Godsend
Page 3
“Are you deaf?” she said. “He’s with us. He’s here to drive us to Naples.”
“Larson.” Rivera looked up from the money. “Your mother lived at Grey Oaks. You’re Mrs. Larson’s son.”
Teddy Larson frowned. “How do you know my mother?”
“What’ve we got here?” An officer in a tan uniform stepped between onlookers.
“He tried to steal that bag—” A woman pointed at Rivera.
“He did not, stay out of it.” The man next to her turned her away.
“It’s fine, officer,” Rivera said. “There’s no problem.”
The cop looked at Sweeney, then Larson. “Somebody hit somebody?”
“Just a misunderstanding,” Rivera said. “Mr. Larson was protecting Mr. Sweeney’s bag, that’s all.”
“Exactly—” Nodding, surprised, Larson looked at Rivera. The Lee County Sheriff’s deputy turned to Sweeney.
“You good with that, sir?”
“Fine, sure, we’re good here, officer. A little glitch, nothing more.”
When Sweeney smiled, the tension seemed to evaporate. Three or four people clapped. “OK, then—” The deputy looked to the crowd. “But everybody needs to remember something. Normal is the only thing that flies these days at Southwest Florida International.”
He turned away and stepped through the crowd. People were taking a last look before turning back to the carousel.
“That was well done.” Larson watched the cop and now faced Rivera. “I mean it,” he said. “I want you to take the money and the card. I like what I just saw. I want you to call me.”
“I worked for your mother,” Rivera said. “I went to the memorial service.”
Again dabbing his cheek, Larson blinked. “I couldn’t get down,” he said. “She would’ve understood, it was impossible to get away.” Slowly he put the handkerchief back in his hip pocket. “Wait now…” He snapped his fingers. “Help me out here. Hand-something, a service… How’s it go?”
“James Rivera, All Hands on Deck.”
“Rivera. God, yes, All Hands on Deck.” Larson put out his hand, and Rivera shook it. “Someone was supposed to touch base with you, I don’t know if they did. It was good knowing mother had someone down here, when we weren’t available. No, I mean it,” Larson said, still shaking. “Thanks for seeing to things down here.”
They stopped, and Larson put his hands on his hips. He looked at Brenda, Sweeney, and back to Rivera. “I had this bag stolen at Kennedy, this spi— this Hispanic guy took it and a whole jitney of luggage. Between the plane and baggage claim, you believe that? Nothing valuable, just some cuff links from my wife. It was the sentimental value. Maybe you can understand. It stuck with me.”
“Yes, I can,” Rivera said.
“Terrific.” With unconcealed irritation, Larson now glanced at Brenda, then looked at Pat Sweeney. He stuck out his hand. “No hard feelings, compadre?” Sweeney said something in Spanish. “What’s that?”
“It has to do with you and your mother.”
Larson held Sweeney’s gaze several seconds, then he turned away. Brenda watched him cross the lobby, and glass doors scissored open. A car was waiting, a Lexus.
Donegal Golf and Country Club
12:40 p.m.
Wrapped in one of his son’s oversized terry cloth robes, an old man sat in the sun.
He was next to the swimming pool, seated on the hard metal chair that never tipped over. The pool’s high screened cage formed an outdoor room that faced Donegal’s fourteenth fairway. Outside the cage, groomed clusters of crotons and sea grape bordered the fourteenth’s broad swath of Bermuda grass.
The man studied the plants. They were strange to him, not like landscaping back home in Michigan. Adjusting his big wraparound sunglasses, he wondered why it was he now lived in Naples year-round.
Clapping came from somewhere, but he saw no golfers. When they passed in golf carts and waved, he was supposed to wave back. You played too, the man thought. What happened? To focus his memory, he looked up through the screened cage at puffy clouds. They were high and white, the sky intensely blue. He heard more clapping and now realized it came from a TV inside. When he looked back down, the clouds above were perfectly mirrored in his son’s big swimming pool.
“Hey honey! Get out here and see this!”
