“Amazing.”
“But if you wanted the 5 back, I’d go get it.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” At the van Ivy waited for Rivera to use the remote. As the side panel slid open, Ivy held out his hand. “Give me my house key.” Rivera found it on his key ring, worked it off and handed it over. Ivy climbed in back and Rivera closed the panel.
He circled the drive. George Ivy hadn’t cared about his father. He had left him in the care of nurses and hired attendants. Until it was Chester Ivy’s time, All Hands on Deck had been good to the old man, just the way they were good to Dale Burlson’s mother-in-law and forty-two other old people. You deserve the Pursuit, Rivera thought. But you’d never get it.
The 5 picture was different. He had earned it and it was his. Wherever he went, he would take it with him.
Ivy was staring at him in the rearview. Rivera looked to the road. Deserving didn’t matter to such people—but you couldn’t let emotions get in the way. Kleinman said people failed all the time at business because of their feelings. This is big, Jimmy, listen carefully. Pay attention. The joke goes like this. I blew ninety percent of my money on booze, broads, and boats. The rest I wasted. Get it? If you understand the joke, you know what I mean. Booze, broads, and boats—all emotions. That’s ninety percent of the guy’s attitude. Don’t let it happen, Jimmy. Stay off the sauce, and keep it in your pants. And don’t drop any money on big-ticket items except real estate. Stick to business, keep your head on straight. Read me?
“Your cousin got in under the wire—” Rivera glanced again at the mirror. Ivy was snapping on his seatbelt and sat back.
“He’s older than you by four or five years,” Ivy said. “That put him here sometime in the early nineties. Starting in ’94, a section of the Immigration and Naturalization Act allowed illegals to stay here and become permanent residents. They applied and also paid a penalty. That’s what your cousin did, but then the law was changed in ’98. It required people to petition, or apply for labor certification. You had to file before January of ’98. You came the following year.”
Ivy looked again in the mirror. “What is it, the fingerprint? You have to enter the database, otherwise, it’s no go.”
Rivera said nothing. Ivy had gone to the INS website. He was almost quoting from it. “Yeah,” Ivy said, still looking in the rearview. “If you want Permanent Resident status, that requires an FBI fingerprint and background check. Something tells me you wouldn’t want that. You might be able to fake it as an asylee, and claim you’re from El Salvador or Colombia. Ten thousand of those come every year. But how could you prove you lived there? That might be tough, even for a hotshot like you.”
They were now crossing the part of Donegal that hadn’t been developed.
“No,” Ivy said, “what you are is a deportable alien. False documents, illegal entry. How did you get here?”
Rivera looked at Ivy and back to the road. “That’s okay, hotshot. It doesn’t matter. But you did well, I have to say. Putting everything in your cousin’s name, but running the business yourself. You’re the smart one, but I would think—”
Ivy was again looking out the side window. He had folded his arms and was nodding to himself, acting the professor. “—Yeah, I would think the good times for you people won’t roll much longer. It’s not you, it’s the Arabs. After 9/11, the INS is on the case, let me tell you. Troops in the airports, camo uniforms to make the point, packing lots of firepower. Shit, it looks like your part of the world around here now. I happen to think it’s time we took the country back.” Ivy nodded to himself. “Nothing personal, it’s our own fault. We’re getting soft, letting in too many. We got soft letting you do all the heavy lifting. We took the path of least resistance. Now it’s time to shape up.”
You people. Rivera filled with hatred. They were all the same, every one of them. Like Burlson, every one of them was ready to play the Immigration card whenever it suited them.
He turned onto Carnarvon Court, reached to the sun visor and pushed Sweeney’s remote. Ahead, the garage door was rolling up. He passed the drive, stopped, and put the van in reverse. He guided it inside and turned off the ignition. In the rearview, he saw Ivy again waiting for him to open the panel. Focus, Rivera thought. He pushed the button, got out and waited. Last night, Sweeney had not known anything. He had just been in the way, like a big manatee swimming into an outboard motor. This was different. This was like Burlson.
The panel came to a stop, but Ivy stayed seated. He was looking down at the floor in front of him and now reached for something. He straightened, holding a book. He opened it and turned pages.
“A client gave it to me,” Rivera said.
Ivy turned another page, then looked out at him. After a moment, he set the book aside, undid his belt and slid out. “Which one?” he asked.
“Which client gave me the book? I don’t remember.” Hilda Frieslander had given it to him. Rivera opened the door to the house.
“He lives in Naples?”
“I don’t remember. I have a lot of clients.”
“Is he still alive?”
Ivy studied him a second before stepping into the house. He followed as Rivera led him to the dining room. Rivera pointed at the picture. “The owner’s in Michigan,” he said. “He’s a client. I
