Stuckey went back inside and closed the door. He circled the room and drew closed the Venetian blinds. When done, he went to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. Rivera had sat right here to use the knife on the watchband. But it turned out good, Stuckey thought. Eating the watch is why he trusted you.
He worked off the twist tie and turned over the baggie. Along with Ivy’s watch and wedding ring, a two-carat diamond engagement and a three-carat cocktail ring fell out, then an emerald the size of an olive on a pendant, then a ruby-and-diamond tennis bracelet.
Yes, a very good thing to eat the watch. That was why Rivera had brought him to Burlson’s on Saturday, because of trust. Stuckey saw himself in the TV room, freeze-framing the movie as the old woman wandered out. A minute later, he had gotten up to see where she was. This time, he had found her opening drawers in a bedroom. When she shuffled off, Stuckey had gone to look. It was one of those secretary desks with secret drawers. You couldn’t know how the drawers worked unless someone showed you.
That’s what she did, Stuckey thought, holding the emerald up to the light. She showed you.
He gathered up the jewelry, put it back in the baggie and stood. In the morning, or whenever they were finally done asking questions, Colon would fire him. Why you don’t go somewhere else? he’d say. I will, Stuckey thought. I’ll go where people understand all-organic.
He folded the baggie and stepped to the counter. Tupperware containers and sealed glass jars of legumes rested there, waiting to be put back in the cabinets. Stuckey looked them over, chose the pinto beans, and took off the lid.
“James, what’s this? My favorite young man wakes me up in the middle of my beauty rest. What’s going on?”
“Sorry, Mister K.”
“Are you in the truck? Never mind the hour, I’m glad you called. I have a new address for you. This is the company I got my empire tables from. I talked to them already, they’ll offer you a better deal.”
“I’m not in the truck, Mister K.”
The old man knew everything. Heard everything. What was he hearing in the young man’s voice? Why wasn’t his protégé in the truck with goods for resale? Rivera could see Kleinman sitting up in bed, already alert as he snapped on the nightstand light and reached for his glasses.
“You have trouble,” Kleinman said. “You had to leave Naples.”
“You can read minds, sir.”
“I hear it in your voice, Jim. I hear serious trouble, but I don’t read minds. Ray called me an hour ago, that’s how I know. Does it have to do with what I think? You know we can’t talk about it.”
“I know, but I thought you might be able to help. I’m ten miles outside Miami. I’m driving a nice Jaguar.”
“Sedan or sports car?”
“Sports car.”
“That’s good, they’re easier to sell. You want to sell it, is that right?”
“As I say, you’re a mind reader.”
“What color?”
“Sir?”
“This Jaguar, what color is it?”
“Beige. With red leather seats.”
“That’s also good, my friend. Beige is easy to paint over.”
“When I called last week, you said we could go out on the boat for privacy. I need your advice.”
“Of course I remember. And we’ll go, James. You’ll get all the advice you need. I’m not a fair-weather friend. But in a few days is better for us both, not tonight. Don’t drive up to Boca Raton tonight. Do you hear this, Jimmy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, I’m thinking you need a place to stay. Here’s what we’ll do—”
Rivera held the phone close as Kleinman laid out the plan. At this hour, Alligator Alley had been almost deserted. Meeting Larson, then the foggy, trouble-free trip across the state—it all fit. Ray had called the old man, as you did with family in an emergency. Now, Arnold Kleinman was describing how someone would meet Rivera on the third level of the Miami airport’s west parking structure. James would be able to take the Jag to a safe location. Once there, he could spend the night in peace and safety. Tomorrow, the two of them would talk again to work out details. James would be in Boca Raton by the end of the week.
“All systems go, Mister K,” Rivera said.
“Exactly, Jim. A month or two from now, this never happened. Okay, so maybe off the books in Naples is over, it’s blood under the bridge. You know that one?”
“Over and done with,” Rivera said. “Finished. That was then, this is now. Time to turn the page and move on.”
