LaBrava by Elmore Leonard Page B

in business, I gotta post bond, five grand, and I gotta have three-hundred-grand liability insurance, a hunnert grand property damage. The insurance lapses a week cause the fucking insurance guy’s out at Hialeah every day and it’s my fault, I’m suspended till I show cause why I oughta not get fucked over by the state of Florida where I’m helping with the employment situation. I’m not talking about the federal government you understand. You guys, IRS, you got a job to do—keep that money coming in to run the government, send guns to all the different places they need guns, defend our ass against . . . you know what I’m talking about. Fucking Castro’s only a hunnert miles away. Nicaragua, how far’s that? It isn’t too far, I know.”
    “Richard Nobles,” LaBrava said, “he ever been arrested before?”
    Joe Stella paused. “Before what? Jesus Christ, is that who we’re talking about? Richie Nobles? Jesus, you can have him.”
    “You know where I can find him?”
    “I think he quit. I haven’t seen him in three days. Left the car, no keys, the dumb son of a bitch. All those big good-looking assholes, I think they get hair instead of brains. What’s the matter, Richie hasn’t paid his taxes? I believe it.”
    “What I’m curious about—guy applies for a job, you ask him if he’s ever been arrested, don’t you?”
    “I did I’d be in violation of your federal law, invasion of privacy. I can’t ask if the guy was ever a mental patient either. I can ask him, have you ever been convicted of a felony, or have you ever committed one and didn’t get caught? But I can’t ask him if he’s ever been arrested.”
    “You did issue him a handgun.”
    “They buy their own.”
    “So he’s got a license.”
    “You apply, you want to be an armed guard, you gotta get clearance through the FBI and the State Department of Law Enforcement. The guy—it takes months—he gets his license or he gets a certified letter in the mail saying he’s turned down. But they don’t notify me, ever.”
    “Have you seen his license?”
    “Yeah, he showed it to me.”
    “Then he must be clean, uh? They checked him out.”
    Joe Stella said, “You ready for a drink now?”
    LaBrava nodded. “Sounds good.”
    He watched Joe Stella push up from his desk. The man moved with an effort to get a bottle of Wild Turkey and glasses from a file cabinet, ice and a can of Fresca from a refrigerator LaBrava had thought was a safe. Pouring double bourbons with a splash of Fresca Joe Stella said, “First one today. What time is it? Almost ten-thirty, that’s not bad. Long as you had breakfast.” He handed a drink to LaBrava and sat down with the bottle close to him on the desk.
    LaBrava took a good sip.
    “Nice drink, huh?”
    “Not bad.”
    “Refreshing with a little bite to it.” Joe Stella took down half his drink. Poured another ounce or so of bourbon into it, and added a little more. He said, “Ahhh, man . . .”
    “I bet he’s been arrested,” LaBrava said, “but never convicted, uh?”
    Joe Stella said, “Richie’s from upstate. Some of the boys here call him Big Scrub when he’s in a good mood, call him Big Dick he’ll grin at you. Otherwise nobody talks to him. You understand the type I mean?”
    “I know him,” LaBrava said.
    “He was arrested up there, you’re right, for destruction of government property. The son of a bitch shot an eagle.”
    “I understand he ate it,” LaBrava said.
    “I wouldn’t be surprised. Richie’ll eat anything. He’ll drink al most anything. He came to work here he gave me a half gallon of shine with peaches in it, whole big peaches . . . That’s a good drink, isn’t it?”
    “Nice.”
    “He shot the eagle he was living up around Ocala, the Big Scrub country. Richie was a canoe guide, he’d take birdwatchers and schoolteachers back in the swamp, show ’em nature and come out somewhere up on the St. Johns River. He wasn’t doing that he’d run supplies for a