“Over and done with,” Rivera said. “Finished. That was then, this is now. Time to turn the page and move on.”
“See that? Do you hear yourself? How much you know, and you’re not even thirty? Amazing. Okay, now, it’s clear what to do. So please repeat it to me for safety’s sake.”
Rivera repeated everything. When he finished, Kleinman whistled. “Perfect,” he said. “Every detail. A sponge you are, everything straight in your head the first time. It makes me sad.”
“Why sad, sir?”
“About this trouble you have that means you need to stop doing business in Naples.” Kleinman cleared his throat. “But, you know, James, all through history they took us Jews to the cleaners. They took our money, our houses, they took incredible art collections—”
After dropping Larson at the airport, Rivera had driven back to the Mazda. The 5 picture was in the trunk. The boot, they called it in England.
“—and I’m talking real art,” Kleinman said. “Your Picassos, your Renoirs. Not even mentioning the millions of lives they took. But see, they can’t take what you know. All the jokes about Jewish doctors and lawyers? It’s no joke, young man. You give young people knowledge, it’s portable. It goes with them anywhere.”
Kleinman sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s late. You go to that parking structure and wait. It won’t take long. And James?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right now, while you’re driving, throw away the phone. Don’t worry, the party meeting you will have a new one.”
“Goodbye, sir. Thank you.”
He had wanted to call his cousin one more time. But Rivera buzzed down the window and tossed the phone.
Green signs overhead gave directions to airport parking. He reached the Baxter Avenue exit, swung right and descended the ramp. There was no way to know when or how he would be able to contact his cousin. But Ray would be all right. There were receipts, good records. Money had been set aside, taxes paid. Whatever might happen, they could not charge Ray. We always paid our bills, Rivera thought. We never missed a payroll.
As he followed traffic, he saw the highway’s grassy embankment needed mowing. In this climate it never stopped growing. Without Mexican labor to trim the hedges, build the houses and care for the golf courses, in a month’s time you would have to turn out the lights here or in Naples. He could go anywhere because he knew what he needed in order to win. In Arizona, Texas, New Mexico. He would first do something simple, like landscaping. Just for a while. He had learned how to gain the confidence of old people, and their numbers were growing. The baby boomers, people born after World War Two. Arizona, Nevada. Nearing old age, they were chasing the sun.
He would follow them. And legal status would come. He wasn’t yet thirty; what had happened was a speed bump. A little glitch. Education, education. Jews know this better than anyone, because of our history. From bible times on, we learned they can’t take that from us.
They. It’s true for us, too, Rivera thought. He followed the arrows, cruising right. Now left. The parking structure loomed ahead. He signaled and slid into the right lane. Now he slowed and stopped in the line waiting for the security check. When the trunk-search was underway in front of him, he got out Teddy Larson’s registration and his own forged license. He watched the officer and felt no fear. Everything was working as though rehearsed, and he thought again of Kleinman in his big office. He had little toys on his huge desk, ball bearings on strings. You raised and dropped the first. It swung down and popped the next bearing, sending energy down the line. And a clear plastic box, with bearings that dropped through a hole and set in motion levers and pendants.
The car ahead moved to the ticket machine. As the gate rose, Rivera pulled forward and used the trunk release. He lowered the window and handed out his license and registration. “The car’s not mine,” he said. “Mr. Larson asked me to pick up his wife. If you need it, here’s her number—”
He handed it out as the trunk was slammed shut. The guard leaned to glance inside, handed back his fake ID, and waved him forward.
He got his ticket from the machine, and the gate rose. The Jaguar’s engine now growled in confinement as he took the corkscrew ramp. You accepted what came, you adapted. But no matter how rich he became, Rivera would not buy a car like this one. Or flashy jewelry. He would keep sending money to his brother and sister in Mexico. He would get them here. It would just take more time, more patience.
He rose, seeing pylons blocking the entrance at the second level. At the third level he swung off. A random scattering of cars occupied the low-ceilinged expanse of raw concrete. Rivera drove slowly toward the elevators and came to a stop opposite the stainless steel doors. He turned off the ignition. Trash had overflowed the barrels between the elevators and stairwell. Seeing the heaps of fast-food containers and soda cans made him remember an expression. Trailer trash. He had forgotten to write it down. “Trailer trash” meant the same as “white trash.”
A car started somewhere as Rivera reached over and popped open the glove box. He checked it for anything with Larson’s name. Finding nothing, he snapped it closed and undid his seatbelt.
A car jolted to a stop in front of the elevators. Two men got out, both black, one wearing a cap, the other in corn rows. Both came quickly, shag-walking toward him, both there now, one on either side of the car. The one in the cap raised a sawed-off shotgun and tapped the windshield.
He didn’t think they would shoot, but Rivera did not want to risk the car. He opened the door.
“That’s right, motherfucker,