“See that? Do you hear yourself? How much you know, and you’re not even thirty? Amazing. Okay, now, it’s clear what to do. So please repeat it to me for safety’s sake.”
Rivera repeated everything. When he finished, Kleinman whistled. “Perfect,” he said. “Every detail. A sponge you are, everything straight in your head the first time. It makes me sad.”
“Why sad, sir?”
“About this trouble you have that means you need to stop doing business in Naples.” Kleinman cleared his throat. “But, you know, James, all through history they took us Jews to the cleaners. They took our money, our houses, they took incredible art collections—”
After dropping Larson at the airport, Rivera had driven back to the Mazda. The 5 picture was in the trunk. The boot, they called it in England.
“—and I’m talking real art,” Kleinman said. “Your Picassos, your Renoirs. Not even mentioning the millions of lives they took. But see, they can’t take what you know. All the jokes about Jewish doctors and lawyers? It’s no joke, young man. You give young people knowledge, it’s portable. It goes with them anywhere.”
Kleinman sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s late. You go to that parking structure and wait. It won’t take long. And James?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right now, while you’re driving, throw away the phone. Don’t worry, the party meeting you will have a new one.”
“Goodbye, sir. Thank you.”
He had wanted to call his cousin one more time. But Rivera buzzed down the window and tossed the phone.
Green signs overhead gave directions to airport parking. He reached the Baxter Avenue exit, swung right and descended the ramp. There was no way to know when or how he would be able to contact his cousin. But Ray would be all right. There were receipts, good records. Money had been set aside, taxes paid. Whatever might happen, they could not charge Ray. We always paid our bills, Rivera thought. We never missed a payroll.
As he followed traffic, he saw the highway’s grassy embankment needed mowing. In this climate it never stopped growing. Without Mexican labor to trim the hedges, build the houses and care for the golf courses, in a month’s time you would have to turn out the lights here or in Naples. He could go anywhere because he knew what he needed in order to win. In Arizona, Texas, New Mexico. He would first do something simple, like landscaping. Just for a while. He had learned how to gain the confidence of old people, and their numbers were growing. The baby boomers, people born after World War Two. Arizona, Nevada. Nearing old age, they were chasing the sun.
He would follow them. And legal status would come. He wasn’t yet thirty; what had happened was a speed bump. A little glitch. Education, education. Jews know this better than anyone, because of our history. From bible times on, we learned they can’t take that from us.
They. It’s true for us, too, Rivera thought. He followed the arrows, cruising right. Now left. The parking structure loomed ahead. He signaled and slid into the right lane. Now he slowed and stopped in the line waiting for the security check. When the trunk-search was underway in front of him, he got out Teddy Larson’s registration and his own forged license. He watched the officer and felt no fear. Everything was working as though rehearsed, and he thought again of Kleinman in his big office. He had little toys on his huge desk, ball bearings on strings. You raised and dropped the first. It swung down and popped the next bearing, sending energy down the line. And a clear plas
tic box, with bearings that dropped through a hole and set in motion levers and pendants.
The car ahead moved to the ticket machine. As the gate rose, Rivera pulled forward and used the trunk release. He lowered the window and handed out his license and registration. “The car’s not mine,” he said. “Mr. Larson asked me to pick up his wife. If you need it, here’s her number—”
He handed it out as the trunk was slammed shut. The guard leaned to glance inside, handed back his fake ID, and waved him forward.
He got his ticket from the machine, and the gate rose. The Jaguar’s engine now growled in confinement as he took the corkscrew ramp. You accepted what came, you adapted. But no matter how rich he became, Rivera would not buy a car like this one. Or flashy jewelry. He would keep sending money to his brother and sister in Mexico. He would get them here. It would just take more time, more patience.
He rose, seeing pylons blocking the entrance at the second level. At the third level he swung off. A random scattering of cars occupied the low-ceilinged expanse of raw concrete. Rivera drove slowly toward the elevators and came to a stop opposite the stainless steel doors. He turned off the ignition. Trash had overflowed the barrels between the elevators and stairwell. Seeing the heaps of fast-food containers and soda cans made him remember an expression. Trailer trash. He had forgotten to write it down. “Trailer trash” meant the same as “white trash.”
