“Rent!” Richie said in mock horror. Then he held up his hand. “Yeah, I know, I’m splitting the rent with you. But you should’a seen the look on your face.”
Richie got off work at 3:30 and stopped by the trailer to pick up Steve’s keys. “Yeah, I’ll wait for you there,” Richie said. “I won’t do nothing until you get there.”
Steve worried for the rest of the afternoon, in between meetings and phone calls and quick trips out to the site, until he left at six o’clock. He didn’t realize how nervous he had been until he pulled up on Caloosahatchee Court and saw Dusty’s car parked there, and he breathed deeply.
Richie was dozing on the couch. The TV was tuned to ESPN, and there was a wrestling match on. Steve went into the bathroom, took a shower, and got dressed. When he was finished, he walked back out to the living room where Richie was awake.
“Pretty snazzy,” Richie said. “Of course, you’re just meeting her to give her the money.”
“Of course,” Steve said.
Richie laughed. “That’s the way you want to look at it, be my guest.” He leaned forward and picked up the keys to Dusty’s Cadillac from the coffee table. He tossed them to Steve. “But here, take the Caddy. It impresses the hell out of chicks.”
“Thanks.” Steve was just about to go out when he stopped and sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”
“Jeez, I forgot my sandwich.” Richie jumped up and ran into the kitchen. Steve was close behind him.
Richie had tried to make a grilled cheese sandwich in the toaster oven and had forgotten about it. When he popped the door open the sandwich slid out on the aluminum tray, black and smoky. “Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone, OK?” Steve asked. Even though Richie nodded, Steve had his doubts.
But he was going to dinner with a gorgeous girl with coal-black hair. A girl who made him feel something he had never felt before. It was a magical night. Anything could happen. Richie Fenstersheib could even turn out to be responsible.
25 – It’s Complicated
Cruising down Collins Avenue in the Cadillac, with the top down and the wind rushing through his hair, Steve forgot all about Richie. When he rang Dolores’s buzzer, she stuck her head out the window and said, “I’ll be right down.” She smiled and waved and Steve shivered in the light breeze.
Dolores wore a strapless white taffeta dress from the fifties with a red silk shawl over her shoulders. She had pulled her hair into a French braid, and the single gold chain she wore highlighted her elegant long neck.
Steve swallowed hard. Morty really had to be a jerk, to pass up this woman for Sheryl Fenstersheib. He held the door to the Cadillac open and Dolores stepped in and settled herself daintily. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Anywhere you want,” Steve said. “I’ve only been down here a few months and I don’t really know many restaurants. It seems like the only times I go out are with my family.”
Dolores made a face, but recovered quickly. “I guess they’re kind of weird,” Steve said. “But they’re family.”
Dolores nodded. “You should see mine.” She shook her right hand. “All of them loco.”
“Well, then, that’s something we have in common.” Steve put the car in gear and eased out onto Collins Avenue. “So name a place. I know there are lots of restaurants on Ocean Drive.”
Dolores shook her head. “No, I know someplace better,” she said. “It’s not fancy, but it’s on the beach. On Key Biscayne, if that’s OK.”
“Sure.” She directed him back to the mainland and then over the long causeway, with the skyline of downtown Miami and Brickell Avenue stretched out alongside it. Steve kept turning his head to look as he drove, then swiveling back to stare guiltily ahead of them. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
“I know.” Dolores leaned back in her seat. “I love to come out here after dark. Sometimes I just pull off the highway and watch all the buildings, everything lit up at night like jewelry. There’s so much out there. I just want to gather it all up in my arms and hold it forever.”
“The whole world?” Steve asked, smiling.
Dolores nodded. “Absolutely.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “What’s the world for but to want it?”
They drove down a long, tree-lined drive to the restaurant, which was attached to a motel. Inside, everything was driftwood and blue vinyl, but outside there were wooden tables with folded beach umbrellas set into their middles. They could look up above them and see the stars, and just beyond the edge of their vision the surf rolled against the sandy beach.
