in, they’ll take off a few years. You go up to Raiford and do your go-go number they’ll make you Homecoming Queen.”
“Man, I don’t steal nothing. Why do I want to go to jail?”
“For killing that old man, Richard’s Uncle Miney.”
“Man, what is this? Some shit you telling me. What we have to talk about—you like to see that woman go to jail?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” LaBrava said, “and I’ll tell you why. I don’t trust her. I think just for a kick she could put the stuff on us. I mean the whole thing with her is for fun. She doesn’t need the money, it’s for thrills.”
“For thrills . . .”
“You understand what I mean? She’s a very emotional person.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“She borrows the money from the old guy that owns the hotel . . .”
“Yes?”
“Then steals it from him.”
“She’s some woman.”
“Very determined. You know, hardheaded. She says she doesn’t want to buy the typewriter.”
“She doesn’t? Why?”
“Because of her honor. She won’t be forced to do it. She doesn’t think you’d give the typewriter to the police.”
“No?”
“No, because if you turn her in—she said for me to tell you—she’ll give them your name. They already have your picture, your fingerprints . . . Is that true?”
“Yes, is true.”
“So if she goes to jail, you go to jail.”
“What about you, yourself?”
“What did I do?”
“You kill Richard?”
“I never said that. But I see what you mean. You got a point.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, she could lay Richard off on me. Try to.”
“So why don’t you kill her? You want me to?”
“I don’t think we have to go that far. But I don’t think you should try and sell her the typewriter, either.”
“No?”
“See, if the cops even suspect her, they search her place and find it?”
“Yes?”
“She could be pissed off enough she’d finger both of us.”
“Yes, so what do we do?”
“You give me the typewriter. I’ll take care of it.”
“Give it to you . . . What do I get?”
“Half the money.”
Cundo had to bite on his lip and think about it. “Three hundred thousand dollars?”
“That’s right.”
“How would you do it?”
“No problem. She already gave me the money, to hide. See, in case they search her place. So I give half to you and you give me the typewriter.”
“What does she do then? Her money’s gone.”
“Who gives a shit? The typewriter’s gone, too; she can’t even prove she did it. She tries to put the stuff on us, it’s her word against ours. What can she prove?”
“Nothing.”
“So, all you have to do is give me the typewriter.”
Cundo thought about it again. He said then, “You give me half the money, okay, I get rid of the typewriter.”
“If I knew you better,” LaBrava said, “if we were friends it would be no problem. But I don’t know you. You understand? You give me the typewriter, you get half the take, and neither one of us has to worry. What do you say?”
Cundo thought some more and began to nod. “All right, half the money. Keep your camera, I don’t want it.”
“When?”
“Maybe tonight. After I go-go.”
“Why not right now? Three hundred thousand, you don’t need to hang around her
e shaking your ass.”
“I like to do it.”
“Okay, then later on?”
“Let me think.”
LaBrava let him. He looked at those cat whiskers painted on Cundo’s face and said, “You know, one time I was as close to Fidel Castro as I am to you right now. It was in New York.”
“Yeah? Why didn’t you shoot him? Maybe I wouldn’t go to prison if you did.”
“What were you in for?”
“I shot a Russian guy.”
“Just trying to hustle a buck, uh?”
“Man, is tough sometime. You got to think, is somebody want to kill me? You never know.”
LaBrava, nodding, had to agree. “As Robert Mitchum once said, ‘I don’t want to die, but if I do I’m gonna die last.’ “
The Cuban with the cat whiskers painted on his face stared at him and said, “Who’s Robber Mitchum?”
* * *
Cundo Rey was back at the place on Bonita now.
The first thing he had decided: there was no sense in the picture-taker giving him half the money when he could give him all of it.
The second thing: he needed light to see it. Make sure it wasn’t some money on top of newspaper; he had enough newspaper. He didn’t want to go to the woman’s apartment where, the picture-taker said, the money was still in the trash bag; he didn’t want to go anyplace he had never been. He didn’t want to go to a bar or a cafe or some all-night place where people came in. He didn’t want to go outside, in a park, where there wasn’t any light.
