Burlson was talking about the codicil his wife had added to her will without telling him. Only after Betty Burlson’s death last October had he learned the details. As sole heir to her father’s estate, Elizabeth Fenton Burlson had replaced her husband as executor of her estate. Now, the executor was a bank officer. Through him, she had arranged for trust funds for her children and grandchildren, leaving the remaining assets to her husband. All this was unchanged from her original will. But because of the new provision, Dale Burlson’s share would not fall to him until after his mother-in-law’s death.
“You tell me,” he said. “What was she thinking? All these instructions, these requirements. I have to keep her mother at Le Bonheur. And I have to be there with her. She never liked me, Jim, I see that now. What a torpedo—”
Burlson looked at him with tired, pleading old man’s eyes. A gust of wind scattered his sparse hair. “I can’t travel,” he said. “I can’t even visit the grandchildren in Cleveland. She’s too frail to fly, Jim. I’m trapped here. OK, maybe Betty meant well. We talked a few times, maybe I suggested putting her mother in a nursing home. She could’ve thought I’d dump her, once Betty was gone, something like that. Who knows? So here she is. She and the dog. You know she wants to go. She said so lots of times, you heard her say it.”
Rivera nodded, but that was all. After talking to Rachel Ivy, he had decided never again to work with third parties. It was too dangerous. With someone like Hilda Frieslander, everything was over and done. But no more arrangements with third parties.
Burlson looked away. “Take me back,” he said. “I’m tired.”
He guided the car down the ramp into Le Bonheur’s garage. It was dark and empty, the concrete support columns white in the headlights. When the market improved, the garage would soon be filled with luxury cars, each space assigned according to the owner’s floor. Some of Le Bonheur’s new residents might be richer than Dale Burlson, but there was just one penthouse.
He came to a stop, turned off the ignition and looked in the rearview. Good, Burlson was still awake. Rivera popped the trunk, got out and opened the back door. The old man slowly worked his left leg out. Twelve hours on the water had made him look and act frail. He let himself be helped to his feet and waited for Rivera to retrieve his broad-brimmed hat. He put it on and shuffled after.
“Really tired, Jim.” Rivera lifted out the cooler. He slammed the trunk lid and moved toward the elevators. Burlson followed. “Really tired,” he said again.
“But it was good out there.” Rivera pushed the button. “You’ll feel better after we cook up the pompano.” Burlson shook his head. “Come on, Mr. B. Some good fish with that nice Pinot noir you talked about. Then you can watch ESPN.”
“Too tired. Glass of milk and put me to bed.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure. But we nailed ’em.”
“We did, sir, that’s a fact.”
“We nailed those suckers.”
They rode up. Not having to fix Burlson’s dinner meant there would still be time to take down Mrs. Hailey’s Christmas tree. Mrs. Hailey loved Christmas. Rivera believed she would leave the tree up all year, but her daughter had come down last week and objected. Do it immediately, she said as he loaded her bags in the van. I don’t want people thinking mother is losing it. Abrupt and rude, the daughter was like Rachel Ivy. Mrs. Frieslander had taught him the words for such people. They were patronizing and condescending.
But you went along. You smiled and nodded and went along. If you did, and if you worked hard and didn’t take your eye off the ball, you could have a future in this country. You could hit a home run. As the elevator shunted to a stop, he made a mental note to get his picture from the Ivy house. Before Rachel Ivy changed her mind. Working for people like her meant being ready when they threw you a curve.
The doors opened. With the cooler under his arm, he waited for Burlson to step into the marble reception room. Rivera readied his keys, crossed in front of the old man and unlocked the double doors. As he pushed in and stepped aside, he smelled burned food.
Burlson stepped in. “Home from the hunt!” he called, scuffing across the foyer. “We nailed ’em today, let me tell you! Where’s my gal? Betty?”
His voice was still echoing as Burlson now stopped in the huge living room. The muffled clang of a wind chime came from the terrace outside. Slowly he took off his Panama hat as Rivera closed the doors. The night nurse now appeared at the end of the condo’s south wing, and Rivera waved. She returned the wave and laid her cheek on her hands to signal Mrs. Fenton was asleep. The nurse stepped back inside.
Rivera carried the cooler to the kitchen. After placing the fish in the freezer, he rinsed the cooler, then crossed to the stove. A saucepan rested on the cook top. Before the nurse came to take over, Stuckey had cooked and burned some brown rice. Rivera carried the pan to the sink and filled it with water, then headed for the front.
“You can thaw—”
Burlson wasn’t in the living room. Rivera stepped back to the foyer and looked down the north wing. The old man watched sports, but no sound came from his home theater. Returning to the entrance, Rivera now saw one of the glass panels was open to the terrace. Burlson was standing outside, stoop-shouldered and looking out at the Gulf. Rivera crossed the
