“That’s easy for you, you don’t have to make the call.”
“I got two hands,” Ray told him. “You forget the traffic.”
“How can I forget? I’m in it all day.”
“Yeah, well—” The elevator doors opened to the smell of raw concrete. “You big-shot CEOs always forgetting your labor force,” Ray said. “Your human resources.”
“That’s very good—” Rivera stepped out into the first-floor garage. It was one of Ray’s jokes, calling him CEO. But it was Ray who had the green card. “You have management potential,” Rivera said.
“Potential to go crazy like half these people,” his cousin said. “You taking on too much work.”
“Growth, Ray.” Rivera walked toward his van. “Kleinman says you can’t maintain the status quo. You have to try new things.”
In Spanish his cousin said Kleinman, too, could go fuck himself. “You going to have to hire more people like Dennis,” Ray said. “You think I want someone like Dennis Stuckey taking care of my mother or grandmother? You got to think about that.”
“It’s not your problem.” Rivera pressed the keyless remote and reached his van. “Besides, everyone signs a liability waiver. We’re protected.”
“That time—”
“Ray, I have to pick up a dog before meeting someone at the airport. I’ll see you tonight.”
“What dog you talking about?”
“Burlson’s poodle.”
“Is it still pink?”
“Still pink. They say beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.”
“Crazy people,” Ray said, and he clicked off.
As Rivera got in and started the engine, the smell of raw concrete was replaced by the scent of pine. First thing every morning, he vacuumed his van, sprayed air freshener. Details mattered. Little things that might be important to his elderly clients. And not being satisfied with the status quo, that mattered, too. You couldn’t settle for things as they were, you had to move. Change.
Like assisting people who wanted his help. People like Mrs. Frieslander.
He had forgotten to jot down in sync. Rivera reached up and pulled free a pocket notebook wedged in the sun visor. He opened it to the last page, wrote the words and what they meant.
He returned the notebook, put his van in gear, and moved forward. Move and change, he thought again. But you had to stay calm. You had to use your head and always be able to act fast. That’s what he’d done with Mrs. Frieslander. He’d made a decision. Turning on a dime, someone had called it. Being able to field loose grounders and hit curveballs. Most of all, you had to know how to put up with clients like Burlson. Never get mad, Arnold Kleinman liked to say. Mad is bad for business. Just get even.
Reaching the end of the empty garage, Rivera cruised up the incline and emerged in sunlight. He came to a full stop, looked both ways, and now turned right on Pelican Bay Boulevard. He accelerated slowly. Absolutely there must never be trouble with police. Never a computer check. Once at the posted speed limit, he eased off the pedal. Elaborate marble signs slipped past, deeply incised with gold letters spelling the names of luxury high rises.
Morning strollers turned to watch him pass. ALL HANDS ON DECK was stenciled on all four of his vans, and it pleased Rivera to know people saw the company name. It also pleased him to know All Hands was a synecdoche.
Most of the strollers were old. Some were walking by themselves, others required white-clad attendants. Assisting such people when they wanted to die was a new initiative, and it had great potential. But it was off the books, not something Ray knew about. Rivera could rely on his cousin completely, but Ray was religious.
Of course there were risks. You had to plan carefully and make sure plenty of time passed between assists. By spacing them out, you kept All Hands free of suspicion. Avoid greed, Kleinman often said. It was one of his Ten Commandments for business: Avoid greed like the plague. Greed kills the goose that lays the golden egg. Instead, Jimmy, nurture that goose.
He reached U.S. 41 and stopped for the light. Heavy traffic flowed past in bright morning sunshine. Still wet from pre-dawn sprinklers, brilliant crotons and hibiscus glittered on the median.
Rivera turned on the air conditioning and sat back. 41 was the Tamiami Trail. It had been built in the twenties to connect Florida’s east and west coasts. Mrs. Frieslander had explained that “Tamiami” was a portmanteau word, a new word made out of Tampa and Miami.
Thinking of her as he watched the traffic light, Rivera felt uncomfortable. Portmanteau, synonym, synecdoche, bibliography, in sync… And Mrs. F had also taught him about manners. Customs. But when she changed her mind, he had decided not to wait. It was her time, her destiny. And there was something else, something having to do with Burlson…
No, Rivera decided. There was nothing else. You just helped a sick old woman when her number came up, like Bingo. A nice old woman with cold feet.
He watched the traffic light. He had never been stopped, never forced to show his forged license and green card. But on the day he drove Burlson to pick up his new boat, they’d been halted by a roadblock on Davis Boulevard. It was something to do with drugs, and as the deputy approached, Rivera thought: It’s over. This is where they find out you aren’t legal. The deputy had asked for his license but before looking down at it he bent to look in the back seat of the Mercedes. Seeing Burlson, he had handed back the license and straightened, patted the roof, and moved on.
The light now turned green, and Rivera swung south. He remembered driving away, watching the Collier County deputy in the side mirror as he walked to the next car. The officer had not known Dale Burlson, only that he was rich and white. It meant the car’s driver was on his payroll and not a drug dealer.
Rivera had then driven to Walker Marine to take delivery of Mr. B’s
