“You told me no intervention.”
“That’s right. And now I’m telling you something different. If people see All Hands on Deck mentioned in another death notice, it could mean serious trouble.”
Stuckey was gazing up at the marble ceiling. “I’m going to sit in the room with her,” he said. “Me and Pinky. When she needs to pee, I’m there. When she wants some of that cheese in a can she eats, I take her with me. Joined at the hip, never out of my sight.”
“Good.”
He got out his keys, opened the door and followed Stuckey in. He watched him schlep down the hall in his sandals. Schlep was Yiddish, learned from a Jewish tourist when Rivera was bussing tables in Cozumel. The word sounded just like what Stuckey was doing now, how he lived. That’s how Burlson thinks of you, Rivera thought. You schlep for him, you shovel his shit, you fetch.
The dog was barking. Stuckey reached the end of the hall and knocked on the open door. “Well, here he is, Mrs. Fenton, here’s your friend, you remember Dennis—”
The nurse would leave in a minute or two. That morning, Burlson had called. I wrote it all up in a letter for my attorney, he said. Just the way you want it. I’ll give you a copy. I say James Rivera’s been like a son to me, like family. I want him to have something special. The boat’s yours, Jim. The lawyer will make sure of it, I’ll have everything notarized.
Sure he would. Rivera had told Burlson he would come tonight with a second All Hands attendant. That would free them to plan what to do about Mrs. Fenton. I’m sorry, young fella, Burlson said. But my back’s to the wall. You won’t regret this.
The nurse was saying goodbye, getting ready to leave. Rivera opened the door leading to the roof. He stepped in, closed it and listened in the dark. He still felt rage—except everything fit. The building’s security cameras had not yet been activated in the elevators or garage. And when Burlson’s deposit on the six condos was forfeited, that would explain why the old man had been depressed.
Now came the squeak of ripple-soled shoes. Seconds later, the foyer door opened and clicked shut. When the elevator started down, Rivera stepped out and moved quickly left, along the north wing. Here were Burlson’s own rooms, his office and bedroom. A pool table was set up in a third room, a home theater in the last. So much space for a useless old gringo, he thought. The theater door was open. Light flickered, but he heard no sound. When Rivera reached the entry, the old man was standing in front of the big screen, facing him.
“I had the sound off to hear her leave,” Burlson said. He tossed the remote on a chair. “What’s your thinking?”
“A fall. Something painless.”
“Good, painless, certainly.” Burlson nodded. “Go ahead.”
“The dog.” Burlson kept nodding. “When she realizes it’s not with her, she goes looking.”
“Go ahead, I understand.”
Rivera motioned for him to follow. Burlson hiked up his pants and shuffled up the hall behind him. “It could be a game with the dog,” Rivera said. “It doesn’t have to hurt, it can happen fast.”
“You sure she won’t feel pain? I don’t want anything rough, she—”
“No, nothing rough, you’ll see.” When they reached the foyer, he stopped to listen. Stuckey was already watching television. Rivera motioned for Burlson to follow, and they crossed the living room’s chessboard squares. “What’s the word from the people doing your tile work?” he asked.
“Next week sometime they’re coming back.”
Rivera moved to the glass wall and looked out. “Push the button.”
It gave him satisfaction, making the old man follow him and take orders. Burlson stepped to his right, reached behind a furled curtain and touched the control. The glass began sliding back in both directions. “Stop it there.” Burlson reached again and the panels stopped. The opening was slightly wider than a yard. “She could push the button, but she wouldn’t think to stop it the way you just did,” Rivera said. “The glass would open all the way. You’d have wind, curtains blowing. The nurse would see her and bring her in. But with workers here—”
Stepping out, Rivera glanced to the left, at the adjacent high rise. He felt a sense of mastery. The night air was cool, and he saw no one out on a balcony. The crew doing the terrace had left equipment, a plastic case of drill bits, a second case containing the diamond saw used to cut tile. Centered in the middle was the unfinished fountain. A pair of leather work gloves had been left on the stone lip.
