Ivy was proud of himself because he had recorded his wife’s phone calls. Rivera unhooked the painting. He turned with it and looked down.
“First, we’re going to get the Johns wherever you put it,” Ivy said. “Then we’re coming back here. You’re going to hang the picture where it belongs. Then we’re calling Immigration.”
“Why?” Rivera had not seen the future until now.
“Because I don’t like you, that’s why.”
“We took good care of your father.”
“‘No heroic measures,’” Ivy said, again imitating his wife’s voice. “‘No intervention.’”
“Mrs. Ivy told me those were your wishes, not just hers. She told me your father said he didn’t want to live anymore.”
“Dad didn’t know what he wanted.”
Rivera sat on the chest and slipped off with the picture. He worked into his boat shoes. Ivy followed as Rivera moved toward the hall. “You knew she was screwing someone,” Ivy said.
“It’s none of our business.” Rivera turned down the hall. “Our business is doing what clients ask us to do. We take care of people when the family isn’t available.”
“Maybe you were on her to-do list, too, huh, Jimmy? A little tequila? She loves margaritas. Maybe a medley of mariachi favorites?”
Rivera entered the dim bedroom and stepped up on the bed. He re-hung the bird picture and turned. Ivy was looking at him from the entry.
“No, we just took care of your father,” Rivera said. “And lots of others. We take care of their needs. We listen to their stories. We don’t insult people who can’t remember what day it is. It’s our job.”
“You’re good,” Ivy said. “No shit. You’ve got it down, the whole friend-to-seniors schtick. There’s just one problem. You hitched your burro to my slut wife. That’s what you did, and I checked you out. You aren’t kosher, Jimmy. There’s no such thing as James Rivera. You have a fake driver’s license and green card, and you know what? I think you’re going home real soon.”
“I don’t want to embarrass him,” Brenda said.
Schmidt drove without answering. He turned up the air conditioning. His rental was a Lincoln Town Car, and he had chosen it as a joke. His plan had been to show up in his summer shirt, playing the Naples sport for her by driving a huge boat of a car. Now the Lincoln seemed all wrong.
They passed the clubhouse. People were still practicing their putts, and the women’s doubles match was still in progress. He remembered the stressed-out greenskeeper. The ladies were getting in a last set before karaoke.
“You see what I’m talking about,” Brenda said. “The house is open, so there’s no reason to think anything’s wrong. His car’s there. We call, and the police show up just as he walks in the door.”
Schmidt thought she was talking mostly to get him to answer. To get him involved. “He must know people here,” he said.
“Rayette made some calls. Only two people on his street are here, and both of them work. Everyone else is out of town. She says no one’s seen him. He’s hard to miss.”
“Yeah?”
“About six-three, with white hair.”
Stop being stupid, Schmidt thought. Stop feeling jealous over someone’s height and hair. He still felt bad about the Szechuan beef remark. “Wait a day,” he said. “Maybe someone picked him up. He could be doing business here.”
“He’s retired,” Brenda said. “He was a lobbyist in Michigan.”
“Okay, but he could own real estate. Maybe he’s checking out property.”
Schmidt looked at her and back to the road. He glanced at the tennis players in his rearview.
This is the payoff, he thought. A gated golf course for sales reps, lawyers, middle managers. Apartment-house owners. Lobbyists. This was life after work for people who had spent thirty or forty years earning a living. Now, they wanted distractions. Golf, of course, but also yoga classes and live music for dancing on weekends. Brunch on Sunday, cruises you could pick up on the cheap. Beach parties and book clubs, charity work, church fundraisers. Schmidt didn’t know why, but it all put him off.
He pulled into her driveway and turned off the ignition.
“Come on,” she said. “You must be hungry.”
He undid his seatbelt and got out. Gardenia bushes were in bloom on both sides of the entrance. Schmidt stood smelling them, and now glanced at his carry-on bag in the backseat. Brenda was at the entry, waiting. She seemed truly glad he had come, but it would be awkward now, getting the suitcase out, bringing it in with him. Get it later, Schmidt thought, and moved toward the door. He reached her, and she took his hand.
“What’s with the wheels?” She was smiling, looking at his rental.
“I wanted to fit in,” he said.
“To be a sport.”
“That’s it. To be a regular Naples-type guy.”
She raised his hand in hers, brought it to her face and smiled again. “Do I smell paint?” she asked. “Eggshell latex?” He smiled back, reassured she remembered he’d been working. But now she was serious again. “What do you want to eat?” she asked.
“Whatever you’ve got.”
“How about some brats?” Brenda smiled. “I must have known you were coming, I bought them on Saturday. Or we could have grilled shrimp.” She dropped his hand and readied her key, but turned back. “No, sorry, no shrimp,” she said. “I gave someone a lift on Saturday. All the way to Immokalee, where the workers live. When I got back here, the shrimp looked yucky.”
“Brats, then,” he said. “Wisconsin comes to Naples.”
“And salad with Marie’s chunky-style blue cheese. I have a baguette, there’s red wine and fresh fruit.” She opened the door. “The guy I gave the lift to is James Rivera’s cousin,” she said. “He locked the keys in his van.”
Schmidt followed her inside. It was his first time in the front end of the house, and this, too, felt awkward. But it was Brenda, talking about food he liked and going on about
