“When are they delivering the grout?” he asked.
“The nurse out there?”
“With Mrs. Fenton.”
“This is no good.”
“You had a long day, Mr. B.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some kid,” Burlson said. “I’m seventy-six. I’m still all right, but I’m up there. I deserve what’s mine.”
“It’ll work out.”
Burlson put his hands in the pockets of his shorts. He continued staring at the Gulf. “Work it out, my ass,” he said finally. “We both know the situation.”
“Yes, but we shouldn’t talk about it. Not here.”
Burlson shook his head. “You don’t know a goddamn thing.” Hands jingled change as he looked down at his boat shoes. After a moment he stomped his foot. “You know what’s under us? That’s what you don’t know. Six condos.”
“You told me—”
“Listen, young fella, I’m locked in on six. I collateralized the whole thing last August with Betty’s estate. Before she made all these changes. I assumed…”
He turned and looked at Rivera. “I need that money,” he said quietly. “Right away. Back there just now? Talking to my wife? It’s a symptom. I still can’t believe she did this to me. That’s why I’m talking to her, it’s why I have dreams. I dream she tells me she made a mistake, she didn’t know about the six units.”
Looking to the open slider, he motioned with his head. “Her mother’s in perfect health. Tip top. I took her to the doctor last week. He said she’s got the heart of a sixty-year-old.” Again he looked at Rivera with tired, desperate eyes. “You say wait. I can’t. And it’s wrong, dammit. The woman wants to go, it wouldn’t be something against her wishes.”
He took several steps and stopped in front of Rivera. Now he leaned close. “You heard her say it,” he said softly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t. Before she got really bad, she said ‘Time to go.’ You were there when she said it, Jim.” Burlson straightened and jingled the coins in his pockets. “She was right, too. She can’t even remember she wants to die. I say that leaves me some kind of responsibility.”
“We’ll talk.”
“No, no more talk. This deal’s not negotiable.”
Burlson turned away. After a moment he walked over and stood looking down at a stack of tile. He raised the top tile and let it drop with a clap. “9/11 screwed up the high-end of the market,” he said. “I can’t flip them soon enough. That means I have to close. Otherwise, I lose a two million-six deposit.”
He looked over his shoulder. “But don’t worry, I’m good for it on your end. Anything you want, within reason. You’re a smart guy, I respect you. Hell, you’re smarter than half the suits that worked for me. You come here, learn the culture, the language. But Jim, hear me now, understand me. I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t in a bind, but you have to help me on this. Otherwise, I go to the I.N.S.”
Only now did Burlson face him. Nodding to confirm what he’d said, he fumbled nervously in his pockets. “That’s right,” he said. “Immigration and Naturalization Service. It’s that bad, I’m desperate. All Hands on Deck is set up in your cousin’s name, and I know why.”
You needed to be ready for anything. For curveballs. Kleinman had taught him that in Boca Raton. Don’t think you know anyone too well, he said. Think Darwin. Think Natural Selection. Be light on your feet. Able to adapt, able to turn on a dime.
Filling with rage, Rivera duplicated Burlson’s pose, hands in his pockets. He took slow, deep breaths and looked out at the remarkably smooth Gulf. Rage was rare in him. The last time had been at the nursing home in Lauderdale. Jealous of Arnold Kleinman’s new protégé, a Haitian worker had sliced open Rivera’s cheek, cutting through to the gum with a weed whacker. Police had come and a report was now on file. The worker had been fired. He had no papers or identity like Rivera. Waiting a month—being patient—Rivera had then killed him. He had buried the body under newly planted sable palms in back of the nursing home. That’s when he and Ray had come to Naples.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be bad. I don’t think you’d do this if it weren’t.”
“Life and death, Jim, I mean it. All this—” Burlson swept his hand at the penthouse “—it’s a prison. Jail. You help me, I’ll help you. Listen, I have friends. If you had trouble sometime, anything between you and being legal, I know people.”
Bullshit. Anyone playing the Immigration card would never get involved. It had been a mistake to deal with third parties. Once they got what they wanted, they forgot you. He’ll give you his mother-in-law’s junk, Rivera thought. He’ll think he’s being generous, then write it off his taxes. After his spic flunky kills the mother-in-law.
But Rivera said, “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
In the light of the open door wall, Dale Burlson’s old face softened with gratitude. He stepped closer. The folds relaxed around his mouth, his forehead smoothed. He took another step, reached out and slowly tapped Rivera’s chest. “You’re the kind of people that gives this country a future,” he said softly. “I mean it. Come here with nothing—” still he tapped “—no crying, none of this gimme gimme crap. Come here, figure it out. We’re on the same page, you and me.”
“Yes, I think we are.”
“Think we are, exactly.” Gripping Rivera’s upper arm, he turned him and began walking him slowly toward the open entry. “You’ve been thinking about it.”
“I may have something.”
“You would, you would, that’s my boy—”
As they crossed the big room, Burlson squeezed Rivera’s arm, exactly as he had on the day they had picked up his new boat. “But soon, Jim,” he said. “I mean days. We’re into extra innings here, this is overtime. You understand?”
“Soon.” Rivera stopped. “But we’re talking business, not just good