“This is good.” He stepped to the fountain and pulled on the gloves. “Everything we need is right here.”
Burlson stepped outside. He hesitated several seconds before crossing. “Having second thoughts?” Rivera asked. “You said it had to be soon.”
“I don’t want details,” Burlson said. “Whatever I said, I don’t remember.”
“You said if she could think to do it, she’d ask to go.”
“It’s true.”
“Are you saying to forget it?” The old man looked behind to the opening. He turned back and shook his head. “Okay,” Rivera said. “The workers move in and out. This is the only access. They know to watch for Mrs. Fenton, but they take breaks. Lunch, whatever. There’s a lot of coming and going.”
As was his way, to be familiar and to manipulate others, Burlson came over and took Rivera by the upper arm. He began walking him toward the end of the terrace. The nylon ropes hung loose from days in the sun. “You said a fall,” he whispered. “You don’t mean—”
“Not that. There’s going to be food out here. Pinky loves Mexican.” Rivera smiled. “I see him out here sometimes with your crew. They give him tortillas, he likes the beans. I know the men, they live in Immokalee like me. I’m out here talking to them in Spanish, they leave. They forget to close the glass. Even if they don’t, how can they be sure later, when someone asks? Now, here comes Pinky—”
He reached out to the top band of nylon, grabbed it and pulled it to him. He had plenty to work with. Glancing a last time at the adjacent high rise, in a single motion he looped the rope over Burlson’s head twice at the neck, jerked him by his belted trousers and threw him off the edge.
Rivera jumped back as the rope clattered and raked down both sides of the deck. Now it made a sound like a single note played on a bass viol. But it held, strained on the sharp stone ledge but held, secured to solid mounts waiting for the terrace railing.
He removed the leather gloves and placed them back on the lip of the fountain. Work had stopped last week, and no rain had fallen since. Footprints led from all directions, into and out of the house. He slipped off his shoes and reentered, leaving the panels open. Opened by a touch from Burlson’s finger. Rivera heard music and moved quickly toward the foyer. Star Wars, he thought. Stuckey had brought the whole series to get him through the night.
Now the Christmas tree.
Sweeney stood and reached out for her glass. Brenda handed it up to him.
As he walked into the kitchen, she thought of Charlie in his Minnesota cabin. She had been there just once, for less than fifteen minutes. But she remembered the stone fireplace, the light fixture made from an old wagon wheel, the painting of an Indian over the hearth.
Right now, he might be microwaving something for dinner, a meal that came in a box. Or repairing or painting, making use of his time. There were things to learn about everything, even how to use a paint roller. He had shown her how to train work lights on drywall. If you didn’t do that, you ended up with uneven coverage.
Still she saw him in her condo’s drab, characterless living room, using the paint roller. Each sticky pass changed another swath of gray wall to dusty rose. He was wearing a flannel shirt, his broad shoulders in motion. Brenda pinched her eyes shut. You loved him, she thought as ice rattled in the kitchen. Admired and respected him. Always looked forward to his arrivals. Loved seeing him coming toward you in airports. But she had also feared how much his wife had done and known with him. How good Lillie had been in life. They’d been t
ogether for decades, a fact that now mingled in her thoughts with Patrick Sweeney’s own loss. Grief measured in discarded toys and lists.
He came back and handed down her drink. “Try that,” he said. “Terri liked her Campari with a little sweet vermouth. It’s called an Americano.”
She sipped the drink and nodded approval. Glancing back up the hall, she now noticed his black club carrier, propped against the wall in the dining room. The bag itself lay across the dining table.
“I see you unpacked your clubs.”
Sweeney looked and nodded. “They don’t owe me anything,” he said, still looking at the clubs. “I won a lot of money with those.”
“Are you what’s called a scratch golfer?”
“So they tell me.”
“I never played.” He turned to her and cocked his head in mock disbelief. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You just have to accept that such things are possible.”
“So I heard,” he said. “It’s just hard to believe. But don’t take it up. It’ll make you crazy, or turn into a religion.”
