Birds of Paradise: A Novel (25 page)

“I’m sixteen,” Heinrich says. “I’m going to be in Milan—or L.A., I guess—by the time I’m twenty. My agent says I’ve got the spring cover of
GQ
in the bag. But I can’t wait to get into film. I’m done dicking around with modeling.”

“Sucking dick, more like it,” Tracey says.

“At least I’ve got a fucking life.”

“How about I’ll beat your fucking brains in you don’t shut the fuck up,” Tracey says, and takes a long, crackling hit on the joint.

Felice stays out on the beach, stoned and half drowsing, watching a bar of sunset glowing like a heated ingot. For a second she sees a gleaming bank of blue color, then a flash of green. It vanishes instantly. She curls up on her side on one of the beach blankets—a fuzzy synthetic with the remnants of a satin border: the sort of blanket that used to lie on a child’s bed. Felice wonders if Emerson saw that green sunset; she closes her eyes, listening to the stoned voices and the rising, gravelly wash of the waves.

Brian

T
HE RIGHT FRAME OF MIND IS LIKE A BETTER ANGLE
of light, Brian thinks, it changes everything. Last night, he and Avis sat on the couch, talking about the coming grandchild, ruminating over this newcomer. She put her feet in his lap. For an hour, he had intimations of an earlier life. The first evening in ages that they’d spent together. Old times. The only off note was when he’d raised, again, Stanley’s request for money. Avis had crossed her arms and looked displeased—as if it hurt her somehow. Again she’d said that awful thing, How do we know it’s ours? And Brian had almost said, At this point, I hardly care. He’d dropped the topic. He thought: She doesn’t believe we can afford it.

He slides his hand along his butter-colored leather briefcase. Downtown Miami glows in his windshield, the morning sun gilding the vines and fronds that border the highway. He strolls from the garage into his office building, hums in the elevator. He taps on his computer. Among a pile of messages from Agathe and Malio, three new emails appear on the screen:
[email protected],
subhead:
Acquisitions.

The sparkling mood dissipates. Parkhurst. Brian considers trying to get in touch with that group—what were they even called? Citizens’ Action Corps for Little Haiti? To say what, exactly?
Run?
Brian glances up: the lights are on in Fernanda’s office. He tries to direct his attention back to the laptop. To the right of the email box is a stream of news items:
Housing Market: Bubble Trouble? 2005: A Bigger Boom Ahead? Competing with Foreign Investors.
He clicks over to the live-feed weather channel to see the latest foaming white spiral flicker back and forth over the ocean. A tropical system like an Indian mandala, moseying toward the Caribbean, an announcer saying, “Climate analysts warn that this one looks like a doozy . . .” They always say that.

He smoothes his hands over his face and tries to imagine some sort of career escape route. Retirement holds no attractions: he’s a mediocre golfer at best, a duffer, and no good at working with his hands. Perhaps he should taper off from head counsel, shoot for something less front-lines, bury himself in the research libraries. He’s secretly imagined hanging out his own shingle, practicing on his own terms—but there is something daunting there. The sort of thing, he imagines, that would keep him awake at night, worrying about those billable hours. He lightly beats at his lowered temples with the flats of his open palms, a dull pressure building behind his eyes, the contents of his skull expanding.

A warble of corridor sound and Brian looks up to see a splinter of light. Javier in his door. “Aha, you’re here.” Javier taps a folder. “Got a little somethin’—somethin’ to talk to you about.”

“Not a great time, buddy.” He rubs his forehead.

“Good, for me neither!” Javier drops into the chair across from Brian’s desk. “In which case, let’s dispense with formalities. Here’s my question: Are you ready for your next million?” He slides the folder on the desk.

“The what?”

Javier laughs. “The latest million, bro. To add to the pile.”

“Pile? You’ve got me confused with sales. I’m a paper-pusher.”

“Ay, man, listen, I come bearing glad tidings.”

Brian pushes back against his chair, the apparatus tilting. “Parkhurst send you? About that Blue—whatever—Topaz place?”

“
Coño,
man, nobody fucking sent me.” Javier bounces his fist on the padded chair arm. “I’m here because I care about your gringo ass.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Javier holds both hands high, a big shrug. “Just got these listing details on my desk this morning. It’s a little extracurricular something, so no telling on me, okay? I heard about it from Brooksie Martell.”

“That guy!”

“Relax—Brooksie’s not attached to this. These guys are new.”

“What’s the name?”

“Prescott and Filson.”

“Never heard of them.”

