Marion was a good friend. But she did not know all that had happened. Only Charlie Schmidt knew all. And Tina Bostwick.
“I think Tina would like this place,” Brenda said.
“Have you talked to her lately?”
It was how they always scrambled out of the black hole, by seizing on whatever came to mind. “I called her just before leaving,” Brenda said. “Charlie’s taking her to dinner sometime this week.”
“You didn’t ask him to come with you?”
“He had painting to do in one of his buildings.”
Another silence. Like Patrick Sweeney, Marion Ross had heard more than just words. She sighed again. “Ain’t life grand,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay, Bren. Go take a swim, enjoy the weather. Eat some stone crab, and write your boomer piece. Time waits for no one. In Naples, you’ll soon see how true that is.”
Immokalee Road, eastbound
6:50 p.m.
“Mr. Kleinman, hello.”
“Jimmy. This is good timing. How’s business?”
“Busy, sir.”
Kleinman laughed. “I love it,” he said. “Busy business. Hold on, let me close the door.”
As he drove, Rivera saw two riders ahead on horseback. It was dark now, and they were walking their mounts along the shoulder. Hilda Frieslander had loved horses.
He heard the door close to Kleinman’s office. It was at the Sans Souci Nursing Home, south of Boca Raton. The Sans Souci was the largest facility in the Kleinman Group. All of Arnold’s nursing home and assisted-living facilities were on the east coast, but he had urged Rivera to go to southwestern Florida. It’s the future, Kleinman had said. You want to hit a home run? Go to Naples.
“OK, I’m back,” he said. “You’re my boy, Jimmy, my protégé. You know that one?”
“It means I’m your student,” Rivera said. “Your apprentice. You told me.”
“I told you, of course. And so you are, the best I ever saw. Like a sponge how you pick up everything. How’s Ray?”
“Like a rock. I’m on my way to see him right now.”
“There you go, Jimmy.” Kleinman spoke in a low voice, serious now. “Like a rock, exactly. Every business needs one. You have your idea people, your showroom people, the snappy dressers. But you need a rock, young man, this is fundamental. Someone you can count on absolutely. I told you this I’m sure.”
“You did, sir. You said, ‘Just like the Disney brothers.’”
“You and Ray, exactly the same thing,” Kleinman said. “Believe me, no Roy Disney, no Walt, simple as that. Ray’s your rock, Jimmy. Family’s always best. When you took my advice, I said to myself, he’s a go-getter, but maybe a little too go-go-go. He’s gotta have Ray, he needs the cousin. He goes over there alone, watch out. I don’t care how smart the kid is, he needs an anchor.”
“You were right,” Rivera said. “You always are.”
Kleinman clucked his tongue. “Always the pitchman,” he said. “The schmoozer. Even on the phone with me.”
“I owe you, that’s all,” Rivera said.
“All Hands on Deck, how long’s it been?”
“Two years in March.”
“Two years, amazing. Seems like the day before yesterday I saw you cutting grass right here. Talking to some patients. Remember how I stopped? You thought I was mad you weren’t working. I wasn’t mad at all. I’m hearing this good-looking Mexican kid planting flowers, he sounds like he just came from Harvard. What was your gross revenue last month?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“That’s good, Jimmy. You know the saying. ‘Know what you’re worth, you’re not worth much.’”
“It’s the gifts,” Rivera told him. “The annual gross before taxes is running about three hundred K, but the resale value on furniture and collectibles is growing percentage-wise.”
“See? What did I tell you? Are you still watching Antiques Roadshow on PBS?”
“I record it.”
“Exactly. Keep up, stay current. Know what they’re giving you. You have a basically WASP demographic where you are. Lots of antiques, jewelry.”
“I do everything you told me, Mr. K.” Rivera had entered Immokalee and was now nearing the light at Main Street. “With the gifts, I keep everything six months before selling. Just in case.”
“Exactly, James. What’s the rush? Six months and no questions, you’re home free. Very smart. Probably, if you know what’s what, you have things in the jewelry area and art it makes sense to hold on to. For appreciation.”
Rivera stopped for the red light and listened as Kleinman talked about an estate sale in Pompano Beach. He had purchased beautiful Empire chests and marble-top console tables for peanuts. They would be perfect for the ornate lobby of his new Maison d’Or assisted-living complex in Bal Harbour. Eighty-one next November, Arnold Kleinman showed no signs of slowing down. Deals and money kept him going. And chutzpa. That’s Yiddish for having balls, he explained. Cojones you call it, blacks say “attitude.” Arnold Kleinman didn’t care about a person’s race or where they came from. Just so long as they helped him make money. If Kleinman lived to be a hundred—think George Burns, he liked to say—making money would be the reason.
The traffic light turned green. Rivera swung left and accelerated. Single-story bodegas and restaurants lined both sides of the street. “I’m getting into what we talked about,” he said. “Not a lot, just starting.” Kleinman said nothing. “I’m taking it slow. And alone. Ray’s not in this with me. You know him, he’s conservative. He might understand, but he wouldn’t—”
Kleinman cleared his throat. “Jim?”
“Okay, I know. We can’t talk about it.”
“Even your pay phones aren’t safe now,” Kleinman said. “It’s that bad. With the cells they can pick up everything, just with a scanner. Even the President, I saw some story. The guy doesn’t use email, Jimmy. Do you believe it? He can’t even send an email to his old man. Incredible, two presidents. Absolutely no privacy left, it’s terrible.”
“I understand.”
“Of course you understand, you’re my protégé.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
“Listen, next time you send furniture to Miami, bring it yourself. And you call, promise? We’ll go out on the boat,