He went through all this before coming around to the place he already had, on Bonita, a perfect place. Nobody on the street knew him or maybe had even seen him. All he had to do was leave the picture-taker here, go over the Seventy-ninth Street Causeway to the Interstate, be in Atlanta, Georgia, tomorrow. Go anyplace he wanted after that with his bag of money. Somebody would find the picture-taker in a week, two weeks, they would smell him and call the cops and break into the place.
He couldn’t get over the picture-taker being so simple and trusting. He had thought the country people recruited for the housing brigade in Alamar were simple. This guy was as simple as those people. Either he believed he could trade half the money for the typewriter, or he believed he could pull a trick, get the typewriter and keep the money. Either way he would be very simple to think he could do it.
Cundo could feel his snubbie pressing into his spine, silk shirt hanging over it. Let the guy come in. Make sure the money was in the bag—no newspaper. Then do it. No fooling around. Do it. Leave the guy. He could drive out maybe to Hollywood, California, see how things were doing out there. Sure, get some new outfits, go Hollywood.
He was getting excited now, looking out through the Venetian blinds to the street that curved past the apartment. Empty. It always looked empty, even during the day. He was getting anxious waiting for the guy to arrive here. He rubbed a finger under his itchy nose, looked at his hand and saw the black Magic-Marker on his finger, from his cat whiskers he had forgot to wash off, from being anxious and excited. It was okay. Take half a minute.
Cundo left the window, moved from the living room through the short hall to the bathroom. That snubbie was hurting him. He pulled it out of his pants, laid it on the toilet tank. Wrap a facecloth around it after he washed off his cat whiskers, try it that way stuck in his pants, so the hard edges wouldn’t hurt . . .
A sound came from the front.
He ran into the living room, looked out through the blinds. The street was still empty. Right behind him then, a few feet away, someone knocked on the door and Cundo jumped. He moved to the door and listened. The knocks came again in his face.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” LaBrava said. “Guy with the money.”
Cundo opened the door, stood holding it for the picture-taker and right away could feel a difference in him. Like a different guy . . .
Coming in like a Brinks guard, holding the round Hefty bag in his left hand and Richard Nobles’ .357 Mag in his right, pointed down.
Cundo couldn’t believe it. He wanted to feel the snubbie pressing into his back; it would have felt good now, but that fucking snubbie was in the bathroom. He said, getting amazement in his voice, “Man, what do you have that gun for?”
“Respect,” LaBrava said. “You still have your cat whiskers on.”
Cundo didn’t like that big goddamn Mag. He said, “Listen, why don’t you put that thing away?”
“Pull my shirt out, stick it in my pants?” LaBrava said. “Where’ve you got yours, in back? I know you bought one off Javier, he’s a good friend of mine. Turn around.”
Cundo said, “What are you doing?” as he turned around, wanting to show he was a nice guy, cooperating. He felt LaBrava poke the barrel of the Mag against his spine and then run it along his belt.
“Where do you keep it?”
“Man, I don’t have no gun.”
“What’d you shoot Miney with?”
“You mean that old man? . . .”
“Why’d you shoot him in the back of the head like that?”
“Why?” Cundo turned and stared at him, frowning, because he couldn’t believe this was the same guy. This guy didn’t sound simple and trusting. He was calm, but sounded like he didn’t care very much, without emotion. What he sounded like was a policeman. “Who said I killed him?”
“Where’s your gun?”
“I told you, I don’t have no gun.”
LaBrava was looking around the room. “You don’t keep a very neat house. What do you—you don’t like the news, you tear the paper up?” Still looking around. “Where’s the typewriter?”
“All right,” Cundo said, and motioned toward the kitchen.
LaBrava dropped the Hefty bag between the green arms of a vinyl living room chair and followed Cundo through the kitchen to the garage, where he got to the trunk of the Trans Am and said, “Oh, I got to go back in and get the key. I forgot it.”
