“No, that’s yours.” Rayette stepped to the screened door. “We have a four-on, three-off schedule at Naples Community Hospital. I’m in accounting there. I’m off starting Sunday, but I have a golf game. Do you play?”
“Maybe you’ll teach me. We’ll pick this up later.”
As they shook hands, the doorbell rang.
Brenda opened the screen door, and Rayette stepped out. “Did you say that’s a realtor?” Brenda nodded. “Listen, honey, don’t sign anything, and I’m not joking. They’re all sharks.” She winked and moved along the screen.
2:40 p.m.
Went first to “”Playa del Suenos” = Beach of Dreams. A good name: nothing’s been built except a video. But Noelle says the developer has deposits on forty percent. Noelle is using the tour to pitch me. “You owe yourself a nice Naples ‘pied-à-terre,’” she says.
Next, Island Walk. Copper-domed community center/ice cream parlor/gas station/car wash. Think the Duomo in Florence, plus gelati and unleaded regular—
Brenda looked up from her notebook as Noelle Harmon passed again outside the café. They had just finished lunch, and the realtor was taking another call. Pacing and gesturing, Harmon was definitely a real-estate shark, and a good one. In her early forties, she was blonde and trim, well turned out in a red silk pantsuit. Unlike Rayette Peticore, Harmon had pale, unlined skin. She was no sun worshipper.
Even so, she had wanted Brenda to see the Naples beach. Just before lunch she had driven them to the end of Seagate Boulevard. Noelle sat on the car’s back bumper and pulled on a pair of Nikes, then led Brenda along a path through sea grape. Looming above them on both sides were high rises. A minute later they stepped out into full sun.
Brenda had slipped off her flats and crossed warm sand. The aqua-tinted Gulf spread before her, calm and glittering. Two couples zipped past on jet skis; small craft lazed farther out with people fishing. Farther still, two sailboats were moving north.
Noelle said the 9/11 attack had spooked a lot of tourists. That was why the beach wasn’t crowded. The two had walked then, keeping clear of the wave flap. The high end of the market had suffered, Noelle said, but the downturn wouldn’t last. Soon, the good times would roll again, and when they did, the beach would be why.
She had pointed ahead. A broad banner with LE BONHEUR in huge blue letters hung down the side of a high rise. That’s one of the last condo towers being built in Pelican Bay, Noelle said. Shading her eyes, Brenda had looked up at ornate windows and jutting terraces. They’ve dropped the price on those condos twice, Noelle told her. Now’s the time to cut a deal. In a few months, you can flip your way to fame and fortune. Brenda had smiled, looking up. This was why Harmon wanted her to see the beach.
A child laughed. On Brenda’s left sat a girl of five or six, working on a chocolate sundae almost the size of her blonde head. A white-haired couple sat opposite, drinking coffee. At first, it had surprised her to see so many children here. But it made perfect sense. 9/11 or not, lots of kiddies were visiting their prosperous grandparents, senior citizens with plenty of time and disposable income.
She took up her ballpoint.
But the kiddies grow up and have better things to do. Then your knees go, or Grandma breaks a hip. Or your grown children decide it’s time to take away your car keys. Lots of disposable income won’t help you there, and that’s when you call All Hands on Deck—
She now knew James Rivera was the real story waiting for her in Naples. She had felt it all morning and wanted to talk about him with Noelle. So far, the realtor hadn’t given her a chance.
“Wouldn’t you know—” Crossing from the entry, Noelle put her phone in her purse and slipped into the booth. “My younger sister just went into premature labor,” she said. “She’s not due for six weeks.” Noelle looked ruefully across the table. “Just when you were starting to get interested. I could see the wheels turning.”
She reached for the check, but Brenda grabbed it off the table. She paid, and they walked back to the car. Noelle got them into southbound traffic. Her car was smaller than Mrs. Krause’s Buick, but elegant. A Lexus, like Teddy Larson’s.
“If you do any cooking down here,” she said, “don’t forget that market I pointed out at Central Avenue. Wynn’s.”
“Thanks, Noelle,” Brenda said. “I’m grateful to you. This has been helpful.”