A car started somewhere as Rivera reached over and popped open the glove box. He checked it for anything with Larson’s name. Finding nothing, he snapped it closed and undid his seatbelt.
A car jolted to a stop in front of the elevators. Two men got out, both black, one wearing a cap, the other in corn rows. Both came quickly, shag-walking toward him, both there now, one on either side of the car. The one in the cap raised a sawed-off shotgun and tapped the windshield.
He didn’t think they would shoot, but Rivera did not want to risk the car. He opened the door.
“That’s right, motherfucker, out.”
He swung out and stood, legs cramped after his drive. “This isn’t mine,” he said.
“You right about that, Pancho. He say this ain’t his.”
“Be one thing he know.” The one with corn rows opened the passenger door.
“It belongs to Ted Larson,” Rivera said. “A lawyer.”
The one in the cap had been looking past Rivera to his partner. Now he straightened with the shotgun. “Obiwon, you hear this shit?”
“I hear.” The passenger door slammed shut. “He got contacts coming out his ass.”
“Fucker say this not his.”
“He sound white.”
“Sound like he on the news.”
“Look at this—” The one with the cap reached out with the shotgun and lightly tapped Rivera on the chest.
The other came around the front. He bent in front of Rivera and made a show of looking at his shirt. “He a heavy dude,” he said, and Rivera now saw the gun hanging from his hand. It was small, with a clip and a tubular muzzle. “Fucker’s white,” he said, straightening. “Look at the shoes he got on him. You ever seen a spic look like this?”
“Give him the keys and pop the trunk, motherfucker.”
Rivera handed over the keys. Why were they taking their time? Soon, the elevator would open. He turned and leaned inside, hit the release. As the trunk rose, he understood. They didn’t care, because they were high. Out of control. Nothing he said or did would matter. He ducked back out.
“Was a brother looked like this owned that Beemer last month.”
The one with cornrows laughed. “He still on the curb trying to flag his ass a cab.” The other man laughed. “Still be waiting on a taxi, got his special shoes for his boat—”
“Got his little horse on the shirt.”
“Yeah, he still out there—”
They broke up, stumbling, leaning against each other, unable to stop. This is it, Rivera thought. They might just take the car and leave, but he decided they wouldn’t. They were laughing but hated him, he was sure. Seeing they were still off balance, eyes closed and laughing, Rivera ran.
Dodging right, he aimed for the stairs. In the low-ceilinged chamber, the sound of the shotgun hit him like a second blow. He went sprawling.
“Fuck, you not paying ’tention, look what you done.”
“Fucker trying to run.”
“Where he going? Look at this fender. You fucking up a cherry Jag.”
“Lemme see. Fuck, paint the fucker, nobody going to notice. We driving it out the front or back?”
“The back. He dead?”
The twelve-gauge shell had struck him in the back. Face down on the concrete, Rivera heard footsteps. He felt numb, unable to move. He was not sorry to lose the Jag, but he wanted to know why the one in the cap had called it cherry. It was tan, not red.
“No, he ain’t.”
It was what Mrs. F called an idiom. Rivera felt his wallet being pulled from his khakis. Hands now turned him over and fumbled in his front pockets.
“Motherfucker. We got us a payday.” There was more talk, words shouted, laughter. Now his left hand was grasped, and he was being dragged. With the movement, all at once Rivera felt terrible pain. Dizzy and moaning, he was sure he would vomit.
Two Tone dropped the hand. He raised the Uzi and emptied the clip at the spic’s chest.
The noise sank away. Not so bad when you was high. “He going to need a new shirt,” Two Tone called. He reached over and pulled down one, then the second trash barrel. Garbage spilled over the body, and he jumped back. Drinks and ketchup had splashed out on his warm-up suit. Fuck.