“I love this place,” Steve said.
“I thought you might,” Dolores said. “Ocean Drive is all right when you want to cruise, when you want to see who’s out and how everybody’s dressed. But this is so much nicer when you just want to be with someone, just talk.”
“So let’s talk.” Steve sat back and put his feet up. “You know, I don’t even know your last name.”
Dolores looked shy. “Well, I kind of have two,” she said. “There’s my real name, and the one that I use.”
The waiter came over then and took their orders. When he left Steve said, “Why don’t you just use your real name?”
Dolores frowned. “Wait til you hear it.” She leaned forward. “You see, I’m Cuban, but I don’t have a Cuban name. So I use the name Bernay, because that sounds a little better. That’s the name Morty knows me by.”
“You never told him your real name?”
Dolores shook her head. “But will you tell me?”
“It’s Birnbaum. Dolores Birnbaum. Do you believe it?”
“But that’s a Jewish name.” Steve sat up straight. A plane flew by, high overhead, on its way to Miami International. Tiny red and white lights winked against the velvety black sky.
“I’m a Juban,” Dolores said. “A Cuban Jew. My grandparents on both sides were Polish Jews who couldn’t get into the United States, so they ended up in Havana. My parents were born there, and so was I.” She moved a little on her bench, and the taffeta dress rustled softly. “We left Havana in 1990, and went to Puerto Rico for a while. We moved to Miami in time for me to go to high school, and I’ve been here ever since.”
Their dinners arrived. While they ate Steve told Dolores about his parents, about growing up in Pennsylvania, about college and business school and working for Uncle Max. Dolores told Steve about her family, who were just as crazy as the Blatnicks, and about growing up in Miami, caught between two worlds, the Cuban and the Jewish. “It’s like you never really fit in anywhere,” she said. “Most Jews are really American now, and most Cubans are Catholic. There aren’t many Jubans around.”
Dolores had a younger sister, born in Puerto Rico and raised in Miami. “We’re so different. She’s like you, American. Me, I’m still Cuban, even though I left when I was small.” She picked up the ends of her shawl. “Even these clothes,” she said. “My sister wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that didn’t say Benetton or Calvin Klein. I think old clothes are the best.”
After dinner they walked down to the water’s edge. Dolores took off her black high-heeled sandals and Steve took off his shoes and socks. He rolled up his pant legs and they walked barefoot in the wet sand, holding hands and talking. They rounded a curve and saw the skyline of the city before them. Big band music filtered out of a window at the motel, and the air smelled crisply of salt and seaweed.
They sat on an old log and kept talking. When Dolores yawned, Steve looked at his watch. “Wow, it’s after midnight. I hope Richie hasn’t wrecked my apartment.”
Dolores took Steve’s hand and started to run up the beach, back to the restaurant. They stumbled over sand and shells and pieces of coral rock, holding hands and laughing. They drove back to South Beach with the top down and Dolores’ hair flying around her face in the breeze. By the time they pulled up at her building, her hair had completely fallen out of the French braid and hung in loose black ringlets around her face and neck.
“I
had a really nice time tonight,” Dolores said, turning to look at Steve. “Thank you for dinner.”
“It was my pleasure.” Steve turned a little and felt the heavy envelope in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and handed it to Dolores. “This is for you,” he said. “The Blatnicks just wanted to be sure you wouldn’t make a fuss about losing Morty.”
Dolores held up her hand. “I’m not apologizing for what I did,” she said. “Morty hurt me and I wanted to get back at him. But now I see that I acted badly and I’m sorry.” She opened the door of the Cadillac and got out.
Steve scooted across the seat after her. “No, you have to take it. “I won it, playing blackjack. I know I was only lucky because I was doing it for you.”
Dolores hesitated. “So it’s not their money?”
Steve shook his head. “Not a penny.” He held the envelope out. Finally Dolores took it.
“Thank you,” she said. She turned and started walking.