“My pleasure, honey. Jimmy Rivera has steered some good bets my way. I owe the man.”
Here was her opening.
“He left a message this morning,” Noelle said. “About someone named Chester Ivy. He lives—well, lived at the same club you’re at, Donegal. And some woman on Marco Island, named Frieslander. Her building security found her this morning.”
“You say another All Hands customer died?”
“Oh, it’s bound to happen quite a bit, isn’t it?” Noelle said, driving. “Only the elderly and their families hire All Hands. The simple truth is, that’s why Jimmy can’t ask much I’d say no to. When one of his clients goes to their reward, I’m the ‘first responder,’ you could call it. Families usually want to sell ASAP. I’m the first one with a foot in the door. Because of Jimmy.”
“Does he live in Naples?”
“Immokalee,” Noelle said. “A half hour inland. Lots of Hispanic people live there. The labor force, if you will.” Noelle checked her makeup in the rearview.
“So, you know him well,” Brenda said.
The realtor shook her head. “Not really. He’s a great guy but very private. I think he may be an illegal. The polite term is ‘undocumented alien,’ but with him it doesn’t matter. People like Jimmy Rivera, that’s all. You could say it’s sort of a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of thing.”
◆◆◆◆◆
Home, she tossed her shoulder bag on the couch and stepped into the bedroom. Her laptop stood open on the dresser. She unplugged it, went back to the living room and pulled open the door wall.
Outside, the pool glittered; bright afternoon sun was making the eighth fairway a static, emerald river. On the far side, a golfer was pulling his clubs, enjoying the afternoon all by himself. Still on the patio table were this morning’s coffee mugs. Rayette had talked about good men. Keepers, she called them. Watching the walking man, Brenda wondered whether James Rivera was one. A keeper.
She placed the laptop on the table and sat, but she felt no interest in developing her notes. She leaned back and watched the golfer.
Off and on all day, she had wondered how Charlie would react to Naples. He had done well himself, but she thought so much conspicuous wealth would put him off. Noelle had shown her neighborhoods full of mini-mansions lifted out of Tuscany, Paris, the French and Italian Riviera. Along Davis Boulevard, they had passed a condo-retail development called Bayfront. Facing the Gordon River, it looked as though the whole thing had been transported from the Grand Canal in Venice.
Then Noelle had driven south to Port Royal. Here was where Sweeney said Naples’s Old Money lived. Brenda caught glimpses of actual mansions blinking through giant banyan trees, safely removed from “riffraff.” If Port Royal’s your heart’s desire, Noelle said, you need your hedge fund to be doing gangbusters.
None of it would impress Charlie Schmidt. Sometimes he was self-conscious, but not for reasons of class or money. At ball games or movies, she caught him checking people’s faces, looking for signs they disapproved of the difference in their ages. It amused her because it meant nothing to her.
Nothing, she thought. Nothing was just a word, but it weighed on her.
A sudden, mingled sense of fear and loss made her reach into her skirt pocket. She got out her phone, flipped it open and looked at his number. What could be the harm in calling? They had never hurt or disappointed each other. But that didn’t matter. He hadn’t called because he knew she was right. There was no future for them.
She stared at the phone’s brightly lit menu of speed-dial numbers. Your life in list form, Brenda thought. Charlie first, then her mother, he
r brother, five magazine and two book editors. Joyce Delarossa from her days in TV. Ned Chambers, her cameraman. Marion Ross, Tina Bostwick.
Nothing, she thought. Because you killed a man.
But she had never felt guilt over what she’d done. In all the times Brenda had relived the moment, not once did anything like doubt come to her. She hardly considered it a crime. It doesn’t matter, she thought, looking down at the small screen. You killed someone. And then you forced Charlie Schmidt to help cover it up.
She pressed with her thumb and deleted his number.
“See, like I can tell you’re into organic.”
Stuckey drew on the joint and held it for several seconds. “It’s a thing you can see.” He sucked more air and handed the joint to the girl.
She took a small hit “Wow—” and another. “How’s that work?”