“They were one of the groups in the big Bank Towers. Silent partners. Focusing on prestige projects.” Javier fishes in his suit pocket and draws out a ivory-gray card like a chip of enamel. He hands it to Brian. “They’re working with Shaquille O’Neal and Tom Hanks on a midtown restaurant package.”

“Hollywood money,” Brian sniffs, tossing the card on his desk.

“Who cares—old, new, Hollywood—long as it’s green, right? Listen.” Javier rolls forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “This is the real deal, Bry. They’re keeping the offer small and sweet. I know of two other top realtors buying in. Tippy-top.” He cocks his eyebrow. “Sales are limited to eighteen investors total. For the whole damn building. You gotta be invited.”

Brian smiles, despite himself. Javier has attempted to lure him for years. “Ah. So they’re doing the chosen ones a big favor—
letting
people hand over money?”

“What can I tell you? Have to pay to play.” Javier spreads out his hands, a lavish shrug. “They’re gonna call it the Steele Building—nice, huh? They snagged Ira Huntington—he designed it so it’ll look like a solid piece of stainless steel. It’s near the Indian Creek—
non-oceanfront
—they nabbed the property practically
gratis
—
stole
it from the Miami Beach geriatric crowd, and”—one hand tilts—“passing the savings along.” He picks up the folder. “You won’t believe the plans—cathedral ceilings, wet and dry bars, private theaters, tiered terraces. Each unit gets its own maid’s quarters.”

“Maid’s quarters. Jesus.”

Javier flips the folder open, one finger tracing the floor plans, tapping the brochure. “The units are going to be a-freaking-mazing—I just read the specs—the floors are getting this pink marble quarried right from Carrara. Viking ranges and Sub-Zeros—the real stuff, not the mass-market crap.”

“Heaven forbid,” Brian says. “And what are these miracles going for?”

“You get in for two point three, deep-deep preconstruction discount.”

“Two point three
million
? Are they dipped in gold?”

“You’re buying
floors,
man. Two units per. Two-floor minimum per investor. And you’ll be able to sell each unit separately. We’ll turn them around, I kid you not, for five, maybe six
each
. And
that
buyer’s gonna get a screaming deal and make a bundle. Come on, Bry, you know the game. I’m not telling you anything new here.”

Brian sinks his chin onto the heel of his palm. “Where’s that three million supposed to come from?”

“
Two
point three,” he says, “You don’t
have
two point three? Are you shitting me? You need me to open a home equity line for you, Brian?”

“Who else is buying in?”

“A few local big shots, some overseas clients.”

“What? Like, Saudis?”

“The client roster’s almost full. You want in, you’ve got till close of business tomorrow. Latest.”

Brian drops his hand on the
Times
and sits back, regarding Javier. He’s worked late hours with this man for sixteen years; they’ve whacked racquet balls and trudged across greens together; their families know each other, they have annual shared rituals: the Miami Ballet’s
Nutcracker
Suite; Mango Festival at the tropical garden. Brian leans forward, his weight resting on the desktop. “Everything’s tied up in other investments. And yes, Jav, it’d be quite a feat for me to get ahold of that much.”

Javier’s expression fades slightly. “What’re you saying? You can’t be bothered to move money out of those products getting you—what—ten—hell, say
twenty
—percent for a deal that’ll bring you maybe even a hundred percent return? Listen,
hijo
—there’s already big wallets getting in line behind the first buyers.”

Brian works his jaw; a popping sound. “
Now?
There’s already a second wave?”

“And
they
will have people lining up to buy. Couple weeks turnaround, maybe.”

“No waiting period? No ninety days?”

Javier shrugs. “Come on—things don’t apply to some guys the way they do to other guys. I don’t have to tell
you
. You got enough cheese, you write your own rules.”

Brian feels breathless; dismayed by a sense of his own collusion: for years he’s ignored such items as the company’s practice of issuing complicated investment IOUs to overextended clients, Parkhurst’s love of tiptoeing up to the financial line, overextending himself on costly architects, building materials, bribes for political candidates. Brian rubs one hand over his face as if erasing each feature. “Don’t like it.”

“
No
problema
. But—you ask me? The thing is? You’re walking away from the sweetest, easiest bundle you’ll ever make in your life.”

“Please. Do not patronize me.”

Javier laughs. “What patronize? Life is beautiful! Let yourself enjoy a little. It’s only top, top, top players in on this one. We’ll have the deal in the bag and the money spent practically before morning.”

