“It’s always complicated,” Sweeney said. He sipped again and set down his glass. “But it sounds to me like you’re running away.”
Brenda looked at him. “You’re wrong,” she told him. “I’m not ‘on the lam,’ and that’s not from my age demographic, either. You’re just wrong.”
Sweeney held up a hand. “My bad,” he said. “I just heard something different.”
She sipped her ginger ale. A stranger sitting next to her on a plane had easily heard the truth lying just below the career-girl snappy patter. Lying at the bottom of her own abandoned copper mine.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Sweeney said. “I see I spoke out of turn.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “What’s more boring than someone going on about ‘relationships?’” She used air quotes to show she was in control.
Sweeney gave her a weary smile and sipped his drink. She had told him the purpose of her trip to Florida was to research an article on real estate for Esquire. Well-off baby boomers were preparing for retirement by snapping up houses and condos in Naples. She had arranged to spend two weeks at a friend’s place, on a golf course called Donegal. What do you know? Sweeney had said. I’m going there, too. I own a house at Donegal.
As he sipped his drink, she again noticed the tan line on his ring finger. “Your house in Naples,” she said. “Is your wife there, or back in Michigan?”
“No, neither.”
Was he divorced? She wanted details on how Sweeney had met his wife, whether they played golf together—anything to move things along. But he lowered his glass and said nothing more. This, too, was like Charlie Schmidt. Short and sweet.
“‘Hunky dory.’” Sweeney smiled. “I bet that’s another one from your guy.”
True, it was. Brenda turned away. She felt a strong impulse to spill the beans, to spill her guts and tell him how, last spring, she and three other women had gone fishing in Minnesota. We were followed by a man, she wanted to tell him. He murdered four people, and I killed him.
An arm settled gently on her shoulders. Brenda focused on the seat in front of her, on the in-flight magazine, and the instructions for escape in an emergency. She nodded thanks, and Sweeney took his arm away.
Spill the beans. How long was it going to take? Almost every time she had an idea or opened her mouth, Charlie Schmidt would be there.
LE BONHEUR
PELICAN BAY
“Hell, it’s not prejudice at all,” Mister B said again. “You get that, Jimmy, that’s why we see eye to eye. You’re a sharp guy, I saw that right off.”
Seeing eye to eye meant being in agreement. In sync. “Well, Mr. B, I don’t exactly—”
“I say you’re smart, and I say you’ll go far,” Mr. B said. “You’re Mexican. Hispanic, Latino, Chicano—” He waved his arm—“whatever the hell you people call it now. The point is, you see how dumb all this bullshit over race is. Christ, all the Jesse Whoozits and Reverend Whatzitts, all in a lather talking bullshit—”
Dale Burlson shook his head and drank from his morning Heineken. If you were in a lather, you were angry about something. But now Burlson’s mother-in-law again entered the room. For the third time in twenty minutes she came to a stop between the Greek columns supporting the condo’s vaulted foyer. Birdlike in a quilted satin robe, she looked like a chess piece on the floor’s black-and-white marble squares.
“Hi,” she said.
“What’s up this time, Mom?”
“Who’s that?”
“This is still Jimmy,” Burlson told her. “You remember Jim, don’t you?”
“Where’s Pinky?”
“At the vet’s, Mom. For a trim. Jim’s going for him real soon.” Smiling at this, Burlson’s mother-in-law turned and wobbled off. She was very attached to her toy poodle. When she was gone, Burlson again shook his head. “Pinky, Pinky, Pinky,” he said.
“She seems good today,” Rivera said. “Good color.”
“Oh, yeah, the color’s great. The mind?” Burlson made the motion he used to illustrate his mother-in-law’s dementia—scrambling eggs in a bowl. He took another long swallow.
The condominium—nine thousand square feet under air—occupied all of Le Bonheur’s top floor. Outside the great room’s floor-to-ceiling plate windows, a broad, unfinished terrace lay shadowed in morning sun. Stacks of tile rested between a diamond-bladed saw and three eyeless cherubs lying on their sides. Yellow nylon ropes had been rigged until the baluster railing was finally in place. Delays were making Burlson more bad-tempered than usual. But tomorrow he would be fishing, in a better mood. He was always full of opinions and used bad language. Shit this, fuck that, chink, greaseball, nigger, kike. But if you worked for such people, you let it go.
