Godsend

by Barry Knister

  He stepped into the kitchen, sat at the table and looked out. Blue and black filled the glass. The deep snow gave his property an altered relation to the lake beyond. The slope swept down to the lake, which spread across to the Canadian shore.

  A long drive, twelve hours. Don’t push it, Schmidt thought. It was a consideration now, overdoing. A concern not so much out of fear of death as from a sense of what he wouldn’t get to see or do. The trick lay in finding a middle ground between too much caution and too little. You want to live, Schmidt thought. To stick around for your grandchildren. And for Brenda.

  She’d been here just once, as a gesture to signal she thought they could get through what had happened. It was the morning before she drove Tina back to Milwaukee.

  Schmidt saw himself opening the door for her. She hesitated before stepping past him, and he watched as she glanced up at the old wagon wheel light fixture. She crossed then to look in the bedrooms on the left. She didn’t linger, and not looking at him, she turned and slowly crossed the floor. As Schmidt stood in the entry, she seemed to listen as she walked. She stopped before the open entry of the room he and Lillie had slept in.

  He remembered the silence getting to him. He had wanted words, some indication from her that coming here did not now seem a mistake. Finally she turned to him.

  I like it. It’s you.

  How so?

  It just feels like you. The floor’s firm underfoot. The whole place feels quiet. Solid.

  With the Pursuit’s twin throttles shoved all the way forward, Rivera had Burlson’s boat planing parallel to the beach. He stood on the flying bridge feeling the wind. Hotels and condo towers rose against the night sky along Gulf Shore Boulevard. A good day, he thought. And a very good boat. A forty-footer with twin Volvo diesels.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  They had spent the morning offshore between Naples and Marco Island. Burlson had caught and thrown back some Spanish mackerel, then three nice redfish on brown Redfish Candy flies. At noon, Rivera made sandwiches, pastrami and Swiss on pumpernickel, with lots of Russian dressing. That’s how Mr. B liked them. Then Burlson had gone below for his nap. He always watched the stock-market channel, talking to himself about this stock or that futures contract until he nodded off.

  During the nap, Rivera used the sea anchor, and read. Today’s book had been Straight from the Gut by Jack Welch, the retired CEO of General Electric. He’s a legend, Kleinman had said. You should read his story. A lot of Rivera’s clients recommended things he should read. Books expressing their conservative opinions on business, taxes, race. They didn’t talk with their Mexican gardeners or Haitian maids. Because they couldn’t.

  He was different. Now and then on a street in Naples, he met someone from Immokalee and spoke Spanish. What he saw on the faces of passing whites was suspicion, even mild fear. But moments later, hearing him speaking perfect English with one of his clients outside a broker’s office or restaurant, those same passersby would not recognize him as the same person.

  A little after three, Burlson had come up to fish again. In the next two hours, he caught a dozen gag grouper and mangrove snapper. We’re on a roll, he said. Take us up to Naples Pier. As they drifted in close, Mr. B had used the last of the bait shrimp. He had caught two pompano, both keepers. Perfect, he said, drinking vodka and tonic as Rivera filleted the two fish. That’s dinner. You can serve it up to me with a nice Pinot noir. By then the sun was setting, but Burlson had not been willing to give up the day. Take her up to Pelican Bay, he said.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Rivera slowed, then put the engines in neutral. The Pursuit rose and fell in gentle swells creased by moonlight. The sky was now deep blue, the beach a ghostly white.

  “Stop right here.” He reversed the engines, then put them in neutral again. “Look at that skyline,” Burlson said. Seated next to Rivera on the flying bridge, the old man was clearly exhausted after a long day on the water. He shook his head. “Look at that,” he said again. “Unbelievable.”

  “Yes, sir, it’s really something.”

  After a moment, Burlson pointed to shore. “There it is,” he said. “Le Bonheur. Betty had to tell me what it meant. It’s French for happiness. Good fortune. But there’s a problem, and you know what it is.”

  He did know: Burlson talked about it when he drank. But Rivera didn’t answer. The old man sipped his drink as moonlight shimmered in hundreds of high-rise windows. “I’m telling you, it’s wrong,” he said. “Betty shouldn’t have done it. I built that business for her old man, then she does this to me.”

