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
