LaBrava shook his head. After a few moments he said, "Would you step outside here, Mr. Fisk? Thank you. Over by the pool more. Yeah, right there. Now give me kind of a pissed-off, defiant look. If you would, please."
"Then the cop comes," Mr. Fisk said, "and what does the cop do? He takes my picture. I'm telling you..."
LaBrava passed up dinner with Jean and Maurice to spend the evening in the darkroom, watching Nobles appear in trays of liquid, pleased with the shots because they were clear and in focus. He liked the ones where there was motion in the foreground, out of focus, the top of a car as it passed, in contrast to the clarity of Nobles' confident, all-American boyish face. Hometown hero--the hair, the toothpick, the hint of swagger in the set of silver-clad shoulders. What an asshole.
How did they get so sure of themselves, these guys, without knowing anything? Like people who have read one book.
He hung Nobles up to dry and spent the next two and a half hours with Jean Shaw, in her apartment.
They did talk about Nobles, recapping, and he told her what Nobles had been up to and that he'd have prints in the morning, confirmation. She seemed fascinated. She sat facing him on the sofa and asked questions, probed for details, listening intently. Yes, it was fascinating--she used the word--that he could follow someone so closely, document the guy's activity, and not be detected. She asked him about the Secret Service and continued to listen until-GCo
In one of her pictures, she said, there was a subplot about counterfeiting and they began to talk about movies and she told him what she hated most about making pictures: the two-shot close-up face to face with an actor she often couldn't stand. Nowhere but in the movies did people stand so close when they talked--and you'd get these actors with foul morning breath or reeking of booze--the two of them on the sofa getting closer and closer and that was fine, with confident breaths, good smells, aware of nature's horny scent in there, LaBrava ready once again to try for that overwhelming experience. He told her he wanted to see one of her pictures with her. She said she would get one; she was going home tomorrow to pick up some clothes, a few things, she'd bring the tapes. He said he would like to drive her, see her place.
She said, "Spend the night with me. Tonight."
That sounded good.
She got a wistful look and said, "I need you, Joe."
And that didn't sound so good because--there it was again--it sounded familiar, and he had to tell himself that playing was okay, they were just having some fun. Except that she made it sound serious.
She said, "Hold me."
He did, he held her tight and she felt good. Before she felt too good he sneaked a look at his watch.
LaBrava was in his own bed when Johnbull Obasanjo phoned a few minutes past 2:00 A.M.
"I have been trying to call you, you never at home."
"I'm sorry."
"You tell me you want information--"
"I apologize."
"I accept it," the Nigerian said. "Now, you want to know where they went to in the black Pontiac sportcar, I tell you. They went to a place call Cheeky's. I know a man name Chike, he is an Ibo, but not a bad man. I don't believe this place, though, is of the Ibo. I believe it is for men who have pleasure in dressing as women. So they go in there."
"You saw the driver of the Pontiac."
"Yes, a Cuban man."
"What'd he look like?"
"I told you, a Cuban man. That's what he look like."
LaBrava wondered if Nigerians told jokes and if they were funny. "Was there anything different about him?"
"My friend, you have to be different to go in there. I told you that already."
"I apologize." Maybe they had a sense of humor if you got to know them. "You didn't by any chance get the license number of the Pontiac."
Johnbull Obasanjo said, "You have a pen? You have the paper, something to write on when you ask such a question?"
LaBrava turned the light on and got out of bed. Fucking Nigerian. The guy delivered, though, didn't he?
Five and a half hours later, still in bed, the phone again lay on the pillow against his face. He raised it slightly as Buck Torres came back on with his NCIC computer report.
"Cundo Rey. That's the owner's name. You got a pencil, I'll spell it."
"Please do."
"You ready?"
"Spell the goddamn name, will you?"
Torres spelled it. "You're a bitch in the morning, aren't you?"
"What else?"
"Cuban National, came from Mariel during the boat-lift but wasn't processed. Arraigned for transporting a stolen motor vehicle, Volusia County, that's up north, no conviction. Assigned to Chatahoochee for psychiatric evaluation. He disappeared from there."
"Is there a warrant out on him?"
"Nobody wants him, figuring we got enough Cubans."
"You got his picture?"
"I can get it. Take a couple of days," Torres said. "He looks harmless to me. Refugee, fell in with some bad hombres."
"Get the picture," LaBrava said. "I think you're gonna need it."
Chapter 14
NOBLES HAD HALF OF a Debbie Reynolds to finish and a few half-done fries left. Little Eli could make a sandwich, damn, but he couldn't deep-fry worth shit. Nobles said to Cundo Rey, who was playing with his coffee spoon, "You do any good last night?" and took a big bite of his Debbie.
"I don't make so much in that place as a Ladies' Night place. See, they know I don't fuck the same way they do. I mean--you know what I mean."
"That's good to hear," Nobles said. "Jesus, but that place is scary, you know it? All them queers dressed up like girls. I had to get outta there."
"I thought you might see one you like to take out and rob him. That was a good idea."
"Yeah, but I don't believe I could touch the fucker to do it. I mean they are scary. How'd you make out?"
"I made a couple hundred. Man, I need money. I have to go home and get some."
"Pretty soon." Nobles shoved the rest of the Debbie Reynolds into his mouth. "You ready?"
"What?"
Nobles chewed and chewed. "I said, you ready? Get the wax outta your ears."
"I was ready before you start eating."
"Go on out. I don't want Eli to see us together when I talk to him."
"He already see us together, now."
"Yeah, but he won't remember you. All you boogers look alike. Go on outside, wait in the car."
"It isn't going to work."
"Go on. Scat."
Nobles walked over to the counter, laid his check on the rubber pad next to the cash register, fished a few toothpicks out of the tray. The man that owned the place, little Eli, came over wiping his hands on his apron, sort of a worried look on his face, or sad. The Jew should shave and clean hisself up, Nobles thought, he'd feel better.
"Well, how we doing today, partner?"
Eli didn't answer him, eyes cast down. He rang up the bill, came back to the rubber pad and now had to look up, there was no money on the counter.
"Put her on account," Nobles said, "and tell me what you think of the deal I offered you."
The guy seemed afraid to move or speak.
"Hey, wake up."
What was the matter with him? He looked sickly. Refused to say a word, nod his head or blink. Nobles watched him turn to the counter behind him, move some stuff out of the way, a telephone book--the hell was he doing? The guy came back around holding up a photograph, holding it in front of his face, so that Nobles was looking at the picture and the guy's knuckles bony white pointing at him.