“It looks like they’re making good progress,” Rivera said of the terrace.
“Couple more weeks. They’re still waiting on some kind of grout.”
Rising above the yellow ropes and cement dust, the world lifted off and rose with the perfect blue of the Gulf of Mexico. Up here on the thirty-first floor, point blank on the beach at Pelican Bay, the weather could be hypnotic. That was why Dale Burlson had bought six more units. At three to five million a pop, he considered them a steal, the kind of property you could flip before you had to close. Then, as the building was nearing completion, the bottom had dropped out of the high-end of the market.
“Yeah,” Burlson said, looking out, “Betty would’ve loved it. All this—” he gestured to the terrace “—I don’t give a shit, but it was her dream, so there you go.” He took another swallow.
“It’ll be great, sir.”
“Yeah, okay, it’ll keep. But make sure you pick up Pinky. She won’t shut up about the little fucker until you get back. We’ll talk on the boat tomorrow.”
At last free, Rivera turned and moved toward the foyer. There was so much to do before noon, but it pleased him that the idea had come to him in English. That’s how his mind worked now, in American English.
He opened the double doors, turned and waved before easing them closed. Quickly he crossed to the elevator and pushed the button. A familiar hum passed through the reception room’s green marble walls. Green marble was what Betty Burlson had insisted on before her sudden death last June. As the doors parted, Rivera’s phone jingled.
“Ray, what have you got?” He stepped in, and as the doors closed, his cousin explained in Spanish that Mrs. Hudson’s garage opener was stuck. He had no lubricant and was already running behind. He would be able to install the Winslows’ barrier-free ramp, but that meant putting off the Port Royal plumbing job until Monday.
“I don’t like it, Ray. We guaranteed Port Royal for Friday. He’s a good client.”
“Que se joda.”
“Come on, you promised. Speak English.”
“He can go fuck himself,” Ray said.
“That’s easy for you, you don’t have to make the call.”
“I got two hands,” Ray told him. “You forget the traffic.”
“How can I forget? I’m in it all day.”
“Yeah, well—” The elevator doors opened to the smell of raw concrete. “You big-shot CEOs always forgetting your labor force,” Ray said. “Your human resources.”
“That’s very good—” Rivera stepped out into the first-floor garage. It was one of Ray’s jokes, calling him CEO. But it was Ray who had the green card. “You have management potential,” Rivera said.
“Potential to go crazy like half these people,” his cousin said. “You taking on too much work.”
“Growth, Ray.” Rivera walked toward his van. “Kleinman says you can’t maintain the status quo. You have to try new things.”
In Spanish his cousin said Kleinman, too, could go fuck himself. “You going to have to hire more people like Dennis,” Ray said. “You think I want someone like Dennis Stuckey taking care of my mother or grandmother? You got to think about that.”
“It’s not your problem.” Rivera pressed the keyless remote and reached hi
s van. “Besides, everyone signs a liability waiver. We’re protected.”
“That time—”
“Ray, I have to pick up a dog before meeting someone at the airport. I’ll see you tonight.”
“What dog you talking about?”
“Burlson’s poodle.”
“Is it still pink?”
“Still pink. They say beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.”
“Crazy people,” Ray said, and he clicked off.
As Rivera got in and started the engine, the smell of raw concrete was replaced by the scent of pine. First thing every morning, he vacuumed his van, sprayed air freshener. Details mattered. Little things that might be important to his elderly clients. And not being satisfied with the status quo, that mattered, too. You couldn’t settle for things as they were, you had to move. Change.
Like assisting people who wanted his help. People like Mrs. Frieslander.
He had forgotten to jot down in sync. Rivera reached up and pulled free a pocket notebook wedged in the sun visor. He opened it to the last page, wrote the words and what they meant.