“The eyes are real clear, like yours. The skin has this quality.”
It was hard working all day with old people. Either they kept wanting something, or wouldn’t shut up. Stuckey was sure the stress screwed up your electrolytes and biorhythms. You had to get away, be with people like yourself who were normal.
“Wow,” the girl said again. “That’s so cool. Like you can see from someone’s eyes and skin how they eat.”
“If you’re trained,” he said. “I don’t do auras, but I know there’s a difference. You can feel it right away. You see someone with really bad skin? Scarring and acne, a lot of blackheads? You’re always, I mean always looking at animal protein. Eat organic, and it doesn’t happen.”
“But you’re drinking,” she said. “Isn’t alcohol empty calories? Like, just carbs? And if you drink, doesn’t that, like, fuck up the good chemistry?”
As soon as the nurse arrived at four, Stuckey had left the Burlson condo and come to the beach. Usually he didn’t drink anything but micro-brewed beers made with natural ingredients and few preservatives. Bobo’s was more your no-neck type jock bar that catered to students. All they had was shit like Bud and Miller Lite, but girls came here to hook up.
“This is just Absolut and Evian with lime,” he said. “See, it’s all about metabolism. If you’re into an active lifestyle, it doesn’t matter.”
“Active is cool—”
Seated on the sand and listening to music coming from inside, the girl did her Limbo thing with her arms and shoulders, wiggling her ass. She was in a tube top and terry cloth shorts, cut off to show the bottom fold of her ass. Also to give you a peek at part of the tattoo on her inner thigh. Stuckey thought it was a dragon’s tail, the actual dragon part somewhere near her goodies, breathing fire or some shit. Shelley, her name was. The thing with her arms was like her signature move, to tell you she was hot. Plus, she was now feeling the Jamaican gold.
Girls liked Bobo’s. It was on Barefoot Beach north of Naples, what the locals called a Chickee bar, with a thatched roof open on three sides. They were sitting on sand still warm to the touch, looking out at the Gulf. Boats offshore rose and sank as music thudded behind them.
A nice vibe, Stuckey thought. Not the best but good enough for Florida. The best vibe was in a hot spring, like the ones in Oregon. With good dope and others like yourself. You just met them and read the signs with others who were into nature. Into respecting your body and expanding ideas by being with people who had seen and traveled a lot like yourself. People who could pass on and share their wisdom.
Bobo’s had these little plastic tables with a screw on the base you turned into the sand, like a drill. He had bought Shelley tequila and Corona beer, the shitty Mexican lager no one who knew anything ever touched. She liked shoving the piece of lime into the bottle, thinking it was cool. Two shots of Cuervo Silver inside, three here, the glasses lined up on the screw table, the girl still moving her butt to the music.
Old Shelley’s going to do you pretty soon, he thought, watching her move. Going to lend you a hand in the All Hands van. But taking her back to Rivera’s was out, you couldn’t be sure with him. The shit with the watch proved it. Crazy fucking Mexican making you eat jewelry, Stuckey thought. No, if he took her to Immokalee, Rivera would come over and want to know how it had gone at Burlson’s.
What’s to tell, he thought now, looking at the girl’s legs stretched out in front of her, feet wagging. Silent at first, the old woman had started talking about fucking Cleveland, right when he was trying to watch his shows. Burlson had lots of cable subscription channels, including the one with 24/7 sci fi. It was frustrating to keep an eye on her, using the mute button to hear, having to go out every few minutes to search the huge penthouse for her. That’s why he’d burned his brown rice. Always she was looking for something, opening drawers and cabinets, roaming in different rooms. Hey Grandma, give me a clue, Stuckey kept saying. What do you need? How’s about some more squeezy cheesy? He had forgotten to put the restraining canvas Posey in his bag, but he would remember next time. In a place as big as Burlson’s, you could strap them in the Posey for an hour or two, take them to the toilet and back. Everything ran more smoothly that way. When you heard the elevator, you took off the Posey and everything was cool.
He reached around the screw table to rub Shelley’s back. She eased against his hand, head back, eyes closed. “A little Shiatsu,” he said.