“What about you? You going in on this glorious deal?”

“Yeah, just a little, little strapped right now.” He runs his tie between two fingers. “Hey, I make a couple of the commissions on your excellent investment, I’ll be right in line myself.” Javier’s voice lowers, smug and cagey. “You’ve got to have faith.”

Brian gazes at Javier. His mouth feels papery, even the tips of his fingers seem desiccated. “This would be funny if it weren’t so . . .” There’s that tremor again in his hands. He holds them in loose fists, and sits back. “If I didn’t want to buy one of those townhouses in the Grove for two hundred sixty K, why on earth would I go for this spaceship?”

Javier spreads out his fingers on the desk top so they seem to float on its green glass surface. “These guys are young and lean and hungry. They want to make their mark and they’re being smart—” Javier ducks, lowering his voice to a hiss. “This is the kind of discount you’d never see from Parkhurst. Or any of the other
viejos
around here. Not in a billion years.” He gives Brian a narrow look. “This is the jackpot, buddy. I’m not talking to you as your realtor here, I’m talking as your
compay,
your
compañero
. I haven’t seen a deal like this in forever.”

Brian locks his arms across his chest: he can envision his son’s face so clearly, eyes downturned in disapproval. “Then it’s too good to be true. Or it shouldn’t be true.”

Javier nods slowly; moving closer; his hand is on Brian’s arm and Brian straightens, terrified Javier might try to embrace him. “Man, I am worried about you, you know? You’re being weird at work, you’re being weird about your kid . . .”

“
Kids
—I have two children.”

Javier closes his eyes. “
Hombre
. I know that.”

“What do you want me to say, buddy?” Brian’s hands come together then separate on his desk. “I don’t even know . . .” He looks as if he’s holding something broken open—a nut or a shell. “Your kids—it’s okay between you and them, right?” He squeezes his hands back together. “After Felice—you know . . . I think I did it wrong. I mean, should’ve come home more. Something.” He tries to speak conversationally, but his voice is humiliating, jagged and bouncing. “And Stan . . .” He shakes his head. How does it work, this process of rethinking things?

“Stanley’s a great, great kid,” Javier says softly. “He grew up to be fantastic. He knows you love him, brother.”

When Brian smiles this time, it really does feel as if something on his face must be cracking. “Why does he know it?”

Javier shrugs again, but cheerfully. “I don’t know, man. Seems like kids just kind of love their parents, right? One way or another. No matter how crappy we are. Crazy system, huh?”

Brian’s face has gone numb. “Really crazy.”

“Fuck, man.” Javier stands, scooping up his files. “What do I know? I’m a realtor. Forget the stupid deal—I get carried away. Just. Don’t worry so much, right? You can’t be a lawyer every second, you know? You can take it easier than that.”

As Javier scrapes together his papers, Brian’s hands and face relax. He clears his throat and says, “Tell me again—about those condos?”

IN THE STILLNESS
following Javier’s visit, Brian paces his office, circles the computer stretching his arms and neck, checking on the cityscape below. There’s a stinging hum through his body: if he still had a bottle of single malt in the filing cabinet, now would be the moment for a belt. Instead he leans forward, allows himself a glance down the corridor to Fernanda’s office: through the glass wall, he catches the gleam of her hair as she bends toward her screen. He feels, in some way, off-kilter. All these years of working for a developer, yet simultaneously holding himself aloof from participating in development: as if, he thinks with a great inward roll of the eyes, he could remain unsullied, untouched by the flow of money beneath his feet. Just as he’d once believed that Avis carried within herself some proof of Brian’s own innate decency. Because Avis had married Brian—because she loved him—
ipso facto,
he must be a good man.

He holds a contract folder and gazes mournfully at his immense blue-gray view until he realizes that he’s staring at a reflected face. He turns and Fernanda is there, standing over his visitor’s chair. Had she seen him spying? Her eyes cut toward his, an amused, slippery glance. “Can I steal you for a second? I’d really like to get away from this place.”

“Away—out of here, you mean?” He puts down the folder.

“I don’t care where—just anywhere. You pick.”

As soon as they leave the parking garage, she turns to him. “First of all, I’m so sorry.” He glances up from the traffic. She is gazing at the dashboard as if she were fond of it. “I acted like an idiot the other day. That’s just—that’s not how I am. All the tears. It’d been a long day and I haven’t been getting enough sleep.”

“My dear,” he starts, but Fernanda cuts in. “Wait, please. I’m so embarrassed about the things I told you. About me and Jack.”