Who was it said that?
Who cares?
He took off the banana shirt, showered, shaved, rubbed in Aqua Velva--Maurice had told him, "Use that, you must have cheap skin"--put the banana shirt on again and picked up the typewriter case. It was now seven in the evening. It was time. So he went up the stairs to the third floor, walked past Maurice's door to Jean Shaw's, knocked and waited. There was no sound. He walked back to Maurice's door.
Maurice said, "The hell you been?" Wearing a white-on-white shirt with long collar points, a black knit tie; his black silk suitcoat was draped over a dining room chair.
Jean Shaw, in a black sheath dress, pearls, stood at the credenza making drinks. She was saying--and it was like a background sound--"Orvis, Dinner Island, Neoga, Espanola, Bunnell, Dupont, Korona, Favorita, Harwood... Windle, Ormond, Flomich... Holly Hill, Daytona Beach. There. All the way to Daytona."
"You left out National Gardens." Maurice winked at LaBrava standing there holding the typewriter case.
She turned saying, "Where does National Gardens come in?" Her eyes resting on LaBrava.
"After Harwood," Maurice said. "Look who's here."
"I see who's here," Jean said. "Is that my typewriter you're returning?"
"Sit down, get comfortable," Maurice said. "Jean, fix him one. He likes it on the rocks."
"I know what he likes," Jean said.
"Well, it's all over," Maurice said. "You missed Torres this morning. Go on, sit in my chair, it's okay. In fact, I insist." He waited as LaBrava curved himself, reluctantly, into the La-Z-Boy; being treated as a guest of honor. "There's a couple a discrepancies they can't figure out. Like Richard was killed with the Cuban's gun and the Cuban was killed with Richard's gun, only he was killed after Richard was killed," Maurice said, moving to the sofa. "Which has got the cops scratching their heads. But that's their problem."
Jean came over with drinks on a silver tray.
"The cops found the money, we got it back," Maurice said. "Far as I'm concerned the case is closed."
She handed LaBrava his and he had to look up to see her eyes, those nice eyes so quietly aware.
"The cops can do what they want," Maurice said.
She handed him his drink, Maurice on the sofa now, and sat down next to him, placing the tray with her drink on the cocktail table. LaBrava watched her light a cigarette, watched her eyes raise to his as she exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
"You can't have everything," Maurice said. "I told your friend Torres that, he agreed. You got the two guys you want, be satisfied."
Her gaze dropped to the typewriter case on the floor next to the recliner, lingered, came up slowly to rest on him again.
"Torres said they always thought there was a third one. Only why didn't he take the money? Unless he had to get out a there fast once he shot the Cuban and didn't have time to look for it. Richard's gun--you know where it was? In the toilet. Listen, there was even another gun in there, in the toilet, they find out shot somebody else. You imagine?"
LaBrava said, "Maybe the third one will walk in, clear everything up."
Jean was still looking at him.
"I told the cops, be grateful for what you have," Maurice said. "That third one, whoever, did you a favor. Any loose ends--well, you always got a few loose ends. Who needs to know everything? No, as far as I'm concerned--" He gave Jean a little nudge with his elbow. "What is it they say in the picture business?"
"It's a wrap," Jean said.
He nudged her again. "Should we tell him?"
"I don't see why not," Jean said.
Maurice got higher on the sofa, laid his arm on the backrest. "Well, we decided last night... Jeanie and I are gonna get married." He brought his hand down to give her shoulder a squeeze. "Look at him, he can't believe it. Yeah, as a matter of fact we start talking last night, we couldn't figure out why we hadn't thought of it a long time ago. Make life easier for both of us... We're tired a living alone."
LaBrava didn't say anything because he didn't want to say anything he didn't mean.
The former movie star in her fifties looked younger, much younger, sitting next to the retired bookmaker, natty old guy who didn't know he was old.
"I'm gonna take good care of her," Maurice said.
"And I'm going to let him," Jean said. She said then, "It's not the movies, Joe." Looking at him with those eyes. "Maury wants you to be his best man."
He wasn't going to say anything he didn't mean or cover up whatever it was he felt.
What he finally said was, "Swell."
Then gave them a nice smile: maybe a little weary but still a nice one. Why not?