“Most people have to work thirty years for a watch like that,” Rivera said.
“Yeah, I got mine in like thirty-six hours.”
Neither spoke again until they had exited the basement garage. Several elderly couples stood in a group on Pelican Bay Boulevard. One man was pointing up at Le Bonheur with a putter. Rivera angled left and drove slowly east. It was not yet nine-thirty, but sun fell bright on the asphalt. It was the dry season now, making the trees and hedges look bleached.
“The watch isn’t for retirement,” he said. “You’re not fired. That was for Buddy, to give him something.”
“He’s a prick,” Stuckey said. “Treating me like I offed the guy.”
“He’s doing his job, that’s all,” Rivera told him. “But it’s psychology. Someone died, someone must be responsible. If I fire you in front of him, he thinks I share his opinion of you. We give a nice annual contribution to the Police Officers’ Benevolent Society. If he likes us, Buddy will do what he can to keep All Hands on Deck out of the paper.”
Stuckey nodded. “But I know these cracker cops, man,” he said. “Just like the movies. They beat up on anyone with tats or piercings. Black or white, it doesn’t matter, they’re fucking bigots. If he takes the call next time I’m there, game over. I can see it. Three or four of them beating on me. Using cattle prods, all that shit.”
“You won’t be working with clients,” Rivera told him. “Not for a while. We had two people die. It’s not your fault, but I don’t want any hassle from Immigration. We’ll just let it go away, then you’ll be back.”
“Rubber hoses,” Stuckey said. “Clipping batteries to your balls.”
“That’s in Latin America.”
“Yeah, well, here too, man. They hate anyone like me. Anyone different.”
They reached 41. By now, the nearest access road to the Interstate would be bumper-to-bumper with paver and steel haulers, cement trucks and lumber deliveries. Rivera turned south and took Pine Ridge. When they stopped for a light, he looked over. “Was Mrs. Fenton with you when you caught it?” he asked.
“Yeah, right. Like I let her hold the colander. It kept perfect time,” Stuckey said. “Three-twenty, just after The Empire Strikes Back.”
9:20 a.m.
She listened a third time to Charlie’s voice. It sounded guarded to her. More distant. No, Brenda thought. You just hear it that way.
The beep sounded. “It’s me again,” she said. “As soon as you get in, please call me. We need to talk. If you’re already back, if you’re listening, Charlie, please pick up. Even if you don’t want to, we have to talk. In the same room, not like this. I wish you were here, Charlie, I was wrong.”
She pushed the button and felt disgusted with herself. Wish you were here, Charlie—exactly, Brenda thought. He wasn’t here, so that makes him responsible for what happened.
And if he did call, what then? Seated at the kitchen table, Brenda set her phone next to the laptop. Fully awake by five and feeling agitated, she’d taken a Valium. Added to last night’s drinking, the pill was keeping her groggy, but she had to stay busy. She was inside at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and typing notes she’d titled “family values.” Ray Colon’s family, followed by the woman in the road and her sad, bizarre elderly parents.
Music floated from next door. Tammy Wynette’s “I Fall to Pieces.” For the first time today, Brenda thought of Rayette Peticore. Maybe Rayette already knew everything. Maybe the club had security cameras up in the trees. She and Sweeney could be on local-access cable.
Country western wasn’t something she would choose for herself, but Tammy Wynette’s voice was full of conviction. Keyboard jazz was her own preference. Bill Evans, Oscar Peterson, Dave Brubeck. Once she was grown, she had come to love all the great jazz musicians from the late fifties and sixties. Chet Baker and Miles Davis on trumpet, Charlie Parker and Paul Desmond on alto sax. It had been her father’s taste. He had hated rock ’n’ roll, and so, as a matter of principle, Brenda had loved rock. She remembered playing it loud on purpose, turning up the volume in her room until the door opened. There he was, looking at her sprawled on her bed. Are you seriously interested in being put up for adoption? Brenda smiled at the memory. Always she had known her father wasn’t really angry. She could imagine Sweeney being that way with his grandchildren. Faking surprise, then fake anger, making faces for them so they knew grandpa was joking.
She focused on the kitchen table. It was butcher block, like the table in Sweeney’s kitchen.
“Yoo hoo—” Movement blinked outside the window’s plantation shutters.
The screen door slapped shut. Brenda stood as Rayette entered from the deck. “Here I go again, bothering you,” Rayette said and stepped into the kitchen. “I didn’t know if you had today’s paper. There’s an obituary for the man that died here Friday.” She handed Brenda the Naples Daily News. “Sorry I missed you last night,” she said. “A group of us went out to eat.” She looked down at the laptop.
“You aren’t interrupting anything,” Brenda said. “I’m just killing time.”
“No, you’re working.”
“Not really.”
“I’m reading your book,” Rayette said. “I got it from the hospital library. It’s a page turner, and I’m going back to it so you can keep working on the next one.”
Without waiting, she left. Brenda sat again. Rayette had folded the paper to death notices and circled one with yellow Magic Marker. Chester Ivy, born in Ypsilanti, Michigan, 1916. After graduating from the University of Michigan in 1938 with a degree in mechanical engineering, he had gone to work for GM. He had served in the Army during the war, then married Ellen Heubler in ’48. Rising through the ranks, Ivy had made his career at GM by designing innovations for Chevrolet. He had developed twenty-nine patents for the company. Under