He returned the notebook, put his van in gear, and moved forward. Move and change, he thought again. But you had to stay calm. You had to use your head and always be able to act fast. That’s what he’d done with Mrs. Frieslander. He’d made a decision. Turning on a dime, someone had called it. Being able to field loose grounders and hit curveballs. Most of all, you had to know how to put up with clients like Burlson. Never get mad, Arnold Kleinman liked to say. Mad is bad for business. Just get even.
Reaching the end of the empty garage, Rivera cruised up the incline and emerged in sunlight. He came to a full stop, looked both ways, and now turned right on Pelican Bay Boulevard. He accelerated slowly. Absolutely there must never be trouble with police. Never a computer check. Once at the posted speed limit, he eased off the pedal. Elaborate marble signs slipped past, deeply incised with gold letters spelling the names of luxury high rises.
Morning strollers turned to watch him pass. ALL HANDS ON DECK was stenciled on all four of his vans, and it pleased Rivera to know people saw the company name. It also pleased him to know All Hands was a synecdoche.
Most of the strollers were old. Some were walking by themselves, others required white-clad attendants. Assisting such people when they wanted to die was a new initiative, and it had great potential. But it was off the books, not something Ray knew about. Rivera could rely on his cousin completely, but Ray was religious.
Of course there were risks. You had to plan carefully and make sure plenty of time passed between assists. By spacing them out, you kept All Hands free of suspicion. Avoid greed, Kleinman often said. It was one of his Ten Commandments for business: Avoid greed like the plague. Greed kills the goose that lays the golden egg. Instead, Jimmy, nurture that goose.
He reached U.S. 41 and stopped for the light. Heavy traffic flowed past in bright morning sunshine. Still wet from pre-dawn sprinklers, brilliant crotons and hibiscus glittered on the median.
Rivera turned on the air conditioning and sat back. 41 was the Tamiami Trail. It had been built in the twenties to connect Florida’s east and west coasts. Mrs. Frieslander had explained that “Tamiami” was a portmanteau word, a new word made out of Tampa and Miami.
Thinking of her as he watched the traffic light, Rivera felt uncomfortable. Portmanteau, synonym, synecdoche, bibliography, in sync… And Mrs. F had also taught him about manners. Customs. But when she changed her mind, he had decided not to wait. It was her time, her destiny. And there was something else, something having to do with Burlson…
No, Rivera decided. There was nothing else. You just helped a sick old woman when her number came up, like Bingo. A nice old woman with cold feet.
He watched the traffic light. He had never been stopped, never forced to show his forged license and green card. But on the day he drove Burlson to pick up his new boat, they’d been halted by a roadblock on Davis Boulevard. It was something to do with drugs, and as the deputy approached, Rivera thought: It’s over. This is where they find out you aren’t legal. The deputy had asked for his license but before looking down at it he bent to look in the back seat of the Mercedes. Seeing Burlson, he had handed back the license and straightened, patted the roof, and moved on.
The light now turned green, and Rivera swung south. He remembered driving away, watching the Collier County deputy in the side mirror as he walked to the next car. The officer had not known Dale Burlson, only that he was rich and white. It meant the car’s driver was on his payroll and not a drug dealer.
Rivera had then driven to Walker Marine to take delivery of Mr. B’s beautiful new Pursuit. As they watched it being unwrapped like a Christmas present, that’s when Mr. B had leaned close. I’m not talking about you, Jim. I’m talking about a certain element.
This can’t work, we need to make a clean break—
As luggage rolled past her feet, Brenda saw herself in her condo in Michigan. She was at the kitchen counter with the phone. Charlie was in his den in Milwaukee, and his silence meant he knew she was right. Fine, I have painting to do.
His throw-away reaction had struck her as the kind of thing you said when someone broke a lunch date—not a problem, I have some painting. But at least she hadn’t asked him to stay in touch. Hadn’t asked for some smarmy, let’s-be-friends-with-benefits arrangement.
