he had never felt as aware of himself as he did now, in front of Jean Shaw in her blue bathrobe.
“I was trying to think,” LaBrava said, “what your last movie was.”
She looked up from the paper. “Let’s see, I made Let It Ride at Columbia. Went to RKO for one called Moon Dance . A disaster . . .”
“The insane asylum.”
“I quit right after that. I tested for a picture that was shot right around here, a lot of it at the Cardozo Hotel. I thought sure I was going to get the part. Rich widow professional virgin, my first good girl. But they gave it to Eleanor Parker. It didn’t turn out to be that much of a part.”
“Frank Sinatra and Edward G. Robinson,” LaBrava said, impressing the movie star.
She said, “That’s right, A Hole in the Head . Frank Capra, his first picture in I think seven years. I really wanted to work with him. I even came here on my own to find out what rich Miami Beach widows were like.”
“I think you would’ve been too young.”
“That’s why Frank gave it to Eleanor Parker. Before that, half the scripts I read had Jane Greer’s prints all over them.” She said then, “No, the last one wasn’t Moon Dance . I went back to Columbia— oh my God, yeah—to do Treasure of the Aztecs .”
“Treasure of the Aztecs,” LaBrava said, nodding. He had never heard of it.
“Farley Granger was Montezuma’s bastard son. In the last reel I’m about to be offered up to the gods on top of a pyramid, have my heart torn out, but I’m rescued by Cortez’s younger brother. Remember?”
“The star,” LaBrava said. “I can’t think who it was.”
“Audie Murphy. I took the first flight I could get out of Durango and haven’t made a picture since.”
“I imagine a lot of people liked it though.”
“You didn’t see it, did you?”
“I guess that’s one I missed. How many pictures did you make?”
“Sixteen. From ’55 to ’63.”
He could think of four titles. Maybe five. “I might’ve missed a couple of the early ones too,” LaBrava said, “but I saw all the rest. I have to tell you, whether it means anything to you or not, you were good .”
Jean Shaw raised her eyes to his, giving him that cool, familiar look. “Which one was your favorite?”
7
----
AT 8:10 P.M. JILL WILKINSON told Pam and Rob, the crisis center night staff, she was getting out before anything else happened. Three consecutive shifts without sleep was about it for hanging in and being a loyal South County employee. She said if she didn’t go home to bed within the next hour, they’d be admitting her to Bethesda Memorial for intensive rehabilitation due to social-service burnout. South County would have to scrounge around for another wide-eyed, dedicated supervisor willing to work a seventy-hour week. Good luck. They didn’t stay wide-eyed long. During the past twenty-four hours:
First there was the big blond creep with the Mickey Mouse badge and the very real gun. (The Delray cops were good guys; they did think it was sort of funny, but only after informing Mr. Richard Nobles that if he ever came in here and bothered Jill again they would fucking break his jaw on both sides of his you-all mouth and that was a promise.) Then Earl, smoking, had set fire to a mattress during the night—after they were absolutely sure he had no cigarettes or matches on him. Walter continued to drive them nuts asking if they’d ever seen an eagle, until he was finally shipped off to Crisis Stabilization. A girl who had shaved her hair back to the top of her head, shaved off her eyebrows too, locked herself in the john most of the morning while two alcoholics threw up in wastepaper baskets. A consumer waiting to be interviewed got into the case of john paper stored in the counseling office (there was no room for it anywhere else) and streamed several rolls of it around the office. And then there was the smiling Cuban who gave his name as Geraldo Rivera and walked into the center naked except for
“I was trying to think,” LaBrava said, “what your last movie was.”
She looked up from the paper. “Let’s see, I made Let It Ride at Columbia. Went to RKO for one called Moon Dance . A disaster . . .”
“The insane asylum.”
“I quit right after that. I tested for a picture that was shot right around here, a lot of it at the Cardozo Hotel. I thought sure I was going to get the part. Rich widow professional virgin, my first good girl. But they gave it to Eleanor Parker. It didn’t turn out to be that much of a part.”
“Frank Sinatra and Edward G. Robinson,” LaBrava said, impressing the movie star.
She said, “That’s right, A Hole in the Head . Frank Capra, his first picture in I think seven years. I really wanted to work with him. I even came here on my own to find out what rich Miami Beach widows were like.”
“I think you would’ve been too young.”
“That’s why Frank gave it to Eleanor Parker. Before that, half the scripts I read had Jane Greer’s prints all over them.” She said then, “No, the last one wasn’t Moon Dance . I went back to Columbia— oh my God, yeah—to do Treasure of the Aztecs .”
“Treasure of the Aztecs,” LaBrava said, nodding. He had never heard of it.
“Farley Granger was Montezuma’s bastard son. In the last reel I’m about to be offered up to the gods on top of a pyramid, have my heart torn out, but I’m rescued by Cortez’s younger brother. Remember?”
“The star,” LaBrava said. “I can’t think who it was.”
“Audie Murphy. I took the first flight I could get out of Durango and haven’t made a picture since.”
“I imagine a lot of people liked it though.”
“You didn’t see it, did you?”
“I guess that’s one I missed. How many pictures did you make?”
“Sixteen. From ’55 to ’63.”
He could think of four titles. Maybe five. “I might’ve missed a couple of the early ones too,” LaBrava said, “but I saw all the rest. I have to tell you, whether it means anything to you or not, you were good .”
Jean Shaw raised her eyes to his, giving him that cool, familiar look. “Which one was your favorite?”
7
----
AT 8:10 P.M. JILL WILKINSON told Pam and Rob, the crisis center night staff, she was getting out before anything else happened. Three consecutive shifts without sleep was about it for hanging in and being a loyal South County employee. She said if she didn’t go home to bed within the next hour, they’d be admitting her to Bethesda Memorial for intensive rehabilitation due to social-service burnout. South County would have to scrounge around for another wide-eyed, dedicated supervisor willing to work a seventy-hour week. Good luck. They didn’t stay wide-eyed long. During the past twenty-four hours:
First there was the big blond creep with the Mickey Mouse badge and the very real gun. (The Delray cops were good guys; they did think it was sort of funny, but only after informing Mr. Richard Nobles that if he ever came in here and bothered Jill again they would fucking break his jaw on both sides of his you-all mouth and that was a promise.) Then Earl, smoking, had set fire to a mattress during the night—after they were absolutely sure he had no cigarettes or matches on him. Walter continued to drive them nuts asking if they’d ever seen an eagle, until he was finally shipped off to Crisis Stabilization. A girl who had shaved her hair back to the top of her head, shaved off her eyebrows too, locked herself in the john most of the morning while two alcoholics threw up in wastepaper baskets. A consumer waiting to be interviewed got into the case of john paper stored in the counseling office (there was no room for it anywhere else) and streamed several rolls of it around the office. And then there was the smiling Cuban who gave his name as Geraldo Rivera and walked into the center naked except for
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