Godsend

by Barry Knister

  He checked his passengers in the rearview. The man was pointing, explaining something. Rivera looked back to the road. Brenda Contay, that was the woman’s name. Thirty-something, with high cheek bones, curly red hair, pale skin. She was simply but tastefully dressed in a white silk blouse and denim skirt, wearing good shoes, no jewelry. Rivera decided she had class.

  If asked to describe what he wanted most from America, that was it. Class. But for a dark-skinned, undocumented Chicano, having class was only possible if you mastered English. If you learned what clothes to wear and how to adjust your speech and manners to suit the moment. You needed to develop what Mrs. Frieslander called “a sense of occasion.” You had to overcome stereotypes, be confident in all situations.

  But mastering their speech and gestures, that was the key. If you did, and if you never overreacted to people like Dale Burlson, even an illegal could bring it off. By sounding like them, you convinced even bigoted whites they weren’t prejudiced. You did this by making it easy for them to think well of you. That way, you convinced them they were generous and open-minded. Even about spics. And without realizing it, they appreciated you for allowing them to think well of themselves.

  Ahead, royal palms flanked the entrance to the Donegal Country Club. He turned in and again felt confident. Smooth sailing, he thought. Everything will work out. Approaching the gatehouse, he slowed to a stop and buzzed down his window. The guard stepped out.

  “Hey, Jim. Do you know yet about Chester Ivy?”

  “I know.”

  The guard nodded and stepped back inside. The gate scissored up, and Rivera entered. Exactly, he thought. You’re on top of it. In the loop. As he turned right, he heard the woman and glanced up. She was pointing at landscaping, looking impressed. Donegal was a good club but not Grey Oaks. Not what Mrs. Burlson would have called top drawer.

  He followed Donegal Boulevard, counting the streets. At Paisley Court Rivera turned, and at the second duplex he pulled up the drive. He pressed the button. The van’s side panel rolled open, and the woman got out. As she was saying goodbye to Sweeney, Rivera swung down and moved to the back. He raised the tailgate and lifted out her bag, then her laptop.

  She stepped around, took the laptop and reached out her hand. “Thank you very much, James.” They shook. “Is this all taken care of, or do you bill me?”

  “All taken care of.”

  “I wish I could pick your brains about this place, but you’ve got work.”

  “Yes, I got a call. I have to run.”

  “Nothing serious?”

  “Things happen,” he said. “It goes with the territory.” He pointed with the bag for her to lead the way.

  “No, that’s fine—” She reached out, and he handed it to her.

  “There’s a set of club rules and instructions,” he said. “On the kitchen counter. If I didn’t have this problem, I’d drop off Mr. Sweeney and come back.”

  “Another time.” She smiled, turned away and began walking toward the entrance.

  “Miss Contay—” She stopped and looked back. “‘Pick your brains,’” he said. “I’ve never heard that before. I write down new words in a notebook.”

  She smiled. “It sounds gross, doesn’t it? It just means I’m sure you know all about Naples. If I could pick around in your brain, I’d know something, too. Believe it or not, it’s a kind of compliment.”

  Helping a writer might be good networking. “How would you like a tour?” he asked. “I’m tied up, but I have a friend. A realtor. Maybe she’s free tomorrow.”

  “That would be great, James. Real estate is what I came to write about.” The woman motioned with the laptop, then looked to the van. She gestured to Sweeney and moved toward the entrance.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  The Donegal course had been designed in the shape of a kidney. The center was occupied by big, expensive houses, with smaller homes, duplexes and blocks of condominiums situated on the course’s outer perimeter.

  Sweeney’s place was on Carnarvon Court, facing the fourteenth fairway. As Rivera drove, he glanced at his passenger. Alone now, gently rocked by the van’s motion, Sweeney was staring out without seeing. He didn’t look confused or blank like some All Hands on Deck clients. But he wasn’t really there. Mrs. Frieslander had looked that way just before throwing him a curve.

