“I read about it.”
“What was it, five dead?” Larson shook his head. He was big and looked crowded behind the wheel. “Twenty-some vehicles.”
“Fog or rain,” Rivera said. “Nobody slows down.”
“It’s even worse in Chicago,” Larson said. “All because of four-wheel-drive. Ten- or twelve-inch snowfall, who cares? You’ve got the Range Rover, just bust through.” Larson laughed. “They all need a course in physics. They don’t get it. Four-wheel-drive doesn’t change anything brake-wise.”
It’s good, Rivera thought. A former client had recognized him and stopped to help.
It was how things should be, with loyalties and mutual self-interest. But it wasn’t how things were, because he was Mexican. Never forget it, he thought. Learn as you earn. From now on, he would trust no one but family.
“You didn’t call,” Larson said. “I meant it when I asked you to. I don’t give my card to everyone. It’s James, right?”
“Right,” he said. “I didn’t forget. I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t I know.” Larson nodded sympathetically. The familiar warble of a phone sounded. “I come down here for some R and R,” he said. “What a joke. Pissing off other foursomes, having to let people play through to take another call. Pretty soon, no one’s going to play with me, it’s completely out of hand.”
He reached to the dash and unclipped the phone. “Gordon, my man… Am I where? What do you think this is, ‘beam me up Scotty’? I’m on my way right now, I’m in shorts for Christ’s sake. Who, Sherron Watkins? Of course she will, why wouldn’t she? No, Gordo, never happen. She’s the poster girl for corporate virtue. You watch, they’ll trash Lay and Skilling for a couple hours. They’ll both take the fifth and that’s that—”
I’m too busy. Rivera smiled. It was always the best answer, because it sent the right signal. You weren’t neglecting anyone or being rude. You were just too busy. Too occupied with deals and work. Too successful. At the airport, he would not be able to rent a car, but a cab to the bus station would work just as well. Perhaps better. Having to leave Naples wasn’t good, but things would work out. There was a reason for everything, and this was just part of the big picture. Like the twelve thousand from Mrs. F.
“Know anything about Enron?” Larson re-slotted the phone.
“Just what’s been in the news.”
“9/11 gave them a breather but not anymore. Lots of litigation. If you’re free tomorrow, tune into C-span, it should be good.”
“Your law firm’s involved?”
“Indirectly. We did work for Arthur Andersen. Between you and me, James, it’s curtains for that shop. But they’re in denial. They want more people in their corner. That’s why I have to fly up.”
“I see.”
“It’s the worst timing.” Larson shook his head. “I was just on my way to Miami in this thing. To pick up my wife. Do you believe it? What is it now? Twenty-seven months since 9/11? She still won’t get on a plane. She rode down with someone to Pompano Beach, then she took a cab to Miami International. I’m just out the door to meet her when I get this call from D.C. ‘Get up here yesterday.’”
He clicked on his high beams and eased off the accelerator. “I haven’t told her yet,” Larson said. “She’s waiting at the airport in some motel. She said the room was moving when the bellboy turned on the lights. Not from planes taking off, from palmetto bugs. On the walls. She said they were bigger than Brian’s slot cars.”
Rivera laughed. Old people told you lots of stories. It gave them pleasure, and so you listened. But Teddy Larson was another matter. He was talking as though they were friends. Where was it going?
“I would’ve stopped anyway, but right now I’m thinking, if James doesn’t have a hot date, maybe he can do me a huge favor.”
There it was. Chilled in the rush of air coming from the car’s dashboard vents, Rivera felt relieved. The future had been waiting all along, and now it took shape in his head. He saw himself driving the Jag. He was heading east through The Everglades, along Alligator Alley, slicing over the top of Big Cypress National Preserve to hook up to the metropolitan network that would take him into Miami. The Mazda’s two front tires had blown just minutes before Teddy Larson started north on I-75.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t have anything on,” Rivera said. “I’m taking a personal day tomorrow. I thought I might do some fishing.”
“God, this is perfect.” Larson slapped the wheel. “You’ll save my ass if you do this, and I’m not joking. Hell, my wife would rather drive back with you anyway.”
Rivera laughed again. He hadn’t put on his seatbelt but now fastened it. He admired the car’s interior. “Not a problem,” he said. “Tell me where to meet her, and I can be there in less than four hours.”
Larson let out a sigh. He shook his head. “You are my main man,” he said. He reached over and punched Rivera lightly on the shoulder. “And these are billable hours, James. Absolutely.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, I’m serious. Three hundred an hour, starting now. Believe me, compared to divorce, I’m getting off cheap. See, this is her car. Don’t ask me why, it’s a piece of crap, but she loves it. When she sees you come for her in her own car, my stock is going to have a nice pop. I won’t be coming back to snow in February. If you get my drift.”
Snow in February, drift. Rivera smiled. “Pun intended?” he said.
“What?” Larson’s eyes were trained on