“He got more shit in his bag,” Obiwon called. “Got this little art statue wrapped up. Socks in here feel like cashmere. Some picture shit with a 5 on it.” Dumping trash, thought Two Tone. What the fuck you doing? Happened ’cause you high. He turned as Obiwon spun off in the Jag and cut sharply. Tires screeched and echoed as the car passed down the corkscrew ramp.
Crazy fucker, he thought. Two Tone walked to his Town Car and got in. He lay the still-warm Uzi on the seat, then the wallet. He slammed the door and started forward. But at the ramp, Two Tone braked to a stop. He opened the small notebook, taken from the man’s front pocket with the wad of bills. Stoned but curious, he leafed the pages. Stitch in time, no holds barred, front-loaded, baked into the mix.
He tossed the book on the seat and dipped down the incline.
Chilly and tired, Brenda turned in at the Donegal entrance. As she neared the gatehouse, the guard looked up and waved. The barrier rose. When she passed, he waved again, ghostly behind tinted glass.
Ahead, spotlights under trees had been aimed up into the foliage. It made her think of Halloween as a child, holding a flashlight under her chin to be scary. Here and now, the lights looked frozen to her. Silent and static.
She turned right and lowered her window. So quiet. She breathed in, smelling fresh cut grass. No sounds came to her, only the soft hiss of the car’s tires. But emerging into the light of a street lamp, now came a couple with a dog. They were wearing white sweaters and had white hair. The dog was trotting between them, a schnauzer.
Retirement, Brenda thought. You threw away the clock and walked when you felt like it. The couple watched her pass but didn’t wave. She wondered which dogs fared best here. She supposed long-haired breeds would be miserable, out of their element. Like red-headed journalists from Michigan, she thought.
She turned at her street and saw Charlie’s car. It was parked in front of the villa, not on the drive. Would parking that way lead to a note or fine? Maybe he had parked that way to let her know he was not really here, that he was ready for a quick exit after doing the right thing, and making sure she was safe.
She pulled up the drive. If Charlie were asleep, the garage door might wake him. The sound knocked around in the villa’s vaulted ceiling, and she wanted him to sleep. She wanted to believe the half-life or schedule of decay true of isotopes and nuclear waste was also true f
or what stood between them. A buffer, she thought. We need a little time to pass, to gain distance. And then we need to talk.
She turned off the engine and got out. The lights were off in the adjoining villa. Rayette had said she worked a four-day week. She had looked after things here, with a busy day tomorrow. Looked after your gentleman friend, Brenda thought.
She moved to the entrance, tried the door. It was open. She shoved in, eased it closed. All was dark. Where was he sleeping? She thought to look in the front guest room, but couldn’t. If Charlie was there, that would be awful. It would mean he had chosen the farthest point in the house to catch a few winks before leaving in the morning. On the couch in the den or the living room? She thought either choice would mean something less final. A couch would be like neutral territory, the jury still out. If he were in the master bedroom—no, Brenda thought. That’s out.
She moved into the house, took a breath, and looked in the den. Even in the dark, it was familiar to her now, and Charlie wasn’t there. She reached the living room and looked to the couch. He wasn’t there, either. Hope rose. No, Brenda told herself. He’s just out taking a walk. She wanted time for Charlie Schmidt to believe in her again. To at least consider trusting her. It couldn’t be the same right away, she knew that. But you don’t want it the same, Brenda thought. You don’t want it the same, ever again.
All at once she felt unworthy. Felt sordid and selfish. She now knew that Patrick Sweeney was dead, but he had already slipped so far from her thoughts that, with disgust for herself, she feared there might be some mistake. She feared Sweeney would come back.
Enough. Peeling off her shoes, she rounded the living room chairs and entered the bedroom. Total blackness. It was so complete she couldn’t see the bed. “Charlie?”
She listened for breathing, all at once frightened for him. He had no health problems she knew of. But what did she know? She edged forward until her knee touched the bed. “Charlie?” She climbed on, spreading her hands over the bedspread. She sat back on her knees, sure now he was in the front of the house, the guest bedroom. It had twin beds, furniture from another era, and the idea was awful to her. Charlie Schmidt sleeping alone in a twin bed.
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