She walked back into the dark open garage and found the light switch. Fluorescent tubes buzzed as she turned and read the block lettering. Her heart stumbled. She yanked at the van’s side panel and waited as it slid open. Pine scent tumbled out.
She looked out to the street. A halo of fog enveloped the streetlight. Hilda Frieslander, she thought. Chester Ivy. She looked back in the open van and saw a book on the far seat. Brenda reached across and ducked back out with it under the hum of fluorescent lights. She studied the cover photo, the thin, homegrown, slightly cracked-looking face that everyone from Michigan knew from dozens of news stories.
She opened the book and checked the index for marked references. Finding none, she fanned the pages for notes in the margin. Something had been marked in brackets, and she flipped back.
Oppressed by a fatal disease, a severe handicap, a crippling deformity? Show him proper compelling medical evidence that you should die, and Dr. Jack Kevorkian will help you kill yourself, free of charge.
It was quoted from the Detroit Free Press for March 18, 1990.
“Excuse me—”
Standing in the road under the street light, an elderly woman was straining to hold a dog on a leash. A cocker spaniel. The leash was retractable, the kind Tina Bostwick used with her golden retriever. Very soon, Tina would not be able to walk Sonny or even read. Brenda closed the book and stepped outside.
“We’d appreciate it if you’d follow the rules,” the woman said. She was tall and thin, dressed in a light blue sweater and matching slacks. “I’m sure Mr. Sweeney gave you a copy.”
“I’m not a tenant,” Brenda said. “I’m a visitor.”
“That’s fine, but please tell whoever is here we close our garage doors at night.”
“I’ll let them know.”
“If we don’t remind people, things start to slide.”
“I understand.” Brenda closed the garage and reentered the house. She left through the front door.
“Dennis! What you doing, man?”
Stuckey looked across the yard and waved. “In a minute! Be right there!”
“No minute, man, get your ass over here!”
He went back to the stove and turned off the burner. He dipped a wooden spoon into his pan of lentils, raised it and blew. Carrots, onion and celery, sea salt and fresh ground pepper, a little cumin. Tasting the lentils, he nodded, put down the spoon and moved again to the entrance. Across the yard, Ray and Bernard Perez were humping a sofa out of the house. The garage was now almost empty.
He started across. In the last hour, they had loaded everything worth taking for resale in Miami. We give the rest to charity, Colon said. For a tax write-off. What Colon had not explained was why, at night, they were also loading Rivera’s own furniture. Seeing they would take out the heavy stuff first, Stuckey had left them to go check his lentils. They paid him to sit with people, not get a hernia.
He neared the house, hearing them out front talking Spanish, humping the couch up the ramp into the truck. Stuckey entered through the open double doors to Rivera’s bedroom. The ceiling light was on, and he looked for something small to take out. A floor lamp rested next to an easy chair. He picked it up, carried it into the hall and moved to the kitchen entrance. A new electric knife sharpener sat on the counter, the cord still secured with a twist tie. He picked it up and moved with the lamp back out to the patio, into the garage.
It had been full of such things—coffee makers still in the original boxes, new walkers and TVs, a pair of battery-powered Amigo scooters. Even used, the Amigos would be worth a grand each. But there was lots of junk, too. Old patio sets, sprung or sunken chairs, chipped veneer end tables. You got to take it when the family give it to you, Ray said. They think they doing you a favor.
Stuckey crossed through the garage to the ramp as Colon was coming down. “I told you,” he said. “No old furniture. The lamp is old.” He reached Stuckey and took the knife sharpener. “Go on, take it back. Go have a seat, you less trouble that way.”
Kiss my ass, Stuckey thought. He carried the lamp back through the garage. With Rivera, you could at least have a conversation. He was the smart one, and he understood it was important to have someone like himself available. You were always going to have problems with old people. They got sick or fell, made up stories how you stole shit. If you were in Rivera’s position, you would need a point man, a lightning rod.
Stuckey retraced his steps into the bedroom and set down the lamp. He stood listening to them outside as they rearranged things in the truck. I’m a health-care provider, he thought. Not a piano mover.
It was the first time Stuckey had been in Rivera’s bedroom. He looked around.
It had pictures on the walls like those in the houses. Sunsets, scenes with sea oats blowing on a beach. The bed looked Spanish, and Rivera had two tall, matching wardrobes. Stuckey crossed and opened one. On hangers were blue and black blazers, some kind of silk sport coat, slacks. Lined up on the floor were pairs of the dress shoes Rivera wore when he escorted an old lady to brunch or a memorial service. Stacked on the shelf were laundered dress shirts and polos. All of them bore the Ralph Lauren logo.
Stuckey took down the top dress shirt, new and white, tissue paper folded inside. He listened. The men were still loading the truck. He turned with the shirt and stepped out the back. Rivera said you always dressed for the job you wanted, not the job you had. If you wanted to run
