LaBrava by Elmore Leonard Page A

on our vacation. Gee, you’re from Chicago, uh? How about that, it’s a small fucking world, isn’t it? I run into people from around Chicago every day and most of ’em I just as soon not. You could be, all I know, from the license division, Secretary of State, come in here you don’t have nothing better to do, see what you can shake loose.”
    “I’m not from the state, not Florida,” LaBrava said. “I’m asking about one guy, that’s all.”
    “See that?” Joe Stella said, the spring in the swivel chair groaning as he leaned back, motioned over his shoulder at the paneled wall.
    LaBrava thought he was pointing to the underexposed, 5:00 P.M. color photo of a bluish Joe Stella standing next to a blue-black marlin hanging by its tail. The marlin looked about ten feet long, nearly twice the length of the man, but the man was about 100 pounds heavier.
    “That’s my license to run a security business,” Joe Stella said, “renewed last month.”
    LaBrava’s gaze moving to the framed document hanging next to the fish shot.
    “I’ve posted bond, my insurance is paid up, I know goddamn well I am not in violation of any your fucking regulations ’cause I just got off probation. I spend a whole week running around, get the stuff together, make the appearance before the license division . . . I gotta show cause on my own time why they’re full a shit and ought never’ve put me on probation. I have to show ’em it wasn’t my fault the insurance lapsed one week, that’s all , and long as I’m there show ’em in black and white all my guys are licensed, every one of ’em. Fine, they stamp a paper, I’m pardoned of all my sins I never committed. I’m back in business. I’m clean . So why don’t you get the fuck out and leave me alone, okay? Otherwise I’m gonna have to get up and kick you the fuck out and I’m tired this morning, I had a hard night.”
    LaBrava got ready during Joe Stella’s speech. When the man finished, sitting immovable, a block of stone, LaBrava said, “The other thing we have in common, besides both of us being from the Windy City, we’d like to keep the Director of Internal Revenue happy. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”
    Joe Stella said, “Oh, shit,” and did sound tired.
    “You’re familiar with form SS-8, aren’t you?”
    “I don’t know, there so many forms”—getting tireder by the moment—“What’s SS-8?”
    LaBrava felt himself taking on an almost-forgotten role—Revenue officer, Collection Division—coming back to him like hopping on a bike. The bland expression, the tone of condescending authority: I’m being nice, but watch it.
    “You file payroll deductions, withholding, F.I.C.A.?”
    “Yeah, a course I do.”
    “You never hire guards as independent contractors? Even on a part-time basis?”
    “Well, that depends what you mean . . .”
    “You’re not aware that an SS-8 has ever been filed by a former employee or independent contractor? It’s never been called to your attention to submit a reply?”
    “Wait a minute—Jesus, you know all the forms you gotta keep track of? My bookkeeper comes in once a week, payday, she’s suppose to know all that. Man, I’m telling you—try and run a business today, a bonded service. First, where’m I gonna get anybody’s any good’d work for four bucks an hour to begin with? . . . Hey, you feel like a drink?”
    “No thanks.”
    “You know who I get?”
    “The cowboys.”
    “I get the cowboys, I get the dropouts, I get these guys dying to pack, walk around the shopping mall in their uniform, this big fucking .38 on their hip. Only, state regulation, they’re suppose to pin their license—like a driver’s license in a plastic cover—on their shirt. But they do that they look like what they are, right? Mickey Mouse store cops. So they don’t wear ’em and the guy from the state license division sees ’em and I get fined a hunnert bucks each and put on probation ninety days. I also, to stay