With difficulty he pushed up, got his walker and started for the house. His wife painted and she should see the clouds. Concentrating on his feet, he reached the open door wall and looked in. A broad expanse of gray slate spread across the cool interior. He took off the sunglasses and put them in the robe’s pocket. Overhead, a mobile made of steel dolphins turned slowly under the vaulted ceiling.
“Hey honey!”
“Yo, Chester!” At the far end, a white-clad attendant was standing in the entrance hall. “What’s the haps?”
“Where’s my wife?”
He was eating something, holding the bowl to his mouth. “Not here,” the attendant said.
Ice cream. Those who took care of Chester Ivy ate lots of it. The ones who sat in the bathroom when he showered, who cooked his meals, and gave him medicine. This one watched TV all day.
“When’s she coming back?” he called. “I want to show her something she should paint.”
“It’ll have to keep. Want some frozen yogurt?”
“I want her. Now.”
Still eating, the attendant disappeared. They came and went. Served meals, took him to the clinic. At night it was nurses, during the day young men. This one had weird tattoos. His eyes were deep-set and seemed to look out on their own, hair cut very short. Just like the haircuts they gave you in basic training. At Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. 1943. With great clarity the old man now remembered standing in line with other recruits, waiting in his underwear.
“Here we go—”
He glanced up and saw the attendant again at the far end of the big room. A whirring and clicking came from the floor. It was heading toward him, bouncing over the big room’s stone slabs. “Comin’ at you, Chet. Heads up.”
The man’s thin face broke into a grin as a radio-controlled car whipped past. He gripped his walker and turned to watch the car shoot out onto the deck.
“Works for you every time,” the attendant called. “Chester loves his Lamborghini.”
The toy stopped abruptly. “Let me do it, give me the remote.”
“OK, but on one condition.”
Halted, the red car looked like an exotic bug sunning itself on the white deck. This attendant always made you agree to something before he turned over the controls. Eat, take medicine, sit on the can.
“Hear that?” A buzzer sounded as the model car shot forward and raced along the pool deck. “That’s the oven timer.” The car veered and shot down the pool’s border. It turned abruptly, sailed off and hit the water with a slap.
“No!” The old man shook his head in protest. Floating a moment, the toy began to sink. “It’ll be ruined! Please get it!”
“I will, if you behave. I want you to take your dip first, so I can make lunch.”
“Hi there!” A couple in a golf cart was passing outside the cage. “Beautiful day!”
“Good as it gets!” the attendant called. “Have a great one!”
When Chester Ivy looked back, the red car was gone. “It’ll be ruined,” he said again. “Please get it for me. Go get my wife, she can swim.”
“Sorry, Chet, she’s not around.”
The oven timer stopped as the attendant came from the entry. When he was close, Ivy grabbed for the remote. “N’uh uh—” The attendant held it away. “First the dip.” He extended his free arm. Defeated, the old man took it and began shuffling. With someone to hold to, he moved better. They stopped, and the attendant pointed at the pool. Like a huge photograph, the surface still mirrored the clouds.
“See it?”
“Clouds,” he said. “Of course I see.” Cheeky young bastard. But you had to keep quiet. He was powerful. If you misbeha
ved or talked back, this one kept things from you. Or left you in strange parts of the huge house.
“No, Chet—” The attendant pointed. “Your Lamborghini, right there.” Now he saw the red model car resting on the bottom. The attendant clucked his tongue. “Just like all these dead-at-the-top drivers down here. That could be someone’s nice new Mercedes or Beemer. Right off the end of Naples Pier. Listening to Golden Oldies all the way down.”
“Please get it.”
“After the dip and the lunch. Let’s go.”
The man again let himself be led. The attendant hefted the cast-aluminum chair and brought it with them. When they reached the shallow end, he positioned the chair before helping to take off the robe. Cinched around the old man’s shrunken waist were colorful red boxer trunks. He watched the robe draped on the chair—it was always the same routine. The attendant set the remote on the seat, then took Ivy under the arm. They moved carefully, side by side, down the pool’s shallow steps.