“Which is it for you?”
“Neither, now.” She saw he thought this answer might sound self-pitying, and he added, “Thanks to a twelve-step program.”
“You’re a recovering golfer.”
“You take it one day at a time,” Sweeney said. “No golf channel, no sports section. The ultimate acid test—” he looked back at the golf bag “—is seeing if you can play one last round and quit.”
He thought a moment, and now carried his drink into the dining room. She watched him set the glass on the table, reach into the golf bag and bring out a club. He changed his mind, re-slotted the club, and lifted the bag off the table. He shouldered it, then got his drink. “Come on,” he said and came toward her. “I’m going to pass along valuable information.”
“You’re falling off the twelve-step wagon.” She got up with her drink and followed him out, down to the pool deck. “We should call your support person.”
“Lost the number.”
He flicked a toggle switch, and floodlights came on outside. They were attached to the screen cage and sent two arcs out into the fairway. Sweeney held the door for her, then led the way along to the back. The ground here lay flat for twenty feet before sloping down into a shallow gully. Continuing up the opposite slope, the fairway stretched in a broad, grassy band. On the far side rose the dark outlines of large houses.
Sweeney tossed off his drink and dropped the glass. He slipped off the shoulder strap, drew out his driver, and lowered the bag. He stepped to the corner of the cage, reached up with the club and pushed the neck of a spotlight. The beam sliced out farther into the fairway. After repeating this with the second spotlight, Sweeney came back and zipped open a pouch on his bag. He tossed out a dozen or more golf balls. Quickly teeing up, he straightened and made ready to swing.
“Watch.”
It mattered to him, she could tell, and Brenda watched intently. Not just to see his swing, but all at once she wanted to get whatever it was that led so many people to order their lives around golf. Before now, Sweeney had looked defeated, drinking hard to get through the evening. Now, in the character of his stance, in the way his hands gripped the club, working his feet in some ritual formed long ago, she saw him for the moment as an undivided, unified self.
He looked once more to his left, drew back the club in a graceful arc, and without pause swung. A solid clink. For two beats she saw the ball’s trajectory in the wedge of light, rising incredibly fast, thrilling in its speed—and then she lost it. Sweeney was graceful. And how could she witness a man’s mastery of physical gesture without thinking of Charlie Schmidt? He taught you how to cast for pike, Brenda thought. Looking out on the brilliant wedge of green in the night, she remembered the remarkable conservation of energy in Charlie Schmidt’s fishing, sure then as now that watching him cast had blended somehow with her father surfcasting for bluefish in South Truro. With both men, only what was needed was ever used to send the spoon or Rapala lure to the exact point intended.
When she looked back, Sweeney had already teed up another ball. He swung again, very skilled—clink. The ball again sailed up, still rising when she lost it. He brought the club down and leaned on it to tee another ball. He straightened and held the club out to her.
“Come on, you’re up.”
“I feel foolish.”
“No, you feel self-conscious. Out of your element. Foolish is playing twenty-seven holes, teeing up on the same par three, and driving a two-iron into the same sand trap three times. Just see what happens.”
She tried to hold the club as Sweeney had. He stepped behind her and came in close. It was just like all the cop-a-feel golf lessons in movies. But it wasn’t. Firmly, even roughly, Sweeney realigned her hands on the club’s handgrip before tapping her left elbow. “Keep this straight,” he said. “When you swing, don’t look up, keep your head down. Nobody ever does, but try. Think of being able to move everything except the center of your body.”
He stepped away. How did you move everything but your center? “Take your time,” he said. “Don’t be in a hurry to get it over with.” Yes, that was what she was thinking, to swing and be done with it. Instead, she settled back a moment, thinking about her center. Brenda drew the club back and swung. She missed altogether.
“That’s fine,” he said. “You’re afraid of hurting it. Try again.”
With the second swing, she tried to aim lower. This time the clubface dug into the grass behind the ball. The blow shuddered up from her hands to her elbow. But she was determined now, it was right there, nothing in the way. You don’t wear glasses, she thought. Aim at the thing, it’s right there. Forgetting for the moment that Sweeney was watching, she swung again and heard the funny metallic clink. At least you hit it, she thought, looking now but seeing nothing.