  Once they were parked, Sweeney got out and waited for his golf clubs. Rivera handed them over. “I’d feel better if you’d let me pay for the ride,” Sweeney said. “What happened at the airport had to do with my stuff.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Sweeney.”

  “You were asked to look after Miss Contay, not some guy with golf clubs.”

  “Not a problem, sir. You take care.”

  He stepped around the van, got in and watched until Sweeney was inside. Now he reached up to the sun visor and pulled out his notebook. He wrote down the new words. Rivera added pick your brains before refitting the notebook and backing out. He moved up the block before getting his phone off the seat.

  “Ivy residence.”

  “It’s James.”

  “Jesus, boss,” Stuckey said. “I’m sitting here, I’m thinking he’s hanging you out to dry. Where are you?”

  “I had people with me.”

  “I did everything you said. I called EMS, the cops. I called security at the gatehouse.”

  “But you didn’t touch anything.”

  “What? No, shit. I mean, I got him out. That was all right, wasn’t it? Just a minute.”

  Rivera heard voices, then Stuckey. That would be police, or one of the EMS team. He wasn’t worried. Being stopped when driving, yes, but not this. After two years, the locals knew him. When they saw Jim Rivera, they saw a small businessman, someone who made generous donations to police, fire and EMS fund drives.

  “They’re taking him pretty soon,” Stuckey said. “They told me I might have to come to the station later.”

  “Don’t worry, Dennis. Someone died and you were there, that’s all.”

  “Shit, I didn’t do anything wrong. I made lunch, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Milwaukee

  2:30 P.M.

  Charlie Schmidt owned six small-to medium-size apartment buildings in the city. He had maintenance people, but sometimes he still liked doing the work himself. Wednesday’s call from Brenda had made him need physical work. Later, Schmidt was also sure her call was the reason he beat someone up.

  It happened in his Elm Street building. He had promised a young couple to paint their place while they were in the Bahamas, and he had patched the plaster the day before. Now, on a gray, snowy afternoon he was draping drop cloths over furniture, across bookcases. The books reminded him of how little he had read. Not to mention that Brenda had written a book herself.

  He knelt, used a screwdriver to pry open a can of latex, and set the lid on old newspapers. As he lifted the can, Schmidt wondered whether opening the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel each day would make him think of her. As he leaned over and carefully poured paint into the roller pan, he felt the strain in his lower back. Fifteen, even ten years before, he’d have felt nothing. You’re getting up there, he thought.

  Balancing the paint tray, he went up the stepladder, loaded the roller, and began painting the ceiling. If it could just stay simple, he thought. Getaway weekends to New York and Chicago, staying at her place or his. Just that. Great sex and dinner, movies and baseball games.

  As he moved the roller back and forth, the wet paint made a sticky noise. On a dark winter day, the sound made him think of sex.

  He re-loaded the roller and continued painting. Ever since her call telling him it was over, a question kept coming back to him: why had his first reaction been relief? After two days, Schmidt thought he had the answer: because he would not have to go with her to Florida.

  Schmidt stopped rolling. He remembered three golfers, tourists like himself in need of a fourth player. That had been five, maybe six y
ears ago in Fort Myers, when he and his wife Lillie were on vacation. He saw one of the men readying his ball to tee off. But he straightened, and all three men now turned to watch. Schmidt was walking on the golf-cart path, holding hands with a redhead young enough to his daughter. Or theirs.

  That’s when Schmidt heard something.

  It was coming from the apartment next door, the sound of someone dropping things. He came down the ladder and gently set the pan on the floor. He had installed sensors outside. When activated by movement, they turned on brilliant collagen lights in the alley. Deadbeat tenants sometimes snuck back to get even, people he’d carried for two months before giving an eviction notice. They broke or stole plumbing fixtures, punched holes in the walls.

  The sensors were easy to disable. But the tenants next door were solid citizens, not deadbeats. Schmidt moved to the wall and laid his head on the cool plaster. It was just one person, he was sure. No voices, just drawers opening and slamming shut. Now came the lumpy bump of a sofa cushion being dropped on the floor.