It was warm, the way he liked it. “Good?” He nodded, stroking the surface, standing waist-high in tepid water. “OK, now, I’ll be back in five. You get tired, just sit on the steps like we practiced. Got it?” He nodded again, the water warm, the clouds blurred by his movements.
The attendant stepped back up. He put his foot on the chair and wiped with the terry cloth robe. “Fixing us something real special today.” He changed legs. “Nice portabella mushrooms on whole grain bread. Sprouted peas on the salad, Annie’s dressing. Sound good?”
This one ate vegetables and made things only he liked. He lowered his foot and went inside. Still smoothing the surface, the old man remembered the toy car. The battery contacts would get wet and corrode—but now he stopped stroking the water. Before retirement, he had been a GM engineer. All at once Chester Ivy understood that if the car still took a signal, he might get it back himself.
Yes, of course. Run it along the bottom and get it out before it was damaged.
The idea made him smile. He turned where he stood, bent down, and braced himself on a tile step. Gingerly he knelt on the step just below the surface. It hurt, but he never took chances. Why had they left Michigan? He worked his way up the next shallow step. With a precision flowing from the pain in his bony knees, he remembered bad falls—in the big room with the mobile, in the bathroom, going to the car. When you fell here, it wasn’t the pain. It was knowing the next one might mean that whatever small freedom you still had would be over.
It hurt, but reaching the deck, he swung carefully and sat on the edge. The sense of risk lifted, his breathing slowed. After several seconds he twisted around and grabbed for the car’s remote control. It was at the back of the chair. Twisting half off the deck, he grabbed again, got it and dropped back. But the remote had snagged the robe.
As always, the cast-aluminum chair had been placed at the edge within easy reach. This time, the left front leg slipped off and down. The man still clutched the remote, and now the right leg slipped. The chair toppled forward, the man still clutching the control as the chair’s solid armrest struck his throat. He fell back into the pool, pushing, choking.
Stunned by the shock of water in his lungs, he stared up. The white robe lay flat on the surface above him. He thought of clouds. He had wanted his wife to see them but knew in the moment what he often chose to forget. That she was dead, and had been for years.
The three crossed the road to the airport’s parking structure.
“What a prick,” Brenda said.
Sweeney was walking next to her and nodded, but said nothing. He had his suitcoat over his shoulder, carrying his golf clubs. Rivera was leading the way with her bag. Brenda put her head back. The sky was overcast, but the sun’s heat felt warm on her face.
As they moved into the cool parking structure, she remembered: Charlie had come here several times with his wife. What kind of time had they had? He was full of memories she would never learn about. Good and bad times, gone but not forgotten.
The van’s remote side panel slid open. She and Sweeney got in as Rivera stowed the luggage. Soon they were underway in his spotless truck, and she glanced at Sweeney. He seemed lost in thought, hands on his knees.
Charlie Schmidt’s hands were like the rest of him. Solid and hardworking. She remembered admiring them last November as he painted her apartment.
The weight of regret settled again as she saw him in old khakis and a flannel shirt, using the roller. Like her father, Charlie was as even-tempered as she was not. And funny. For some reason, that had surprised her. Perhaps because, in her experience of men, funny and solid didn’t go together. And he was a good lover. Better than he knew, which made him better still.
“Teddy Larson—”
She saw Rivera looking at her in the rearview. They had reached an expressway.
“Tell us the story,” she said. “I’m interested.”
Rivera accelerated to enter southbound traffic. “Mrs. Larson married a Naples native,” he said. “From one of the original families. She told me the Larsons never liked her. After her husband died, they arranged with Teddy to sell her Port Royal house. That’s when they set her up at Grey Oaks.”
“Hell, Grey Oaks is high end,” Sweeney said. “Even for Naples. What are houses there going for now? Two or three million?”
“Or more,” Rivera said. “But the family didn’t want her in Port Royal.”
“Why?” Brenda asked. “What’s Port Royal?”
“Naples Old Money,” Sweeney said. “Families that made the town their personal preserve way back when. They’re making a fortune now on land deals, but I’m sure they don’t like all the new-money riffraff.”
