“Teddy Larson—”
She saw Rivera looking at her in the rearview. They had reached an expressway.
“Tell us the story,” she said. “I’m interested.”
Rivera accelerated to enter southbound traffic. “Mrs. Larson married a Naples native,” he said. “From one of the original families. She told me the Larsons never liked her. After her husband died, they arranged with Teddy to sell her Port Royal house. That’s when they set her up at Grey Oaks.”
“Hell, Grey Oaks is high end,” Sweeney said. “Even for Naples. What are houses there going for now? Two or three million?”
“Or more,” Rivera said. “But the family didn’t want her in Port Royal.”
“Why?” Brenda asked. “What’s Port Royal?”
“Naples Old Money,” Sweeney said. “Families that made the town their personal preserve way back when. They’re making a fortune now on land deals, but I’m sure they don’t like all the new-money riffraff.”
She saw Rivera was again looking at her. He smiled. “I think you want to know what it’s like here for Hispanics,” he said. “Mrs. Krause said you’re a writer.”
It was exactly what she’d been thinking: did Naples Old Money see Hispanics as riffraff? “You’re right, I do,” she said.
“To be honest, I can’t tell you,” Rivera said. “I’m not political. Not into La Raza. The people for whom I work are from all over. Their families come from many countries. They treat me with respect, and I do the same. We speak the same language.”
For whom I work. Brenda smiled back. “I bet you speak it better than most of your customers,” she said. “The language.”
“English is a thing with me,” he said. “Some of the men working for me are Hispanic. I don’t let them speak Spanish on the job. It’s a rule.”
“You hire only men?”
“It’s the work we do. We aren’t licensed to do anything medical. We leave all that to the nurses. We handle the little things you don’t think about. That is, until getting old throws you a curve.”
“For example?”
“Ladders,” Sweeney told her.
“There you go.” Rivera nodded. “The houses here have vaulted ceilings, and a lot of high-hat recessed lights. Hard-to-reach furnace/AC filters. The Bennetts’ filter is actually located in the ceiling. Three or four times a month, someone calls at night because the smoke detector’s beeping. We do all the things you don’t think about until you break a hip. Or can’t see to work a screwdriver. This weekend, I’m taking down a Christmas tree.”
“All Hands on Deck will be lending a hand,” she said.
“Yes. I got the name from someone who owns a boat. I understand ‘hand’ is what’s called a synecdoche. Excuse me, I’ve got a call.”
A hum sounded, and a glass privacy screen glided up as Rivera raised his phone. Synecdoche, Brenda thought, and smiled. She turned to Sweeney. “How old do you think he is?” she asked. “Twenty-six? Eight? Welcome to the American Dream in the new millennium.” Sweeney just nodded. “You don’t agree?”
“Sure,” he said. “The American Dream. Alive and well.”
“What is it, Patrick?”
“Nothing at all. I just don’t know him.”
The answer surprised her. “You threw a punch for him,” she said.
“I was angry, that’s all. Some fat cat sees a Mexican lifting a suitcase and goes into vigilante mode. It put me off.”
“So I noticed.”
Sweeney turned away. He was facing the side window, his features reflected in the glass. He looked pensive. Even careworn.
As Brenda faced forward, Rivera was still talking. He, too, looked different now. Frowning as he listened. But he glanced up at the rearview and smiled at her—Talk to you later—and put the phone on the passenger seat.
Snafu, glitch, riffraff—
Remembering the new words helped Rivera to think. Dennis Stuckey had called to tell him that Chester Ivy had died in his son’s swimming pool.
By itself, Ivy’s death was no problem. The old man fell often and had a history of hospital stays. The problem was Hilda Frieslander. Later today or tomorrow morning, security at her building would check on her. There would be no link made to him, he was sure of that. But two dead All Hands on Deck clients in a single week—another curveball.
At least Dennis Stuckey had followed orders. By now, he had Ivy out of the pool and was calling the police. It was a first for Stuckey, a kind of test. And he had passed. He was not a good employee—lazy, unmotivated. But he had done exactly what he was told: if Chester Ivy shows signs of heart failure, or has an accident, do nothing to help before you call me.
Rivera exited the freeway and headed west on Pine Ridge Road. The frenzied pace of building in Naples had slowed, but you still couldn’t know what to expect. Wrecks, backed-up trucks loaded with pavers and roof tiles. Today, no delays. Smooth sailing. Fishing last week, Burlson had talked about taking over his father-in-law’s insurance business. Once we got the goddamn billing system updated, it was smooth sailing, he said. His wife had called the things she liked right as rain and top drawer.
The sayings gave Rivera confidence. But if things went wrong, you had to have an exit strategy. That was another of Arnold Kleinman’s Ten Commandments for business. Always have a plan B ready—they were shaking hands the day Rivera left Boca Raton. Save plenty of money, for yourself, and to protect Ray. If you have to leave, he can keep All Hands on Deck in business, until you can come back.
He checked his passengers in the rearview. The man was pointing, explaining something. Rivera looked back to the road. Brenda Contay, that was the woman’s name. Thirty-something, with high cheek bones, curly red hair, pale skin. She was simply but tastefully dressed in a white silk blouse and denim skirt, wearing good shoes, no jewelry. Rivera decided she had class.
If asked to describe what he wanted most from America, that