LaBrava slid the barrel of the Mag over Cundo’s hip, over tight knit material to his right-hand pants pocket.
“What’s that?”
Cundo didn’t say anything. He brought his keys out and opened the trunk—a clean trunk, nothing in it but a typewriter case.
“Bring it inside.”
In the living room again LaBrava motioned and Cundo placed the typewriter case on the maple coffee table. LaBrava sat down on the sofa in front of the typewriter case and motioned again. Cundo moved back a few steps. LaBrava laid the Mag on the coffee table and opened the case. It was empty.
Cundo waited for LaBrava to look up. He said, “Somebody must have stole it.” He began to turn then, carefully, saying, “Excuse me, but I got to go pee-pee.”
He walked past the Hefty bag sitting on the vinyl chair, he walked through the short hall and into the bathroom, hand going out to that beautiful snubbie on the white tile of the toilet tank . . .
* * *
“Drop it in the toilet,” LaBrava said from the doorway, “and put the top down.”
Cundo turned enough to look over his shoulder. “Man, I just want to go pee-pee.”
“Drop it in the toilet, go pee-pee and then put the top down,” LaBrava said. “How’s that sound?”
He brought Cundo, hanging his head, back to the living room. He lifted Cundo’s face, the barrel of the Mag under his chin, stared at him with a deadpan eternal cop look and Cundo said, “Is in the closet.”
LaBrava found the typewriter. He stuck the Mag in his waist, carried the typewriter over to the coffee table and set it into the case, then had to bring the carriage in line so the top of the case would come down and snap closed. He looked over to see Cundo sitting in the vinyl chair now, the Hefty bag on the floor in front of him. LaBrava sat down on the sofa; he had not yet decided how he was going to handle the difficult part: how to get out of here with the typewriter and leave Cundo, with the money, for the cops.
The cops would wonder what was going on, because Cundo would tell them
a story and LaBrava would have to say to Torres, “Oh, you believe that?” The cops would give the money back to Jean and she would have to return it to Maurice and then answer all the questions about Cundo’s story the cops would ask her at the station and all the questions the state attorney would ask her perhaps in a courtroom. He could protect her tonight; tomorrow she would be on her own.
LaBrava looked up as Cundo said, “Is this half or all the money?”
“All of it,” LaBrava said. “Six hundred thousand dollars.” The Mag was digging into his groin. He pulled it from his waist and laid it on the typewriter case.
“Something is telling me we not going to do business,” Cundo said.
He sounded tired, almost sad, and LaBrava said, “You can look at it if you want. Imagine what it would be like.”
“Why not?” Cundo said, and began unwinding the baling wire from the neck of the bag.
He could lock him in a closet, LaBrava was thinking, and call the cops. But he would have to stay here until just before they arrived or Cundo would bust out.
The boat-lifter was reaching into the bag now, feeling around. He brought out a handful of currency he looked at shaking his head very slowly. His hand went into the bag with the currency to stir it, feel it, sink his arm into it. His expression changed then, eyes opening a little wider. He drew his arm out and extended it toward LaBrava, his hand gripping a small bluesteel automatic.
“How do you think about this?” Cundo said. “You know, I say to St. Barbara I believe this is my day. Then I don’t think is my day. Then I have to think, yes, it is my day. How do you like this, uh?”
LaBrava nodded—not to say yes, he liked it, but to confirm what he felt. See? He wasn’t able to be detached, objective enough to take it all the way. When the boat-lifter reached for the gun in the bathroom that was the time to be detached and shoot the motherfucker and that would have been it; but he had even felt sorry for the guy, invited him to look in the bag . . . He had looked in the bag himself in Jean’s apartment when he picked it up and had brought out a handful of bills, but it hadn’t occurred to him to ask her what she did with the gun. He could pretend to think like a cop and he could put on a cop look with a gun in his hand, but he couldn’t take it all the way.