She saw Rivera was again looking at her. He smiled. “I think you want to know what it’s like here for Hispanics,” he said. “Mrs. Krause said you’re a writer.”
It was exactly what she’d been thinking: did Naples Old Money see Hispanics as riffraff? “You’re right, I do,” she said.
“To be honest, I can’t tell you,” Rivera said. “I’m not political. Not into La Raza. The people for whom I work are from all over. Their families come from many countries. They treat me with respect, and I do the same. We speak the same language.”
For whom I work. Brenda smiled back. “I bet you speak it better than most of your customers,” she said. “The language.”
“English is a thing with me,” he said. “Some of the men working for me are Hispanic. I don’t let them speak Spanish on the job. It’s a rule.”
“You hire only men?”
“It’s the work we do. We aren’t licensed to do anything medical. We leave all that to the nurses. We handle the little things you don’t think about. That is, until getting old throws you a curve.”
“For example?”
“Ladders,” Sweeney told her.
“There you go.” Rivera nodded. “The houses here have vaulted ceilings, and a lot of high-hat recessed lights. Hard-to-reach furnace/AC filters. The Bennetts’ filter is actually located in the ceiling. Three or four times a month, someone calls at night because the smoke detector’s beeping. We do all the things you don’t think about until you break a hip. Or can’t see to work a screwdriver. This weekend, I’m taking down a Christmas tree.”
“All Hands on Deck will be lending a hand,” she said.
“Yes. I got the name from someone who owns a boat. I understand ‘hand’ is what’s called a synecdoche. Excuse me, I’ve got a call.”
A hum sounded, and a glass privacy screen glided up as Rivera raised his phone. Synecdoche, Brenda thought, and smiled. She turned to Sweeney. “How old do you think he is?” she asked. “Twenty-six? Eight? Welcome to the American Dream in the new millennium.” Sweeney just nodded. “You don’t agree?”
“Sure,” he said. “The American Dream. Alive and well.”
“What is it, Patrick?”
“Nothing at all. I just don’t know him.”
The answer surprised her. “You threw a punch for him,” she said.
“So I noticed.”
Sweeney turned away. He was facing the side window, his features reflected in the glass. He looked pensive. Even careworn.
As Brenda faced forward, Rivera was still talking. He, too, looked different now. Frowning as he listened. But he glanced up at the rearview and smiled at her—Talk to you later—and put the phone on the passenger seat.
Snafu, glitch, riffraff—
Remembering the new words helped Rivera to think. Dennis Stuckey had called to tell him that Chester Ivy had died in his son’s swimming pool.
By itself, Ivy’s death was no problem. The old man fell often and had a history of hospital stays. The problem was Hilda Frieslander. Later today or tomorrow morning, security at her building would check on her. There would be no link made to him, he was sure of that. But two dead All Hands on Deck clients in a single week—another curveball.
At least Dennis Stuckey had followed orders. By now, he had Ivy out of the pool and was calling the police. It was a first for Stuckey, a kind of test. And he had passed. He was not a good employee—lazy, unmotivated. But he had done exactly what he was told: if Chester Ivy shows signs of heart failure, or has an accident, do nothing to help before you call me.
Rivera exited the freeway and headed west on Pine Ridge Road. The frenzied pace of building in Naples had slowed, but you still couldn’t know what to expect. Wrecks, backed-up trucks loaded with pavers and roof tiles. Today, no delays. Smooth sailing. Fishing last week, Burlson had talked about taking over his father-in-law’s insurance business. Once we got the goddamn billing system updated, it was smooth sailing, he said. His wife had called the things she liked right as rain and top drawer.
The sayings gave Rivera confidence. But if things went wrong, you had to have an exit strategy. That was another of Arnold Kleinman’s Ten Commandments for business. Always have a plan B ready—they were shaking hands the day Rivera left Boca Raton. Save plenty of money, for yourself, and to protect Ray. If you have to leave, he can keep All Hands on Deck in business, until you can come back.