  He should phone the cops. But something about Brenda’s call led him to go out in the hall. Schmidt listened before he inserted his pass key. He eased open the door. In the half-dark of the living room’s closed venetian blinds, the muffled sounds came from the open bedroom. Clothes hangers scraped. Schmidt crossed, and waited a moment. He felt around the corner for the light switch and snapped it on, realizing in the moment he had no weapon.

  But now, seeing the man, Schmidt didn’t think it mattered. Tall and caved-in looking, he backed out of the closet. He had on a dirty brown parka, his forehead sweaty with fright-wig hair. In his twenties, he had a junkie’s haunted face. He held a cheap flashlight, no potential club.

  “Cool your jets,” he said. “I’m family. They give me a key, they want I should take their dry-cleaning—”

  “Show me the key.”

  “What? No, man, they left it unlocked, they told me—”

  “Shut up.” Schmidt stepped forward. “You come with me and sit still while I call the police.”

  “Huh? Say what? No, man, no cops. I made a mistake, okay? Wrong crib, grandpa, my mistake, I’m outta here—”

  He came forward, not meeting Schmidt’s eyes. “No cops,” he said. “Don’t need no mister po-leese-man—” He was white and laughed to himself for speaking black. For no other reason, just because the guy thought he was funny and had said “grandpa,” Schmidt stepped in the way. The man was a head taller. He smelled bad, a funky mix of sweat, chemicals, cigarettes.

  “What the fuck? I didn’t hurt nothing—”

  As he shoved to get past, Schmidt jammed his elbow into the man’s ribs. The junkie grunted and threw a punch. Schmidt ducked it easily and punched him in the throat. Not waiting for him to go down, with both hands Schmidt grabbed the parka and slammed him face-first into the solid plaster wall. Not drywall, thick stucco. And again. Then he let him go. The man slid down, dirty hands on the plaster. His sigh came as a whisper, a sound of defeat that made Schmidt feel instantly wrong. Tall or not, the man had nothing in him beyond finding something to fence. Schmidt had known it at first glance. He had taken advantage, had wanted to punish.

  He called and five minutes later buzzed them in. When the two uniforms came through the door, the junkie was still crowded on the floor against the wall.

  “Hi, Charlie.” The older cop looked down. “What’ve we got?”

  He knew Schmidt, a local landlord that police and half a dozen other city organizations could count on for drives and fundraisers.

  “Break-in,” Schmidt said.

  “What do you want to do?”

  Schmidt shook his head.

  “Right, what’s the point?”

  Glad to be saved the paperwork, the cop reached down. “Come on, pilgrim, let’s go.” When the junkie was on his feet, his face was embossed with ugly welts from the stucco.

  Deputy Lyle Buddy glanced down again at the body on the slate floor. “What was wrong with him?”

  “Prostate cancer and emphysema,” Rivera said. “With episodes of congestive heart failure. He was anemic and suffered from mild dementia.”

  “Damn,” Buddy said.

  “I know, but the son didn’t want him in a nursing home. The trouble is, when they’re ambulatory, you can’t supervise them every minute. The attendant is new, but I’m sure this wasn’t negligence.”

  The officer was still looking at the body. Behind him on the huge living room’s walls hung abstract oil paintings. Black leather chairs and couches had been positioned in groups to create areas for conversation.

  “Hell, say he’s out on one of those chaises,” Buddy said. “Who’s to know he croaked until it’s time to put him to bed?”

  “It was just a matter of time.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Deputy Thurston called.

  As tall, hefty and black as Thurston was—six-four, 290-plus—when he now appeared under the entrance hall’s dome, he did not look big. It had to do with the high ceiling.

  “Refrigerator back there’s got more drugs than Walgreen’s,” he said. “Enough oxygen in this place to do the NFL a whole season.” He hoisted his pants and straightened the Glock on his belt. “Okay, the techies are finishing up. We’ll take him to Naples Community.”

  “I’ll call the family,” Rivera said. “I know what funeral home they’ll use.” He gave Thurston the name.