  Burlson was talking about the codicil his wife had added to her will without telling him. Only after Betty Burlson’s death last October had he learned the details. As sole heir to her father’s estate, Elizabeth Fenton Burlson had replaced her husband as executor of her estate. Now, the executor was a bank officer. Through him, she had arranged for trust funds for her children and grandchildren, leaving the remaining assets to her husband. All this was unchanged from her original will. But because of the new provision, Dale Burlson’s share would not fall to him until after his mother-in-law’s death.

  “You tell me,” he said. “What was she thinking? All these instructions, these requirements. I have to keep her mother at Le Bonheur. And I have to be there with her. She never liked me, Jim, I see that now. What a torpedo—”

  Burlson looked at him with tired, pleading old man’s eyes. A gust of wind scattered his sparse hair. “I can’t travel,” he said. “I can’t even visit the grandchildren in Cleveland. She’s too frail to fly, Jim. I’m trapped here. OK, maybe Betty meant well. We talked a few times, maybe I suggested putting her mother in a nursing home. She could’ve thought I’d dump her, once Betty was gone, something like that. Who knows? So here she is. She and the dog. You know she wants to go. She said so lots of times, you heard her say it.”

  Rivera nodded, but that was all. After talking to Rachel Ivy, he had decided never again to work with third parties. It was too dangerous. With someone like Hilda Frieslander, everything was over and done. But no more arrangements with third parties.

  Burlson looked away. “Take me back,” he said. “I’m tired.”

  He guided the car down the ramp into Le Bonheur’s garage. It was dark and empty, the concrete support columns white in the headlights. When the market improved, the garage would soon be filled with luxury cars, each space assigned according to the owner’s floor. Some of Le Bonheur’s new residents might be richer than Dale Burlson, but there was just one penthouse.

  He came to a stop, turned off the ignition and looked in the rearview. Good, Burlson was still awake. Rivera popped the trunk, got out and opened the back door. The old man slowly worked his left leg out. Twelve hours on the water had made him look and act frail. He let himself be helped to his feet and waited for Rivera to retrieve his broad-brimmed hat. He put it on and shuffled after.

  “Really tired, Jim.” Rivera lifted out the cooler. He slammed the trunk lid and moved toward the elevators. Burlson followed. “Really tired,” he said again.

  “But it was good out there.” Rivera pushed the button. “You’ll feel better after we cook up the pompano.” Burlson shook his head. “Come on, Mr. B. Some good fish with that nice Pinot noir you talked about. Then you can watch ESPN.”

  “Too tired. Glass of milk and put me to bed.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure. But we nailed ’em.”

  “We did, sir, that’s a fact.”

  “We nailed those suckers.”

  They rode up. Not having to fix Burlson’s dinner meant there would still be time to take down Mrs. Hailey’s Christmas tree. Mrs. Hailey loved Christmas. Rivera believed she would leave the tree up all year, but her daughter had come down last week and objected. Do it immediately, she said as he loaded her bags in the van. I don’t want people thinking mother is losing it. Abrupt and rude, the daughter was like Rachel Ivy. Mrs. Frieslander had taught him the words for such people. They were patronizi
ng and condescending.

  But you went along. You smiled and nodded and went along. If you did, and if you worked hard and didn’t take your eye off the ball, you could have a future in this country. You could hit a home run. As the elevator shunted to a stop, he made a mental note to get his picture from the Ivy house. Before Rachel Ivy changed her mind. Working for people like her meant being ready when they threw you a curve.

  The doors opened. With the cooler under his arm, he waited for Burlson to step into the marble reception room. Rivera readied his keys, crossed in front of the old man and unlocked the double doors. As he pushed in and stepped aside, he smelled burned food.

  Burlson stepped in. “Home from the hunt!” he called, scuffing across the foyer. “We nailed ’em today, let me tell you! Where’s my gal? Betty?”