“Wait! Can I call you? I’d like to see you again.”
Dolores stopped and turned around. “I can’t.” She held up the envelope. “The money, and you, and Morty. It’s just too complicated. I can’t.” She turned and ran the rest of the way into the building.
Steve sat in the Cadillac until he saw the light go on in her apartment. She came to the window and pulled down the shades. Then he started the car and drove back to Mangrove Manor.
It was after one o’clock by the time he got home, and Richie was already asleep. He got into bed, but couldn’t drop off. It wasn’t fair, that he should find someone like Dolores and then have his family get in the way. All night long he sat awake, churning the bedclothes, replaying the evening and then Dolores’ final words.
In the morning he was exhausted. Richie left the kitchen a mess and disappeared in the Cadillac. Steve was slow and lethargic and didn’t pull up to the site until almost eight thirty.
When he turned in the driveway, he stopped short. Ten men and women were blocking his path, carrying picket signs. “Free the Pink-Bellied Lizard,” one sign read. The others were all similar. Several of the protesters wore Florida Club T-shirts.
Harold stood at the far end of the line, wearing plaid pants and one of his crested polo shirts, holding a small sign that read, “We Love Lizards.” Silently the group split in two to allow Steve to pass. He did not look at his father or wave.
The first thing Steve did when he got into his office was call his mother. “What’s he trying to do, get me fired?” he said as soon as she picked up the receiver. “Do you know where my father is right now?”
“I know, I know,” Rita said. “He tried to call you all last night, but you were out. I told him you had a date.”
“But why, mother?” Steve asked. “We’re redesigning the drainage and setting aside a little preserve for the lizards. These things take time.”
“You’ll have to talk to your father,” Rita said.
“We’ll both talk to him. Are you coming over this morning?”
There was silence on Rita’s end. Finally she said, “I’ve had to give up my clients, Steven. I couldn’t see myself going out there, with your father standing at the front door.”
“Mother,” Steve said. “What’s Terry going to say? You’re just leaving these people in the lurch?”
“I’ve finished all the design work,” she said. “My clients will just have to get someone else to monitor the construction. I’m sure Terry will understand.”
“Well, I’m not,” Steve said. “How do you think this is going to look for me, when Uncle Max finds out my father is on the picket line and my mother has dumped all her clients?”
“This isn’t about you, Steven,” Rita said. “This is something your father believes in very strongly, and I have to take his side. You do that kind of thing when you’re married.”
“And I suppose he wants me to quit my job,” Steve said. “I mean, if he wanted you to quit yours.”
“It was my decision,” Rita said. “No one is going to pressure you do anything you don’t want to. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised your father I’d bring him a Thermos of iced tea. It gets very hot out there in the sun.”
“This conversation is not over. We’re talking about this a whole lot more.”
“Come for dinner tonight,” Rita said. “We’ll all talk then.”
Steve hung up and sat back in his chair. It seemed like in the space of twenty-four hours everything had fallen apart. His father was outside making trouble, his mother had given up, and Dolores didn’t want to see him again.
Well, there was nothing he could do about his mother or his father. But maybe he could change Dolores’ mind. He picked up the phone and dialed her number, but there was no answer.
Junior appeared in his doorway. “We’re meeting in the conference room.”
Steve followed him. The rest of the team was already filing through the halls, heading toward the conference room, which had a large picture window overlooking the entrance to the site.
Uncle Max stood next to the window. “We have a serious problem,” he said. “This Florida Club thing is turning into a public relations nightmare.”
“The contractors are nervous,” Junior said. “Nobody’s been stopped yet, or hassled, but you never know. We could see some real work slowdowns. Some contractors may even pull off.”
“It certainly won’t do anything to help our leasing,” Maxine said. She was smoking a long thin cigar she had bummed from Celeste. She stubbed it out in an ashtray. “We’re already going to have to push up the base rent to cover the cost overruns on the new drainage plans, and I can see we’ll get some resistance from the market.” Miranda and Brad nodded.
