“Of course, when I said—”
“The Pursuit.”
Tired and worried, still holding him by the arm, Burlson didn’t seem to understand. “That’s what I want,” Rivera told him. “We’re talking serious risk for me. Any trouble, even just being a suspect, they deport me. That means the venture capital for what you want is your boat.”
Burlson blinked once but now squeezed again. “And I’m sure you know a handshake won’t do it.” Rivera waited until the old man nodded agreement. “But it would be too obvious if Mrs. Fenton died, and right away you gave a Mexican a boat worth two-hundred thousand,” he said. “So, what I want is for you to write a letter for your lawyer. To give to him later. Say, in two years. In this letter, I want you to say the boat’s a gift to James Rivera for his service to your family.”
“Two years.” Alert now, Burlson scrutinized him.
“That way, compensation won’t be linked to Mrs. Fenton.”
“I see.” Burlson nodded. “Down the road. A gift to a friend. Someone I fish with, someone who helps our family.” He was looking over Rivera’s shoulder, thinking it through. “It’s smart,” he said. “It fits. You help me, and two years later the boat’s yours.”
“Or a better one,” Rivera said. “You might trade up.”
Obviously, Burlson liked the arrangement. As they crossed the great room, he was half smiling. Who was going to make him give a boat to an illegal? But the idea would make him believe they had agreed, for a price.
As they reached the foyer, Rivera still felt rage in his stomach, like acid from bad food. He was too angry now to take down the Haileys’ tree.
Brenda pulled into Ray’s driveway. “Okay,” she said. “Go get your key, and I’ll drive you back.”
“No, I got a ride in the morning,” Ray said. “But you got to come in. You drive me all this way, you got to eat something.”
When she asked for a rain check, he frowned, not understanding. “It’s from sports,” she explained. “You buy a ticket for a game, but if it rains they give you a rain check for another day.”
“We got no rain now, okay? You got to meet my wife.”
“Another time, Ray. When we can have a real visit.”
Just coffee, then, but she had to come in, just for a minute. As they got out, Ray’s wife opened the door. Taller and lighter-skinned than her husband, with rich black hair that hung loose to her shoulders, Mrs. Colon was dressed in tan shorts and a black tee shirt. She looked from the strange woman to her husband as Ray spoke Spanish. Now Mrs. Colon smiled broadly and beckoned for Brenda to come in.
The living room looked lived-in but tidy, a mix of styles and colors that suggested resale. Striped wingback chairs, a well-worn tweed couch. On the walls hung a beach-scene sunset and a village plaza in rural Mexico. Next to the plaza hung a reproduction of a Nordic-looking Jesus.
“Please tell your wife I don’t want to be rude, but I have to get back.”
Ray translated. “Sí, sí—” Mrs. Colon nodded and left. Ray gestured for Brenda to sit. A TV was playing but stopped, and now a boy and girl came through the archway, herded by their mother. Carlos and Carmen, eight and ten, named for grandparents. Buenas noches—Brenda shook their small hands, waved when they were ushered back through the archway.
Then the coffee, strong and black. She said no to cream and sugar, this was how she always took it. As she sipped, Ray and his wife spoke Spanish. Mrs. Colon shook her head with an expression of weary acceptance, men and their foolishness. More coffee? Thank you, Brenda said, I have to go. She stood, handed Mrs. Colon her empty cup, and promised to come for a second, real visit. Ray translated, then gave his wife’s reply: you must keep your promise, and when you do, I will give you some true Mexican cooking, not the terrible food they call Mexican here in the States. Brenda said her goodbyes and left.
It was dark, the Colons’ side street unlighted. As she retraced her way back to the road to Naples, she felt warm and energized by the coffee. She felt hopeful and happy for Ray and his family. And for his cousin. They had come here from nothing, one of them legally, the other not.
On Friday, toweling off after her swim, she had watched two men cutting grass on the fairway. They sat on big riding mowers, dressed in long-sleeved khaki shirts, pants, caps and gloves. Goggles and noise-protector headsets completed the robot image.
Quinto Colon, AKA James Rivera, had found a way to trade in the khaki uniform for Oxford-cloth shirts and fishing trips with wealthy customers. Driving now along Immokalee’s main street, Brenda again saw him smiling up as she came down the escalator. The image was made for Norman Rockwell. Before Kennedy and Vietnam, Brenda thought. Before Watergate and Iran-Contra and Monica and Enron. Before 9/11.
Charlie Schmidt made a practice of hiring people down on their luck. Even ex-cons. He said it was wrong to write off someone because of their past. More and more, she needed Charlie’s steady, calm voice. Needed his take on James Rivera.
She was now on the dark rural road that would take her to the Interstate. Here and there, her headlights glanced off bright oranges hanging on trees close to the road.
People down on their luck, Brenda thought. A hundred-plus years ago, how many millions down on their luck in Europe would have saved themselves and their families the same way Rivera had? Without the Atlantic Ocean in the way, how many would have done the exact same thing? All Hands on Deck—she smiled. Rivera had come by ship, and maybe that explained his company’s name. He too had crossed a sea, like millions from Europe. And then, very quickly, he and his cousin had found—no, had made their way to the