  His voice was still echoing as Burlson now stopped in the huge living room. The muffled clang of a wind chime came from the terrace outside. Slowly he took off his Panama hat as Rivera closed the doors. The night nurse now appeared at the end of the condo’s south wing, and Rivera waved. She returned the wave and laid her cheek on her hands to signal Mrs. Fenton was asleep. The nurse stepped back inside.

  Rivera carried the cooler to the kitchen. After placing the fish in the freezer, he rinsed the cooler, then crossed to the stove. A saucepan rested on the cook top. Before the nurse came to take over, Stuckey had cooked and burned some brown rice. Rivera carried the pan to the sink and filled it with water, then headed for the front.

  “You can thaw—”

  Burlson wasn’t in the living room. Rivera stepped back to the foyer and looked down the north wing. The old man watched sports, but no sound came from his home theater. Returning to the entrance, Rivera now saw one of the glass panels was open to the terrace. Burlson was standing outside, stoop-shouldered and looking out at the Gulf. Rivera crossed the big room and stepped out. Even thirty floors up, the night was almost windless.

  “When are they delivering the grout?” he asked.

  “The nurse out there?”

  “With Mrs. Fenton.”

  “This is no good.”

  “You had a long day, Mr. B.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m some kid,” Burlson said. “I’m seventy-six. I’m still all right, but I’m up there. I deserve what’s mine.”

  “It’ll work out.”

  Burlson put his hands in the pockets of his shorts. He continued staring at the Gulf. “Work it out, my ass,” he said finally. “We both know the situation.”

  “Yes, but we shouldn’t talk about it. Not here.”

  Burlson shook his head. “You don’t know a goddamn thing.” Hands jingled change as he looked down at his boat shoes. After a moment he stomped his foot. “You know what’s under us? That’s what you don’t know. Six condos.”

  “You told me—”

  “Listen, young fella, I’m locked in on six. I collateralized the whole thing last August with Betty’s estate. Before she made all these changes. I assumed…”

  He turned and looked at Rivera. “I need that money,” he said quietly. “Right away. Back there just now? Talking to my wife? It’s a symptom. I still can’t believe she did this to me. That’s why I’m talking to her, it’s why I have dreams. I dream she tells me she made a mistake, she didn’t know about the six units.”

  Looking to the open slider, he motioned with his head. “Her mother’s in perfect health. Tip top. I took her to the doctor last week. He said she’s got the heart of a sixty-year-old.” Again he looked at Rivera with tired, desperate eyes. “You say wait. I can’t. And it’s wrong, dammit. The woman wants to go, it wouldn’t be something against her wishes.”

  He took several steps and stopped in front of Rivera. Now he leaned close. “You heard her say it,” he said softly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t. Before she got really bad, she said ‘Time to go.’ You were there when she said it, Jim.” Burlson straightened and jingled the coins in his pockets. “She was right, too. She can’t even remember she wants to die. I say that leaves me some kind of responsibility.”

  “We’ll talk.”

  “No, no more talk. This deal’s not negotiable.”

  Burlson turned away. After a moment he walked over and stood looking down at a stack of tile. He raised the top tile and let it drop with a clap. “9/11 screwed up the high-end of the market,” he said. “I can’t flip them soon enough. That means I have to close. Otherwise, I lose a two million-six deposit.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “But don’t worry, I’m good for it on your end. Anything you want, within reason. You’re a smart guy, I respect you. Hell, you’re smarter than half the suits that worked for me. You come here, learn the culture, the language. But Jim, hear me now, understand me. I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t in a bind, but you have to help me on this. Otherwise, I go to the I.N.S.”

  Only now did Burlson face him. Nodding to confirm what he’d said, he fumbled nervously in his pockets. “That’s right,” he said. “Immigration and Naturalization Service. It’s that bad, I’m desperate. All Hands on Deck is set up in your cousin’s name, and I know why.”

  You needed to be ready for anything. For curveballs. Kleinman had taught him that in Boca Raton. Don’t think you know anyone too well, he said. Think Darwin. Think Natural Selection. Be light on your feet. Able to adapt, able to turn on a dime.