  “That’s good. We’ll shoot him right over.”

  “If you need the attendant, he’ll be at my place.”

  “That’s in Immokalee?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, then—” Thurston motioned to the EMS team to bring the gurney. “Take it easy, Jimmy.”

  “Take it any way I can get it.”

  “There you go.”

  The body was lifted, then the gurney was guided out, followed by the technicians and officers. Rivera walked out to the circular drive and watched as the body was loaded. After twenty-two months, he knew many officers and sheriff’s deputies. Nurses, family lawyers, EMS technicians. As the patrol car circled the drive he raised his hand. When it was gone, he reentered and closed the door.

  Outside, beyond the great room’s open door wall, Stuckey was at the far end of the pool cage. He was talking to golfers in a cart, a man and woman.

  “Dennis! I need to see you!” Stuckey waved to the couple and started back, slapping in sandals. He was holding a plate under his chin, eating as he came.

  “They gone?” he called.

  Once he was inside, Rivera pushed a button next to the curtain. Heavy polarized glass panels began closing. When they tapped shut, he put out his hand.

  Stuckey looked down at what was left of his portabella mushroom sandwich. He handed the plate to Rivera. “Okay, I suppose I fucked up again,” he said. “What is it this time? But I made sure he waved—” Stuckey gestured with his head. “You said to be sure people saw him waving. I did that, every time.”

  “Dennis, do you really not know what’s wrong?”

  Stuckey put his hands in his hip pockets and looked resigned. “I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Lawsuits. Insurance type shit. You don’t want complications.”

  “That’s right, I don’t. This will happen again. Clients die, and when they do, you call me just the way you did. Then the police. If it happens in a club dining room or pro shop, you call management and security. But you don’t talk to anyone unless you have to.”

  “Got it.”

  “Anything else?” Rivera asked.

  Bored now, Stuckey looked up at the ceiling. Just like a teenager being lectured by a parent, Rivera thought. Except Stuckey was thirty-two. “No idea,” Stuckey said finally. “You tell me.”

  Rivera looked down at the plate. No, he would not fire him. If it wasn’t hard or complicated, Stuckey would do what he was told and not ask questions.

  “The people you were talking to,�
� Rivera said. “Did they know Ivy?”

  “Just the wife. They used to play golf with her.”

  “So, you’re talking to people who knew the family. Someone who played golf with Ivy’s wife.”

  “Hey, boss—” Arms out, Stuckey looked at him and shook his head.

  “Chester Ivy died an hour ago. Police have been here, medical. You’re outside telling people all about it. And eating.”

  Stuckey dropped his arms. He looked again at the ceiling.

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” Rivera said.

  “Hey, Jim, maestro—” Sensing now he might be in trouble, Stuckey shrugged and looked again at Rivera. “Come on, everyone eats. I made lunch, okay? The food’s all organic. Healthy. One thing you should remember, I’m going out to Oakes Farms Market for these people. On my own time, okay? They’re eating right, everything’s all natural. The nurse, hell, she shows up Wednesday, she sees my eggplant parmigiana, she goes, ‘What is that, got any extra?’”

  The memory seemed to give Stuckey confidence. “So, what’s the problem?” he asked. “Are you telling me people get old, they don’t want to watch someone eat?”

  Rivera set the plate on a coffee table. “Do you want to go back to shagging golf balls in lakes?” It worked. Stuckey again looked nervous. “No, you don’t, so listen. The whole business is knowing how people think. Putting yourself in their shoes. How do you think that couple saw you just now?”

  “I’m clean,” Stuckey said. “White shorts and shirt, just like you said.”

  “What kind of shirt?”

  Stuckey held out his arms. “A tee shirt. So?”

  “What are the regs at this club?”

  “Regs?”

  “On the sheet I gave you. The regulations say no shirt without a collar. You can’t go to the clubhouse or the restaurant or cocktail lounge—you can’t even walk the golf course unless you wear a shirt with a collar.”

  “You lost me,” Stuckey said. “I thought we were talking about eating lunch.”