"Where'n the hell'd you get that?"
A shiny black and white shot of Richard Nobles coming out of Eli's Star Deli: so sharp and clear you could see the toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
The guy's shaky voice behind the shaky photograph was telling him to get out "... and don't ever come back again or I call the cops!"
It was getting scary. Sitting in the Trans Am with Cundo, hidden from humanity and street glare behind smoked glass, Nobles said, "You believe it?"
"I tole you it wasn't going to work."
"Guy holds it up--same kind of pitcher. That little fucker with the swimming pool, now this guy. What in the hell's going on? Somebody taking my pitcher... I gotta try another place. There's that dry cleaner up the street."
"I tole you," Cundo Rey said.
"You told me? What? You told me you saw this guy following me with a camera?"
"I tole you it wasn't going to work."
"You gonna keep saying that?"
"You want to work that kind of deal," Cundo Rey said, "you break the guy's window first, then you go in, sell him the protection. I tole you, it's how to do it."
"Yeah, well I want to know who's taking my pitcher."
"They hire somebody. They got more protection than you think."
"No, these people--what do you think they call 'em Jews for? They Jew you down, don't spend a dime less they have to. They ain't gonna hire a guy take pitchers."
"It couldn't be that girl," Cundo said. "No, it wouldn't be her."
"What girl?"
"She live over at the hotel where the woman is."
Nobles was half listening, staring at people going by on the sidewalk. Cundo began tapping his ring on the steering wheel and Nobles turned to him. "Cut it out."
"What am I doing?"
"I'm thinking." After a moment he said, "Oh, man, I don't know what's wrong with me. The dink I been looking for for Christ sake's a photographer. With a newspaper."
"You haven't seen him, have you?"
"I haven't seen him, but shit, he's seen me. It's got to be him."
"How could he know you down here?"
"He's seen us. How else you think, for Christ sake. He's seen me, anyway. Goddamn it."
"So, what difference does it make? Let's go see him, take his pictures away from him." Cundo paused, watching Nobles staring out the window. "What are you worried about? Take his pictures. Go in there, take the picture from the Debbie Reynolds guy. Get the picture from the swimming pool guy. Get all the pictures he has."
Nobles said, "I don't know..."
Cundo studied him. This Richard, most of the time you could read his face. Right now, though, it was empty, like he had been smoking some of the sky blue reefer from Santa Marta that paralyzed you, made you numb. Cundo said, "You know something? I haven' seen you hit anybody. Man, I even haven' seen you break anything. How come you not get mad?" He turned the ignition key, heard the engine come instantly awake, rumble and pop its muscle. He turned the radio on and heavy riffs filled the car, everything working now.
Cundo said, "Okay. We go see the guy."
LaBrava had taken the new issue of Aperture from his mail slot, opened it as he turned and got as far as the registration desk, held by a series of color photographs made by a painter, a fine artist, who shot into mirrors and got startling effects.
He had placed an envelope sleeve on the countertop. He laid the magazine over it, resting his arms on the edge, on cool marble, and wandered to the text to read that a still picture is more powerful than a motion picture, more memorable, that images from movies that stay with you are reasonably still... He would agree with that. Because the film pictures of Jean Shaw in his mind all seemed to be stills. Jean Shaw in black and white giving--he caught a glimpse of her giving Victor Mature the look.
Then saw her in muted color, a skirt, a top with a narrow belt, a straw bag, the real-life Jean Shaw coming off the elevator, not smiling, now trying on a faint smile as she saw him. She said, "What time did you leave?"
"It was about one-thirty. I couldn't sleep."
"Did you think about waking me up?" With almost a sly, bedroom look. But after the fact in a hotel lobby the next morning. He wondered what would have happened if he'd started in again, Jean drowsy, half awake, maybe less mechanical.
"I think the reason I couldn't sleep, I was expecting a phone call." And knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Giving her second billing.
She said, "Oh." Any hint of a sly look gone.
"It was important. The guy called about two."
She said, "Maurice wants to take me. You don't have to bother." Not icy, but not warm, either.
"I'd be glad to help."
"I'm just going to get a few things. Clothes, mostly. Maurice insists. I think he wants to talk." Her tone beginning to lose its stiffness. "What about the pictures?"
"Right here." He moved the magazine aside, brought the black and white eight-by-tens of Nobles out of the manila sleeve and laid them on the counter facing Jean.
She said, resigned, "Yeah, that's Richie. Are you sure he didn't see you?"
"I used a telephoto from across the street. The blur along the edge, that's a car going by. This one, I'm in a park across from the motel, the Sharon. No, I'm pretty sure he didn't see me."
Jean's eyes remained on the photos. "You're positive he's doing something illegal."
"He doesn't work for Star Security anymore," LaBrava said, "so he has nothing legal to sell. Even if he was still with them, they're not licensed in Dade County."
"But there's no way to prove he's doing something illegal, is that it?"
"Not till they catch him with a stink bomb, or breaking windows. Then they could get him for malicious destruction. But he's fooling with extortion. That's a tough one to prove."
Jean said, "If Richie knew you had these--" She shook her head slowly and seemed almost to smile.
"How about if he thought the police had a set? Would that shake him up?"
She looked at LaBrava, brown eyes wide for a moment. "Are they after him?"
"I haven't given them the pictures yet, but I think it might be a good idea. Before somebody gets hurt." He gathered the photos together, slipped them in the envelope. "So that's your friend Richie Nobles."
"The all-American boy," Jean said. "Can I have them?" When LaBrava hesitated she said, "For my own protection. In case Richie ever comes around again." She looked over as they heard the elevator land, the door open. "Let's tell Maury about it later, okay? Or I'll never get out of here."
Maurice was taking off his nubby silk jacket as he crossed the lobby. He wore a yellow sport shirt with long collar points, the top button fastened. "You think I need a coat?"
Jean picked up the envelope with her straw bag. "If it makes you happy."
"Nah, we're not going anyplace, are we?" He folded the jacket inside out and laid it on the counter. "Joe, lock it in the closet for me, will you? We're going up to Boca, get a few things of Jeanie's."
LaBrava said to her, "What about the tapes? You said you have a couple of your movies?"
She hesitated. "You really want to see them?"
"You kidding? With the star?"
"If you promise you won't fall asleep. We'll have to bring the VCR and plug it into Maury's TV."
Maurice said, "What? What're we talking about?"
"Jean's movies," LaBrava said and looked at her again. "What ones do you have?"
"Just the two available on tape. Shadowland and Let It Ride."
"I can hardly wait," LaBrava said, not sure if he had seen either of them. "It's been a long time."
They'd crept past the Della Robbia, past the Cardozo to park across the street from the Cavalier, on the beach side of Ocean Drive. Nobles had curled his size into an almost fetal position in the front seat, face pressed against the inside edge of the backrest so he could stare out that smoky rear window and see the Della Robbia, the bunch of old ladies sitting lined up on the porch.