La Brava (1983) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Elmore Leonard
crescent scar. Earl pointing with a dirty fingernail. Grinning near toothless, too drunk not to look proud and happy.
Bending over in the trunk LaBrava felt inside the camera case, brought out the Leica CL and attached a wide-angle lens.
Headlights flashed on him, past him. By the time he looked around the car had come to a stop parallel to the building, its dark-colored rear deck standing at the edge of the floodlit area that extended out from the back door. LaBrava felt in the case again for the flash attachment. He straightened, slamming the trunk closed.
A young guy was out of the car. Big, well-built guy in a silver athletic jacket, blue trim. Banging on the door now with the thick edge of his fist, other hand wedged in the tight pocket of his jeans. LaBrava came up next to him. The guy grinned, fist still raised, toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
"How you doing this evening?" Slurring his words.
He was thick all over, heavily muscled, going at least six-three, two-thirty. Blond hair with a greenish tint in the floodlight: the hair uncombed, clots of it lying straight back on his head without a part, like he'd been swimming earlier and had raked it back with his fingers. The guy wasn't young up close. Mid-thirties. But he was the kind of guy--LaBrava knew by sight, smell and instinct--who hung around bars and arm-wrestled. Homegrown jock--pumped his muscles and tested his strength when he wasn't picking his teeth.
LaBrava said, "Not too bad. How're you doing?"
"Well, I don't idle too good, but I'm still running." With a back-country drawl greasing his words. "You gonna take some pitchers?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"What of, this pisshole? Man, I wouldn't keep goats in this place."
"I imagine they don't have much of a budget, run by the county," LaBrava said. Hearing himself, he sounded like a wimp. He had the feeling he would never agree with this guy. Still, there was no sense in antagonizing him.
"Palm Beach County, shit, they got more money'n any county in the state of Florida. But you look at this pisshole kind of shack they put people in--I mean nice people--you'd never know it, would you? You don't see none of that Palm Beach crowd brought in here. They can be pissing on the squad car, cop'll go, 'Get in, sir. Lemme drive you home, sir.' Shit... Hey, you want a take my pitcher? Go ahead, I'll let you."
"Thanks anyway," LaBrava said.
"What paper you with?"
LaBrava paused. He said, "Oh," a pleasant, surprised tone. It was not recognition of himself, LaBrava the street shooter, but it was recognition of a sort. "What makes you think I'm a news photographer?"
The guy said, "I guess 'cause all you assholes look alike." He turned away as they heard the locks, the door opening.
LaBrava saw Pam's expression change, startled, the girl tiny next to the silver jacket. She said, "Hey, what're you doing--" The guy was taking her by the arm as he entered.
"I come on official business, puss. How you doing? You're new here, huh? I ain't seen you before."
LaBrava edged past them with the camera, walked toward the hall and heard the locks snapping again behind him, heard the guy's bullshit charm hard at work. "Here, shake hands. I'm Richard Nobles, puss, with the police hereabouts." He heard Pam say, "Wait a minute. What police hereabouts?" He heard the rigid man say, "You ever see an eagle?" And heard Richard Nobles say, "You kidding me, papa? I've cooked and ate a eagle..."
* * *
Maurice was waiting in the hall by the doorway.
"Go in get a shot of her. Wait, what've you got, the Leica? Okay, go on."
"She awake?"
"I'm getting her outta here. Shoot straight down on her. What do you have it set at?"
"I don't know yet." LaBrava walked into the room. He saw bare legs in the shaft of light from the hall, sandals with medium heels. Slim legs, one of them drawn up. She was lying on her side, wearing a light-colored dress, her shoulders bare, an arm extended, partly covering her face. Maurice stooped down to move
Bending over in the trunk LaBrava felt inside the camera case, brought out the Leica CL and attached a wide-angle lens.
Headlights flashed on him, past him. By the time he looked around the car had come to a stop parallel to the building, its dark-colored rear deck standing at the edge of the floodlit area that extended out from the back door. LaBrava felt in the case again for the flash attachment. He straightened, slamming the trunk closed.
A young guy was out of the car. Big, well-built guy in a silver athletic jacket, blue trim. Banging on the door now with the thick edge of his fist, other hand wedged in the tight pocket of his jeans. LaBrava came up next to him. The guy grinned, fist still raised, toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
"How you doing this evening?" Slurring his words.
He was thick all over, heavily muscled, going at least six-three, two-thirty. Blond hair with a greenish tint in the floodlight: the hair uncombed, clots of it lying straight back on his head without a part, like he'd been swimming earlier and had raked it back with his fingers. The guy wasn't young up close. Mid-thirties. But he was the kind of guy--LaBrava knew by sight, smell and instinct--who hung around bars and arm-wrestled. Homegrown jock--pumped his muscles and tested his strength when he wasn't picking his teeth.
LaBrava said, "Not too bad. How're you doing?"
"Well, I don't idle too good, but I'm still running." With a back-country drawl greasing his words. "You gonna take some pitchers?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"What of, this pisshole? Man, I wouldn't keep goats in this place."
"I imagine they don't have much of a budget, run by the county," LaBrava said. Hearing himself, he sounded like a wimp. He had the feeling he would never agree with this guy. Still, there was no sense in antagonizing him.
"Palm Beach County, shit, they got more money'n any county in the state of Florida. But you look at this pisshole kind of shack they put people in--I mean nice people--you'd never know it, would you? You don't see none of that Palm Beach crowd brought in here. They can be pissing on the squad car, cop'll go, 'Get in, sir. Lemme drive you home, sir.' Shit... Hey, you want a take my pitcher? Go ahead, I'll let you."
"Thanks anyway," LaBrava said.
"What paper you with?"
LaBrava paused. He said, "Oh," a pleasant, surprised tone. It was not recognition of himself, LaBrava the street shooter, but it was recognition of a sort. "What makes you think I'm a news photographer?"
The guy said, "I guess 'cause all you assholes look alike." He turned away as they heard the locks, the door opening.
LaBrava saw Pam's expression change, startled, the girl tiny next to the silver jacket. She said, "Hey, what're you doing--" The guy was taking her by the arm as he entered.
"I come on official business, puss. How you doing? You're new here, huh? I ain't seen you before."
LaBrava edged past them with the camera, walked toward the hall and heard the locks snapping again behind him, heard the guy's bullshit charm hard at work. "Here, shake hands. I'm Richard Nobles, puss, with the police hereabouts." He heard Pam say, "Wait a minute. What police hereabouts?" He heard the rigid man say, "You ever see an eagle?" And heard Richard Nobles say, "You kidding me, papa? I've cooked and ate a eagle..."
* * *
Maurice was waiting in the hall by the doorway.
"Go in get a shot of her. Wait, what've you got, the Leica? Okay, go on."
"She awake?"
"I'm getting her outta here. Shoot straight down on her. What do you have it set at?"
"I don't know yet." LaBrava walked into the room. He saw bare legs in the shaft of light from the hall, sandals with medium heels. Slim legs, one of them drawn up. She was lying on her side, wearing a light-colored dress, her shoulders bare, an arm extended, partly covering her face. Maurice stooped down to move
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