“You real nice to her,” Ray said. “You tell her how nice is her landscaping, the paint job on her house. I seen you do it.”
“Not this time. This time she says ‘I made a mistake’ and slams the door.”
“Stupid old lady.” Ray drank his beer and looked out on the street. “All this money, these old people—” Bottle poised in front of his mouth, he thought a moment. “There should be like a timer on their forehead,” he said. “Your timer go off, goodbye.”
“For people like that woman, I send Stuckey, in a long-sleeved shirt.”
“You got Derek,” Ray said. “You got Aaron.”
“That’s right. Derek’s southern, Aaron’s Jewish. Do you have any idea how amazing it is to find a Jewish guy willing to do this kind of work? When Aaron shows up, the Jewish clients think they died and went to heaven.”
“Yeah, well.”
“But you’re right.” Rivera set down his soda. “Dennis is not the perfect employee for All Hands. I told him to cover the tattoos when he’s on duty. And no piercings.”
“Look like someone use a rivet gun on him,” Ray said. “Un payaso. Tonto.”
“Also, I’m trying new things that Stuckey is useful for,” Rivera said. “Operations off the books.” Ray Colon frowned at this. “Don’t worry, we’re fine.”
“Why you don’t tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“What that mean, ‘off the books’? This is something you got from Kleinman, right?”
“Yes. And trust me, Ray. It’s going to be good for us. In a few years, the laws will change. We’re ahead of the curve, and someone like Stuckey is useful. I need him.”
“Need Stuckey.” Ray finished his beer. “Just please don’t mess up a beautiful thing.”
◆◆◆◆◆
Ray’s wife always held dinner for him. When he left, Rivera got out his cell phone. A mix of salsa and mariachi music pulsed from inside the cantina as he tapped the speed dial for Rachel Ivy’s private number. He cupped his free ear.
“God, I thought you’d never call. You told me seven, I made sure… Hello? Who’s this?”
“Hello, Mrs. Ivy, it’s James Rivera.”
“Jesus.” Rachel Ivy coughed. “I thought you were someone else. Say something first, why don’t you? What do you want?”
That was how Rachel Ivy always talked. No greeting or manners. No class. “Mr. Ivy died this afternoon,” he said.
“Today? Jesus. Just a minute—” He heard music on her end. Seconds later it stopped. “All right, tell me what happened.”
“He was in the pool.”
“God, he drowned? I thought we agreed—”
“One of my assistants was there,” Rivera said. “He left for a minute to go to the kitchen.”
“Oh. Well, that could happen.” Rachel Ivy sounded relieved. “Nobody can be there every second. So you don’t think… The police—”
“They came. They talked to me and the attendant. They’ll contact you about an autopsy, but it’s just routine.”
“God, why? What’s the point—”
Rachel Ivy was a heavy smoker and started coughing. She was holding the phone away, making the hard, deep hacking sound he had heard before. Whenever he called her private line, Rachel always reminded him of “our wishes,” assuring him she spoke for both her husband and father-in-law. We think he’s been through enough, she’d say.
But Rachel Ivy meant something else. After his mother’s death, her husband George had left his father to live in the Naples house. “Under foot” was how Rachel described what this meant for her own life. Of course she was fond of the old boy, but really. All this science, all these techniques for keeping people going. They were against nature, weren’t they? She had then said—not telling him anything, just thinking out loud—that if, say, a time should come, a moment when All Hands on Deck had to make a decision, the family was against what she called “heroic measures.”
“Okay,” she said, clearing her throat. “Jesus, okay, listen. I owe you. You’ve been super down there, I mean it.”
“I’ll arrange with Fuller Funeral Home to handle the details.”
“Perfect. And go top of the line, Jimmy. George will want that. Go with mahogany, whatever their best casket model is.”
“You mean for the viewing.” Rachel didn’t answer. She had forgotten Naples was at sea level. “I assume you want cremation,” he said. “Unless you want Mr. Ivy sent north.”
“God, I forgot. You mostly don’t put anyone in the ground there. No, that’s better,” she said quietly. “I’ll hold off telling George about the cremation. That way, there won’t be a lot of hemming and hawing over what to do. He can have a nice urn in his office. That’s great, Jimmy, you think of everything.”
“I liked Mr. Ivy,” he said.
“Well, hell, I did, too,” Rachel Ivy said defensively. “He was a chipper old guy. He invented I don’t know how many doohickeys for cars. I really did, Jimmy. He just got so…”
“I understand.”
“Now, when we talked—I have to go here real quick—last time or before, I don’t remember, but I know I mentioned there were things there you were welcome to.”
“Things you preferred not to keep.”
“Exactly, not to keep. They’re yours, Jimmy. All of it.”
“I made a list.”
“Everything in his room—well, no, wait. Don’t throw out the pictures, George would go ballistic. His mother painted those. But everything else. All the furniture, stereo, TV. The Oriental rug in his room, I think that’s worth something. There are all those God-awful Hummel figurines Ellen collected, they have to be worth something. His clothes. Well—” She cleared her throat “—you know, we talked.”
“I understand.” Rivera waited for her to bring up their arrangement.
“I’m sure you do, Jimmy.” Now that Rachel Ivy’s father-in-law was no longer under foot, she sounded personal, even cordial. Now you deserve respect, he thought. Now you’re a person. “If you can take care of everything before I
