"They're beautiful eyes."
"I see giant red things all over your shirt."
"I think they're hibiscus," LaBrava said. "What naked Cuban?"
Joe Stella said to Joe LaBrava, in the Star Security office on Lantana Road, across from the A. G. Holley state hospital, "You believe you can walk in here and start asking me questions? You believe I'm some wore-out cop's gonna roll over for you? I put in seventeen years with the Chicago Police, eight citations, and I've been here, right here, seventeen more. So why don't you get the fuck outta my office."
"We got two things in common," LaBrava said. "I'm from Chicago too."
Joe Stella said, "We aren't over in some foreign country on our vacation. Gee, you're from Chicago, uh? How about that, it's a small fucking world, isn't it? I run into people from around Chicago every day and most of 'em I just as soon not. You could be, all I know, from the license division, Secretary of State, come in here you don't have nothing better to do, see what you can shake loose."
"I'm not from the state, not Florida," LaBrava said. "I'm asking about one guy, that's all."
"See that?" Joe Stella said, the spring in the swivel chair groaning as he leaned back, motioned over his shoulder at the paneled wall.
LaBrava thought he was pointing to the underexposed, 5:00 P.M. color photo of a bluish Joe Stella standing next to a blue-black marlin hanging by its tail. The marlin looked about ten feet long, nearly twice the length of the man, but the man was about 100 pounds heavier.
"That's my license to run a security business," Joe Stella said, "renewed last month."
LaBrava's gaze moving to the framed document hanging next to the fish shot.
"I've posted bond, my insurance is paid up, I know goddamn well I am not in violation of any your fucking regulations 'cause I just got off probation. I spend a whole week running around, get the stuff together, make the appearance before the license division... I gotta show cause on my own time why they're full a shit and ought never've put me on probation. I have to show 'em it wasn't my fault the insurance lapsed one week, that's all, and long as I'm there show 'em in black and white all my guys are licensed, every one of 'em. Fine, they stamp a paper, I'm pardoned of all my sins I never committed. I'm back in business. I'm clean. So why don't you get the fuck out and leave me alone, okay? Otherwise I'm gonna have to get up and kick you the fuck out and I'm tired this morning, I had a hard night."
LaBrava got ready during Joe Stella's speech. When the man finished, sitting immovable, a block of stone, LaBrava said, "The other thing we have in common, besides both of us being from the Windy City, we'd like to keep the Director of Internal Revenue happy. Wouldn't you say that's true?"
Joe Stella said, "Oh, shit," and did sound tired.
"You're familiar with form SS-8, aren't you?"
"I don't know, there so many forms"--getting tireder by the moment--"What's SS-8?"
LaBrava felt himself taking on an almost-forgotten role--Revenue officer, Collection Division--coming back to him like hopping on a bike. The bland expression, the tone of condescending authority: I'm being nice, but watch it.
"You file payroll deductions, withholding, F.I.C.A.?"
"Yeah, a course I do."
"You never hire guards as independent contractors? Even on a part-time basis?"
"Well, that depends what you mean..."
"You're not aware that an SS-8 has ever been filed by a former employee or independent contractor? It's never been called to your attention to submit a reply?"
"Wait a minute--Jesus, you know all the forms you gotta keep track of? My bookkeeper comes in once a week, payday, she's suppose to know all that. Man, I'm telling you--try and run a business today, a bonded service. First, where'm I gonna get anybody's any good'd work for four bucks an hour to begin with?... Hey, you feel like a drink?"
"No thanks."
"You know who I get?"
"The cowboys."
"I get the cowboys, I get the dropouts, I get these guys dying to pack, walk around the shopping mall in their uniform, this big fucking .38 on their hip. Only, state regulation, they're suppose to pin their license--like a driver's license in a plastic cover--on their shirt. But they do that they look like what they are, right? Mickey Mouse store cops. So they don't wear 'em and the guy from the state license division sees 'em and I get fined a hunnert bucks each and put on probation ninety days. I also, to stay in business, I gotta post bond, five grand, and I gotta have three-hundred-grand liability insurance, a hunnert grand property damage. The insurance lapses a week cause the fucking insurance guy's out at Hialeah every day and it's my fault, I'm suspended till I show cause why I oughta not get fucked over by the state of Florida where I'm helping with the employment situation. I'm not talking about the federal government you understand. You guys, IRS, you got a job to do--keep that money coming in to run the government, send guns to all the different places they need guns, defend our ass against... you know what I'm talking about. Fucking Castro's only a hunnert miles away. Nicaragua, how far's that? It isn't too far, I know."
"Richard Nobles," LaBrava said, "he ever been arrested before?"
Joe Stella paused. "Before what? Jesus Christ, is that who we're talking about? Richie Nobles? Jesus, you can have him."
"You know where I can find him?"
"I think he quit. I haven't seen him in three days. Left the car, no keys, the dumb son of a bitch. All those big good-looking assholes, I think they get hair instead of brains. What's the matter, Richie hasn't paid his taxes? I believe it."
"What I'm curious about--guy applies for a job, you ask him if he's ever been arrested, don't you?"
"I did I'd be in violation of your federal law, invasion of privacy. I can't ask if the guy was ever a mental patient either. I can ask him, have you ever been convicted of a felony, or have you ever committed one and didn't get caught? But I can't ask him if he's ever been arrested."
"You did issue him a handgun."
"They buy their own."
"So he's got a license."
"You apply, you want to be an armed guard, you gotta get clearance through the FBI and the State Department of Law Enforcement. The guy--it takes months--he gets his license or he gets a certified letter in the mail saying he's turned down. But they don't notify me, ever."
"Have you seen his license?"
"Yeah, he showed it to me."
"Then he must be clean, uh? They checked him out."
Joe Stella said, "You ready for a drink now?"
LaBrava nodded. "Sounds good."
He watched Joe Stella push up from his desk. The man moved with an effort to get a bottle of Wild Turkey and glasses from a file cabinet, ice and a can of Fresca from a refrigerator LaBrava had thought was a safe. Pouring double bourbons with a splash of Fresca Joe Stella said, "First one today. What time is it? Almost ten-thirty, that's not bad. Long as you had breakfast." He handed a drink to LaBrava and sat down with the bottle close to him on the desk.
LaBrava took a good sip.
"Nice drink, huh?"
"Not bad."
"Refreshing with a little bite to it." Joe Stella took down half his drink. Poured another ounce or so of bourbon into it, and added a little more. He said, "Ahhh, man..."
"I bet he's been arrested," LaBrava said, "but never convicted, uh?"
Joe Stella said, "Richie's from upstate. Some of the boys here call him Big Scrub when he's in a good mood, call him Big Dick he'll grin at you. Otherwise nobody talks to him. You understand the type I mean?"
"I know him," LaBrava said.
"He was arrested up there, you're right, for destruction of government property. The son of a bitch shot an eagle."
"I understand he ate it," LaBrava said.
"I wouldn't be surprised. Richie'll eat anything. He'll drink almost anything. He came to work here he gave me a half gallon of shine with peaches in it, whole big peaches... That's a good drink, isn't it?"