She focused again on the moving belt—suitcases, golf-club carriers, backpacks. Clean breaks were always painful, it couldn’t be helped. But she had come to think of their ugly start last spring as something like DNA, or a genetic defect. It didn’t matter what she and Charlie wanted, because killings and lies and choices made in an instant had shaped the future. Like bad genes, the aftermath of Kettle Falls could not be made right.
She shook it off and looked across the moving belt at James Rivera. Patrick had gone to the men’s room, and Rivera was waiting to catch Sweeney’s golf-club carrier. The woman next to him made a comment, and Rivera nodded. Smiled.
He had smiled the same way, looking up at her as she rode down the escalator. He held no placard with CONTAY in block letters, but when she stepped off he addressed her by name. It’s your hair, he explained. Mrs. Krause told me you’re a redhead.
Rivera’s own hair was black and neatly trimmed, his features both Mayan and Spanish, his skin dark. They had shaken hands, Brenda facing clever eyes. A long scar down his right cheek gave his young face an edgy quality that contrasted with his preppy clothes. She had introduced Sweeney. He was going to Donegal too, could he ride along? Of course he could. With no trace of accent, Rivera had spoken and gestured like someone good at pleasing people.
His white pinpoint oxford shirt and starched khakis stood out among the primary-color polos and floral prints of those waiting for luggage. For no reason, Rivera’s dark good looks and social skills made Brenda feel worse. Again she imagined Charlie Schmidt in Milwaukee, in his pine-paneled den, looking down at the cradled phone.
“No you don’t, sport—”
A man was shoving Rivera, grabbing what he held. “Bullshit, you weren’t on the flight, I saw this club carrier at check-in… Right, sure, bullshit, let go, sport—”
He was big in the shoulders, dressed in expensive warm-up clothes. “Hold it—” Sweeney was shoving through the crowd. “Wait a second, hold on—”
She hurried after, looking over just as Rivera went down, still holding the black club carrier. Angry, the man yanked on the side handle. “Goddammit, let go!” He kicked Rivera and kept yanking.
“Don’t!” Sweeney reached them and grabbed the man’s arm. “You’re wrong—”
He was shoved away, the man still kicking as passengers jumped clear. Very suddenly, Pat Sweeney landed a short left hook below the man’s right eye. His head snapped, but he stiff-armed Sweeney hard. Patrick fell back over the luggage and went down.
But now—perhaps from the noise—the man did finally look at whoever had hit him. He saw and seemed to recognize Sw
eeney. He let go of the club carrier, took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and patted his face. He checked it for blood.
“This guy tried to steal your clubs.” He patted again.
“You’re way out of line.” Red in the face, Sweeney was now on his feet. “He’s our driver. I was in the men’s room.”
Still touching his face, the man turned to Rivera. He too was now up and dusting off. “Uh oh—” As Rivera straightened, the man studied him a moment. He shook his head. “Oh boy, what’ve you done now, Teddy?” Heart pounding, Brenda heard something strange in the man’s voice. As though he was the victim. She shoved through the crowd as he used the handkerchief to wipe his hands.
“I’m Teddy Larson. Listen, let me—”
Quickly he reached in his hip pocket. “Absolutely this is an idiot snafu—” Again he shook his head, but now seemed amused. He spread his wallet and began counting bills. He stopped but counted several more before taking out the money. He tugged free a business card, centered and folded it in the bills, and held them out. “There you go,” he said. “Go ahead, take it.”
Brenda stepped between them. “What he needs is an apology.”
“That’s right, don’t take his money—” Still red in the face, Sweeney was brushing himself off.
“Okay, sir, let me handle this, it’s between me and the young man.” Larson stepped clear of Brenda. Still holding out the folded bills, he gestured with the money. “Take it, something up front,” he said. “You call the number on the card, we’ll make this right.”
“Don’t do it.” Sweeney reached down and grabbed up his suit coat. “Don’t let him make this go away with a few twenties. Let’s hear Teddy Larson apologize in front of these people.”
Clearly angered, Larson refused to look at either of them. His prosperous, beefy face belonged to someone Brenda was sure did not do apologies.
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