mental health place, cheeks of his ass pale moons, lighter than his dusky skin and it surprised Nobles. Look at the son of a bitch, like he was out for a stroll. As Cundo turned half around and waved Nobles mashed the gas pedal and got out of there.
6
----
HE FOUND MAURICE IN 304, the guest suite facing the ocean, the room filled with sunlight and old slipcovered furniture. Maurice took the prints without comment, began studying them as he moved toward the closed door to the bedroom. LaBrava came in, followed him part way. He was anxious, but remembered to keep his voice low.
“Why didn’t you tell me who she is?”
“I did tell you.”
“That’s Jean Shaw.”
“I know it’s Jean Shaw. I told you that last night.”
“She’s supposed to be an old friend—you couldn’t even think of her name.”
“I like this one, the expression. She doesn’t know where the hell she is.” Maurice looked up from the prints, eyes wide behind his glasses. “What’re you talking about, I couldn’t think of her name? Twenty years she’s been Jeanie Breen. I told you she left the picture business to marry Jerry Breen, her husband. I remember distinctly telling you that.”
“How is she?”
“Not suffering as much as I hoped.”
“You bring her some breakfast?”
“What do you think this is, a hotel?” Maurice turned to the bedroom, paused and glanced back with his hand on the door. “Wait here.” He went in and all LaBrava saw was the salmon-colored spread hanging off the end of the bed. The door closed again.
Wait. He moved to one of the front windows, stood with his hands resting on the air-conditioning unit. He thought he knew everything there was to know about time. Time as it related to waiting. Waiting on surveillance. Waiting in Mrs. Truman’s living room. But time was doing strange things to him now. Trying to confuse him.
What he saw from the window was timeless, a Florida post card. The strip of park across the street. The palm trees in place, the sea grape. The low wall you could sit on made of coral rock and gray cement. And the beach. What a beach. A desert full of people resting, it was so wide. People out there with blankets and umbrellas. People in the green part of the ocean, before it turned deep blue. People so small they could be from any time. Turn the view around. Sit on the coral wall and look this way at the hotels on Ocean Drive and see back into the thirties. He could look at the hotels, or he could look at Maurice’s photographs all over his apartment, be reminded of pictures in old issues of Life his dad had saved, and feel what it was like to have lived in that time, the decade before he was born, when times were bad but the trend, the look, was to be “modern.”
Now another time frame was presenting pictures, from real life and from memory. A 1950s movie star with dark hair parted in the middle, pale pure skin, black pupils, eyes that stared with cool expressions, knowing something, never smiling except with dark secrets. The pictures brought back feelings from his early teens, when he believed the good guy in the movie was out of his mind to choose the other girl, the sappy one who cried and dried her eyes with her apron, when he could have had Jean Shaw.
There were no sounds from the other room. No warning.
The door opened before he was ready. Maurice came out and a moment later there she was in a navy blue robe, dark hair, the same dark hair parted in the middle though not as long as she used to wear it and he wasn’t prepared. He hadn’t thought of anything to say that would work as a simple act of recognition, acknowledgment.
Maurice was no help. Maurice said, “I’ll be right back,” and walked out, leaving him alone in the same room with Jean Shaw.
She moved past the floral slipcovered sofa to the other front window, not paying any attention to him. Like he wasn’t there. He saw her profile again, the same one, the same slender nose, remembering its
6
----
HE FOUND MAURICE IN 304, the guest suite facing the ocean, the room filled with sunlight and old slipcovered furniture. Maurice took the prints without comment, began studying them as he moved toward the closed door to the bedroom. LaBrava came in, followed him part way. He was anxious, but remembered to keep his voice low.
“Why didn’t you tell me who she is?”
“I did tell you.”
“That’s Jean Shaw.”
“I know it’s Jean Shaw. I told you that last night.”
“She’s supposed to be an old friend—you couldn’t even think of her name.”
“I like this one, the expression. She doesn’t know where the hell she is.” Maurice looked up from the prints, eyes wide behind his glasses. “What’re you talking about, I couldn’t think of her name? Twenty years she’s been Jeanie Breen. I told you she left the picture business to marry Jerry Breen, her husband. I remember distinctly telling you that.”
“How is she?”
“Not suffering as much as I hoped.”
“You bring her some breakfast?”
“What do you think this is, a hotel?” Maurice turned to the bedroom, paused and glanced back with his hand on the door. “Wait here.” He went in and all LaBrava saw was the salmon-colored spread hanging off the end of the bed. The door closed again.
Wait. He moved to one of the front windows, stood with his hands resting on the air-conditioning unit. He thought he knew everything there was to know about time. Time as it related to waiting. Waiting on surveillance. Waiting in Mrs. Truman’s living room. But time was doing strange things to him now. Trying to confuse him.
What he saw from the window was timeless, a Florida post card. The strip of park across the street. The palm trees in place, the sea grape. The low wall you could sit on made of coral rock and gray cement. And the beach. What a beach. A desert full of people resting, it was so wide. People out there with blankets and umbrellas. People in the green part of the ocean, before it turned deep blue. People so small they could be from any time. Turn the view around. Sit on the coral wall and look this way at the hotels on Ocean Drive and see back into the thirties. He could look at the hotels, or he could look at Maurice’s photographs all over his apartment, be reminded of pictures in old issues of Life his dad had saved, and feel what it was like to have lived in that time, the decade before he was born, when times were bad but the trend, the look, was to be “modern.”
Now another time frame was presenting pictures, from real life and from memory. A 1950s movie star with dark hair parted in the middle, pale pure skin, black pupils, eyes that stared with cool expressions, knowing something, never smiling except with dark secrets. The pictures brought back feelings from his early teens, when he believed the good guy in the movie was out of his mind to choose the other girl, the sappy one who cried and dried her eyes with her apron, when he could have had Jean Shaw.
There were no sounds from the other room. No warning.
The door opened before he was ready. Maurice came out and a moment later there she was in a navy blue robe, dark hair, the same dark hair parted in the middle though not as long as she used to wear it and he wasn’t prepared. He hadn’t thought of anything to say that would work as a simple act of recognition, acknowledgment.
Maurice was no help. Maurice said, “I’ll be right back,” and walked out, leaving him alone in the same room with Jean Shaw.
She moved past the floral slipcovered sofa to the other front window, not paying any attention to him. Like he wasn’t there. He saw her profile again, the same one, the same slender nose, remembering its
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