Sweeney, facing out, nodded. “A decent drive,” he said. “A hundred and fifty or sixty yards. And you didn’t look up, I’m impressed.”
“Oh, right.”
But she felt elated, proud of herself. She saw her father off to her right, smiling with approval as Sweeney teed up another ball. As she looked down and took her stance, Sweeney tapped her left foot with another club. “Line up the ball with your instep. Try a couple more, I’ll be right back.”
Fully assembled, the Haileys’ Christmas tree stood fifteen feet high. It was a Douglas fir and very real-looking, even more so because it had not been professionally decorated like most of the trees in the Hotel de Ville.
It was located in the center of a large circular reflecting pool on the Haileys’ enclosed lanai. Tree and stand rested on the fluted base of a Greek column. Throughout the holidays, the tree had served as a conversation piece, its lights and decorations mirrored in the pool and reflected on the ceiling. All this had been described with photos in the annual “Best Christmas Parties” article in the Naples Daily News.
The tree’s decorations were family treasures, gathered over fifty years of travel. Rivera had changed into shorts and was on a ladder, removing the ornaments by himself. Tonight, neither building security nor the night custodian was free to help, which was perfect. Coming here would serve to rule out any question about Dale Burlson.
“That one came from Austria,” Mrs. Hailey said. She looked up as he took off a painted glass harp. “All the instruments are from Austria. There should be eighteen.” She pointed with her cane. “How about the bears? Where do you think they’re from?”
Russia, he thought. The Russian bear. But maybe not. Naples had a museum devoted to teddy bears, thousands of them. Rivera had been there once with German clients, winter residents from Frankfurt. They had asked him to take their picture standing next to a glass case filled with polar bears.
“Germany,” he said, and lifted off the last instrument. He looked down.
Mrs. Hailey’s back was severely deformed by osteoporosis, but she now made the effort to raise her head. She hooked her cane over her arm and c
lapped vigorously. The chain on her glasses shook. “Very good,” she said. “Everyone thinks Russia.”
He came down the ladder, waded to the pool’s edge and handed her the full box of instruments. She handed him another empty carton. “You’re doing very well,” she said. “This time, you’re looking for Indian dancing girls. On that trip, we lived on a houseboat. On the Ganges River. Have you heard of the Taj Mahal?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s a palace,” she said. “A prince built it for his wife. I loved the pool there. Huge—” She gestured with her arms. “The whole thing reflected the sky, night or day. This tree made me think of it all Christmas. We had some wonderful times.”
Mrs. Hailey was eighty-six. In addition to osteoporosis, she had heart trouble. She wasn’t smart like Mrs. Frieslander, but they were both independent. Every other Sunday, he drove her to church, then to brunch. He waded back and climbed up the ladder.
“Tell me the story.” Rivera unhooked one of the dancing figures before looking down. With the box of instruments in her lap, Mrs. Hailey was looking up from the sectional sofa in front of the pool. The toes of her shoes didn’t quite reach the floor.
“Not tonight, Mrs. Hailey.”
“Oh, please, James, it’s such a good story,” she said. “I’m tired, it’ll keep me awake. Tell me about the ship.”
He never spoke about his past. When someone asked, he gave vague answers, then turned the conversation to the other person. It was another of Arnold Kleinman’s valuable lessons: people didn’t care about others, just themselves. But perhaps because of all the travel she’d done, Mrs. Hailey was different. Both forgetful and childlike, she wanted the same bedtime story over and over again. So, Rivera had indulged her.
“We lived in close quarters,” he said. “Six in a cabin. I cleaned out cooking pots. The kitchen was as big as your building’s ballroom and lobby together. They ran it like a sports team. Or an army. Everything had to happen at a certain time. I did that for two years, then they made me a busboy. That was better. You got a share of the tips. That’s when I saw what I needed to do.”
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