“Nice. Don’t stop.”
He had taken Miller’s Bran before leaving in the morning, mixing it with Rice Dream milk. The idea was to take in more fiber and pass the watch quickly. The old lady had been a lot of trouble, and it had bound him up. But now, stroking the girl’s back and seeing for sure in the setting sun that the tattoo on her inner thigh was a dragon, he felt the Miller’s Bran kick in.
“Back in a flash,” he said, standing.
“Going to drain the dragon?” Shelley got her beer and winked at him.
“Dragon’s in heat,” he said. “Hold that thought.”
He didn’t have time to put on his sandals, and now kicked through the sand. Bran would do that, but he remembered how much Rivera had said the watch was worth.
Inside, the no-necks were watching ESPN, cheering at something. When he stepped up onto the cement floor, Stuckey realized that if he shit in the can here, he would be fishing around in the bowl, looking for the watch. No-necks would come in and see.
Fuck. He moved quickly around the crowded circular bar and out the beaded-curtain entrance. On the left ran a strip mall. People on his right were dicking around with a boat on a trailer. No shrubbery or alley—fuck. The only thing with bran, when it cut in you had very little time. The watch was probably too far up to pass this soon. He turned to go back in, but wasn’t sure. How could you tell about something like that, where a fucking piece of jewelry would be?
Squeezing his sphincter, Stuckey waddled toward the All Hands on Deck van and got out his keys. He reached the back, knowing for certain that in seconds peristalsis would take over. He unlocked the back deck, crawled in and faced forward as it started, fumbling with the button on his white duck pants. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He shoved them down with his briefs, almost in time but not quite, seeing the first of the stool trailing away from the pants, visible in harsh light coming from the open tailgate. Stuckey, now evacuating freely, kicked the soiled pants away and squatted under the van’s low ceiling. He felt it coming fast, bunching up, so much of it that he had to raise up for clearance, squatting with his head bent at an angle against the roof as someone singing passed outside the open tailgate. The singing stopped. The no-neck stepped back.
“You have to be kidding.”
“Don’t you have any fucking thing better to do?” Stuckey asked. Helpless, he stared back at the no-neck, the process unstoppable.
“Better than you, dude.”
Cap on backward, the no-neck drew back and shook his head. He made a face before walking away. It was almost over. Stuckey squeezed out the last, grabbed the pants and gingerly shook them to free the piece of turd. But still it clung and he shook harder. Now it dropped off and he duck-walked his way b
ackward, seeing the coiled mound like a novelty item. The stool smelled bad but not like a meat eater’s. For this, Stuckey felt a small vindication. You could have an accident like this, but your shit as a vegetarian would never have that really lethal stench that came from animal protein.
He reached forward and slammed the tailgate as people and voices now came from the bar’s entry. Stuckey quickly folded the pants with the smear inside. The laughing was just outside now. Hands slapped the van as he climbed over the back seats. “Where you from, Uganda?” More laughter and pounding. “Do it for mommy, please—” Laughter exploded and the van was rocking. He tossed the folded pants on the driver’s seat and dropped down, fumbling with the keys. He found the ignition, the van rocking harder as the engine caught. He put it in Drive and jerked from the lot, accelerating, looking in the rearview and smelling it again, not so bad, vaguely remembering some movie about rednecks or bikers, where they followed and terrorized harmless people. He kept checking the rearview. No headlights swung onto Bonita Beach Road behind him.
Stuckey felt better. Drive like an old lady, he thought, and slowed down. Be cool. His tee shirt made him look okay to other drivers, but if he got stopped, it would be like the time in Oregon, when he was driving nude. Who did it hurt, anyway? But fucking truckers, they couldn’t leave it alone. They had tried to cut him off, looking down from the cabs, seeing he was naked and blasting their air horns. Then they had radioed state troopers who had taken him in to Eugene for no reason.
For exercising my rights as a driver, Stuckey thought now, hands on the wheel. He looked again in the rearview and wondered now about the watch.
She needed distraction, and now was not the time to work. She had brought a GPS, and she decided to locate Wynn’s Market on 41.
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