Read La Brava (1983) for Free Online Page B

said, drinking his coffee, not eating anything, "You understand what I'm saying to you?"
    So, he would be making his point now. Fucking Cuban hotshot with his wavy hair and little gold ring in his ear. Cundo Rey was the first nigger Richard Nobles had ever seen with long wavy hair. It was parted on the right side and slanted down across his forehead over his left eye. The hair and his gold chains and silk shirts gave Cundo Rey his hot-shit Caribbean look. The way they had met last summer, ten months ago:
    Nobles was making night rounds in the company Plymouth with the official Star Security stars on the doors--cruising past shopping malls and supermarkets, shining the spot into dark areas of parking lots, dying to see some suspicious dark-skinned character in his beam so he could go beat on him--came to the Chevy dealership out Glade Road and got out of the car. It was one of the places he had to go inside, turn off the alarm with a shunt key they gave him, and look around. This night when he came out there was this dinge standing by the Plymouth. The dinge goes, "What about you leave the door open, sir, so I can get my car keys?" Telling Nobles he was supposed to pick up his car in for the free five thousand mile checkup before the place closed but didn't make it. See, all he needed was to get his keys--telling it to Nobles in this Cuban nigger accent like Nobles was a fool. Nobles had slapped his cowhide sap against the palm of his hand a few times, but then had to grin. Which must have given the dinge confidence, for then he goes, "And if you don't believe that, sir, how you like to put five hundred dollars in your pocket and drive yourself the fuck out of here?"
    Nobles admired all kinds of nerve and this Cuban was polite and had fun in his eyes.
    What Cundo Rey would do usually he'd wire a brand new car out on the lot and put on stolen plates, then drive it down to South Miami or Homestead, nighttime garages he knew, and sell the car for parts. Once or twice a month make a minimum twenty-five hundred a car. Also, couple nights a week dance go-go. Get sweaty, man, lose yourself, have some fun and make a few hundred bucks.
    This had confused Nobles at first. Wait a minute. Dance go-go?
    Yeah, Cundo Rey danced go-go as a pro in a little leopard jockstrap, let the ladies reach up on their bar stools and stuff money in there, let them have a feel, spin around and shake a finger, naughty-naughty, if they tried to grab his business. Sure, dance go-go, bump and grind to salsa riffs, sometimes steel drum, have a time, work clubs Ladies' Night from West Palm down to South Beach where he appeared at a gay bar once in a while, Cheeky's; though he would have to work up his nerve for that scene, stuff his nose good with coke, because it was the freak show at the end of the world, that place.
    Was he a queer? At first, usually when they were sitting in the Plymouth looking over a car dealership, Nobles had half-expected Cundo to reach over and try to cop his joint; but he had not tried it yet and he did talk about ass like he got his share of it; so Nobles decided Cundo was straight. Just weird.
    But why would a man, even a Cuban, act like a queer if he wasn't one? "What do you do it for?" he asked Cundo Rey, and Cundo Rey said, "I steal cars in darkness, I dance in lights." Nobles had seen him dance only one time. It was a place out by Miami International and Nobles had felt his own body moving as the ladies reached for Cundo Rey's crotch and Cundo Rey squirmed and writhed above them to that booger music, mouth full of white teeth sucking and smacking. Jesus. That one time was enough. Nobles believed it would take more nerve to get up there and act crazy than it would to break and enter.
    They had a deal going now. Nobles would go in a dealership and get a key, Cundo Rey would start a car with it and Nobles would hang the key back up on the board--later scratch his head with everybody else, squint and kick gravel at how new cars were