LaBrava said, "I think that'll do it."
Paco said, "Man, we just getting loosey goosey."
The girl said, "Hey, I got an idea. How about... one like this?"
In the Della Robbia lobby, close to the oval front window, the old ladies would nod and comment to each other in Yiddish, then look at the young, frizzy-haired girl again to listen to her advice.
"It saddens me," the girl said, and she did sound sad, "when I see what neglect can do to skin. I'm sure you all know there's a natural aging process that robs skin of its vitality, its lustre." If they didn't know it, who did? "But we don't have to hurry the process through neglect. Not when, with a little care, we can have lovely skin and look years and years younger."
The girl was twenty-three. The youngest of the ladies sitting in the rattan semi-circle of lobby chairs had lived for at least a half century before the girl was born. But what did they know about skin care? Rub a peeled potato on your face, for sunburn.
She told them that extracts of rare plants and herbs were used in Spring Song formulations to fortify and replenish amniotic fluids that nourish the skin. The old ladies, nodding, touched mottled cheeks, traced furrows. They raised their faces in the oval-window light as the girl told them that women have a beauty potential at every age. She told them it gave her pleasure to be able to provide the necessities that would help them achieve that potential. It was, in fact, this kind of satisfaction, making women of all ages happy, proud of their skin, that being a Spring Song girl was all about.
She gave the ladies a pert smile, realigned the plastic bottles and jars on the marble table to keep moving, busy, as she said, "I thought for this first visit I'd just get you familiar with the Spring Song philosophy. Then next time I'll give a facial, show you how it works."
A voice among the women said, "You don't tell us how much it is, all this philosophy mish-mosh."
"We'll get into all that. Actually," the girl said, "I came to see the manager. What's his name again?"
"Mr. Zola," a woman said. "A nice man. Has a cute way."
There were comments in Yiddish, one of the ladies referring to Maurice as a k'nocker, Mr. Big Shot. Then another sound, in the lobby, tennis shoes squeaking on the terrazzo floor. The girl turned to look over her shoulder.
"Is that Mr. Zola?"
"No, that's Mr. LaBrava, the loksh. He's like a noodle, that one."
"He's a cutie, too," a woman said. There were more comments in Yiddish, voices rising with opinions.
"Listen, let me give you an exercise to start with," the girl said. "Okay? Put the tips of your fingers here. That's right, in the hollow of your cheeks..."
LaBrava checked his mail slot on the wall behind the registration desk. Nothing. Good. He turned to see the girl coming across the lobby. Weird hair: it looked tribal the way it was almost flat on top, parted in the middle and frizzed way out on the sides. Pretty girl though, behind big round tinted glasses...
She said, "Hi. You don't work here, do you?"
Violet eyes. Some freckles. Smart-looking Jewish girl.
"You want Maurice," LaBrava said. "He should be down pretty soon. He's visiting a sick friend."
"You know if there's a vacancy?"
"I think somebody just moved out."
"You mean somebody died," the girl said. "I want a room, but I don't plan to stay that long."
"You want a one-bedroom or a studio? The studio's only three and a quarter." LaBrava looked over at the women, their mouths open saying "ohhhhh," as they stroked their cheeks in a circular motion.
"Studio, that's a hotel room with a hot plate," the girl said. "I've been there. In fact I just left there. I'm at the Elysian Fields and I need more space."
"What're they doing? The ladies."
"Working the masseter. That's the muscle you masticate with."
"You think it'll do 'em any good?"
"Who knows?" the girl said. "They're nice ladies. I figure those that weren't raped by Cossacks were mugged by Puerto Ricans. It won't do them any harm."
"You're the Spring Song girl," LaBrava said. "I've seen you on the street, with your little kit. How you doing?"
"I'm up to my ass in cosmetic bottles, nine kinds of cream by the case. Also, I've got tubes of paint, sketch pads, canvases all over my room, I've got shitty light and I need more space."
"I was at the Elysian Fields for a week last summer," LaBrava said. "This place's much better. Cleaner."
"Are you saying there no roaches?"
"Not as many. You see a loner once in a while. Think of it as a palmetto bug, it doesn't bother you as much. You paint, uh?"
"Some oil, acrylics mostly. I'm getting ready to do Ocean Drive, figure out my views before they tear it all down."
"Who's tearing it down?"
"Progress. The zoners are out to get us, man, cover the planet like one big enclosed shopping mall. We're getting malled and condoed, if you didn't know it. Gray and tan, earth tones. The people that designed these hotels, they had imagination, knew about color. Go outside, all you see is color and crazy lines zooming all over the place. God, hotels that remind you of ships..."
"I'm glad you explained that," LaBrava said. "I've always liked this neighborhood and I never was sure why." She gave him a sideways look, suspicious. Really weird hairdo but he liked it. "I mean it. I feel at home here and I don't know why."
"Because it's cheap," the girl said. "Listen, you don't have to know why. You feel good here, that's reason enough. People always have to have reasons instead of just feeling." She said, "You're the photographer, aren't you?"
Recognition. LaBrava leaned on the cool marble-top counter: artist relaxed, an unguarded moment. "Yeah, I guess so."
"Aren't you sure?"
"I'm just starting to get used to the idea."
"I saw your show over at the Emerson Gallery, it's dynamite. But all the color here--why aren't you into color?"
"I don't know how to use it. I feel safer with black and white."
"You selling anything?"
"A few more street shots than portraits."
"Well, what do they know. Right? Fuck 'em. You have to do what you do."
"You have to get mad?"
"If it helps. Why not? It's good to be hungry, too. You do better work."
She had a healthy build, tan arms, traces of dark hair. She would go about one-twenty, LaBrava judged; not the least bit drawn, no haunted, hungry-artist look about her. Gold chain. Rings. The white blouse was simple and could be expensive. But you never knew. He said, "You want some lunch? We can go across the street, the Cardozo. They got a nice conch salad, good bread."
"I know, I've seen you over there. No, first I have to see about new digs. I'm not going back to that fucking cell I've been living in. You have to go in sideways."
LaBrava looked up at the sound of the elevator cables engaging, the electric motor whining. He said, "You may be in luck," staring across the lobby at the elevator door, a gold sunburst relief. The door opened and he said, "You are. That's the manager."
Maurice said, even before reaching the desk, "Where the prints? They didn't come out, did they? What'd I tell you last night? I said stop it down."
"I've got an idea," LaBrava said. "Why don't you take care of this young lady--she's looking for a respectable place, no roaches, no noise--and I'll go see about the negatives I got hanging in the dryer."