  Filling with rage, Rivera duplicated Burlson’s pose, hands in his pockets. He took slow, deep breaths and looked out at the remarkably smooth Gulf. Rage was rare in him. The last time had been at the nursing home in Lauderdale. Jealous of Arnold Kleinman’s new protégé, a Haitian worker had sliced open Rivera’s cheek, cutting through to the gum with a weed whacker. Police had come and a report was now on file. The worker had been fired. He had no papers or identity like Rivera. Waiting a month—being patient—Rivera had then killed him. He had buried the body under newly planted sable palms in back of the nursing home. That’s when he and Ray had come to Naples.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be bad. I don’t think you’d do this if it weren’t.”

  “Life and death, Jim, I mean it. All this—” Burlson swept his hand at the penthouse “—it’s a prison. Jail. You help me, I’ll help you. Listen, I have friends. If you had trouble sometime, anything between you and being legal, I know people.”

  Bullshit. Anyone playing the Immigration card would never get involved. It had been a mistake to deal with third parties. Once they got what they wanted, they forgot you. He’ll give you his mother-in-law’s junk, Rivera thought. He’ll think he’s being generous, then write it off his taxes. After his spic flunky kills the mother-in-law.

  But Rivera said, “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

  In the light of the open door wall, Dale Burlson’s old face softened with gratitude. He stepped closer. The folds relaxed around his mouth, his forehead smoothed. He took another step, reached out and slowly tapped Rivera’s chest. “You’re the kind of people that gives this country a future,” he said softly. “I mean it. Come here with nothing—” still he tapped “—no crying, none of this gimme gimme crap. Come here, figure it out. We’re on the same page, you and me.”

  “Yes, I think we are.”

  “Think we are, exactly.” Gripping Rivera’s upper arm, he turned him and began walking him slowly toward the open entry. “You’ve been thinking about it.”

  “I may have something.”

  “You would, you would, that’s my boy—”

  As they crossed the big room, Burlson squeezed Rivera’s arm, exactly as he had on the day they had picked up his new boat. “But soon, Jim,” he said. “I mean days. We’re into extra innings here, this is overtime. You understand?”

  “Soon.” Rivera stopped. “But we’re talking business, not just good will.”

  “Of course, when I said—”

  “The Pursuit.”

  Tired and worried, still holding him by the arm, Burlson didn’t seem to understand. “That’s what I w
ant,” Rivera told him. “We’re talking serious risk for me. Any trouble, even just being a suspect, they deport me. That means the venture capital for what you want is your boat.”

  Burlson blinked once but now squeezed again. “And I’m sure you know a handshake won’t do it.” Rivera waited until the old man nodded agreement. “But it would be too obvious if Mrs. Fenton died, and right away you gave a Mexican a boat worth two-hundred thousand,” he said. “So, what I want is for you to write a letter for your lawyer. To give to him later. Say, in two years. In this letter, I want you to say the boat’s a gift to James Rivera for his service to your family.”

  “Two years.” Alert now, Burlson scrutinized him.

  “That way, compensation won’t be linked to Mrs. Fenton.”

  “I see.” Burlson nodded. “Down the road. A gift to a friend. Someone I fish with, someone who helps our family.” He was looking over Rivera’s shoulder, thinking it through. “It’s smart,” he said. “It fits. You help me, and two years later the boat’s yours.”

  “Or a better one,” Rivera said. “You might trade up.”

  Obviously, Burlson liked the arrangement. As they crossed the great room, he was half smiling. Who was going to make him give a boat to an illegal? But the idea would make him believe they had agreed, for a price.

  As they reached the foyer, Rivera still felt rage in his stomach, like acid from bad food. He was too angry now to take down the Haileys’ tree.

  Brenda pulled into Ray’s driveway. “Okay,” she said. “Go get your key, and I’ll drive you back.”

  “No, I got a ride in the morning,” Ray said. “But you got to come in. You drive me all this way, you got to eat something.”

  When she asked for a rain check, he frowned, not understanding. “It’s from sports,” she explained. “You buy a ticket for a game, but if it rains they give you a rain check for another day.”

  “We got no rain now, okay? You got to meet my wife.”

  “Another time, Ray. When we can have a real visit.”