“I’ve already had one of my designers quit over this,” Terry said. Steve felt the hair on his neck rise.
“Any suggestions?” Uncle Max asked.
“Can’t we negotiate with them?” Celeste asked. “Invite them all in for a meeting. I could make curried goat.”
Uncle Max shook his head. “Nix on the goat. We’ve already tried negotiating. They say they’re tired of talking.”
“How about a court order?” Steve asked. “This is private property.”
“Good idea.” Uncle Max held up his recorder. “Court order?” he said into it. “Any more?”
“Maybe we could get somebody from one of the papers to come out and write a story,” Brad suggested. “We’d have to be sure to get someone who’s on our side, but we could start to swing public opinion towards us.”
Uncle Max nodded and made the note on his recorder. “All right,” he said. “I want everyone to get busy. Junior, you and Steve work the site. Talk to the contractors, the tenants, architects, workmen. See how they feel. Maxine, you, Brad and Miranda get on the phones. Do the same thing. Let’s do our own little Gallup Poll and see where we stand.”
He walked past the window and stood on the opposite side of the room. “I want you all to know I’m considering putting this project on hold,” he said.
There was a noticeable intake of breath. “I’m going to evaluate our options. We can’t run a construction site with pickets at our front door, getting in the way of deliveries. And we can’t lease space with community sentiment against us.”
Steve was surprised at how well Uncle Max was able to focus in a crisis. There were no diversions about egret feathers or Theodore Roosevelt. For the first time, he understood how Thornton had been so successful.
Uncle Max walked to the door and opened it. “We’ll meet again when we have a better idea of what’s going on. You all know what you’re supposed to do.” He walked out.
“Son of a bitch,” Junior said.
“For once, Junior,” Maxine said, “You and I are in perfect agreement.”
The Florida Club maintained a picket line at the front gate all day, though there was a changing of the guard at noon. When Steve went out for lunch he noticed that Harold had gone. After work he drove to his parents’ condo.
�
��You know, I don’t understand you,” he said to his father. All three of them sat on the big sectional sofa, Steve on one side and Harold and Rita opposite him. “I thought you liked this project. I thought you wanted me to be a success. I thought you were proud of me.”
“We are proud of you, Steven,” Rita said. “I keep telling you this has nothing to do with you.” She rested her hand on Harold’s knee.
“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Steve said. “It has everything to do with me. We had a meeting today. Uncle Max is thinking of closing the project down until this is resolved.”
“Good,” Harold said. “He should.”
He leaned forward and took a sugar-free candy from a crystal dish. Rita gave him a stern look and said, “We’re having dinner soon.”
“And you know what that means for me,” Steve continued. “I’ll be out of a job. That’ll make you real proud of me, won’t it? You can brag to all your friends about your son, the MBA who can’t keep a job. Go tell that to old Mrs. Blatnick, Mom. See what she has to say.”
“Steven,” Rita started to say.
Steve interrupted. “And you know if we close down the site, Richie’s out of a job, too. Aunt Mimi’s going to be real happy you got her baby boy fired. And who’s going to pay the rent on my apartment, if Richie and I are both out of work? Who’s going to make my car payments? You think the Florida Club cares?”
“I had no idea you’d be so upset about this.” Harold crackled the candy wrapper in his hand.
Rita stood up. “Let’s go in and have dinner, and then we can talk some more.”
“I don’t have any appetite.” Steve got up and started for the door. “I think I’d better go.”
“Steven,” Rita said, but Steve had already crossed the living room and was on his way to the door.
“Steven, come back here,” Harold said.
“I have to pick up Richie at the hotel and drive him back to the apartment,” Steve said. “Bye.”
He was shaking all the way to the elevator. He remembered his old life in New York with a pang of nostalgia -- his job, his apartment, Cindy. The elevator dropped quickly toward the ground floor.
Invasion of the Blatnicks Page 23
