A pure Maya? was the first thing that came to Elliot Steil’s mind while he shook hands with the widow and turned his I’m-a-good-guy smile on. In Miami Beach, the city of glamour, very deep tans are as common as flashy cars and dental-floss bikinis, but this lady’s skin was an intense auburn, a colour not easily found in people outside Central America. However, she was the racial opposite of a Maya woman in everything else: tall and willowy, emerald green eyes, Slavic cheekbones, upturned nose, thin lips. Why hadn’t he noticed her skin colour at the funeral? The answer came to him in a flash: She had been wearing black — hat, veil, gloves, and pantyhose included.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Scheindlin,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Elliot. Welcome. Come in, please. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s dispense with formalities. Call me Maria. Can you do that?”

“Sure” was his reply as he released her hand and crossed the doorframe.

“I ask because Ruben complained he never got you to call him by his first name.”

Steil raised his eyebrows and gave her a wry smile. “Well, it’s different.I owed him big time. My life, in fact. That made him very special to me.”

“I understand. Follow me, please.”

…

Curiosity stirred inside Steil as he watched her amble over to the sliding door. In the eight years that he had worked for Ruben Scheindlin, the old man had mentioned his wife maybe three or four times, always in passing. Short sentences like “These new shoes are killing me; present from the wife,” or “Have to be home by seven; wife’s having friends for dinner,” so Steil had never devoted a minute to try to imagine the woman until the day of the funeral. That sad morning, though, as he slipped into the jacket of his brand-new, off the- rack black suit, he had pictured a grief-stricken little old lady crying her eyes out. To his complete surprise, Sam Plotzher, IMLATINEX’s co-owner, had introduced him to a very poised woman at least four inches taller than the deceased. As he had expressed his condolences, her proud demeanour and firm handshake led him to believe that she was considerably younger than
Scheindlin’s seventy-eight. Well, what do you know? he had thought at the time, and exchanged a meaningful look with Tony Soto, who was also at the funeral. The Miami policeman and Steil belonged to that portion of humankind deeply distrustful of couples whose age difference is remarkable.

But this afternoon, six weeks later, there were no signs of mourning in her ensemble. She wore a white halter-neck top, loose ivorycoloured slacks, and sandals. Her hair, cut shoulder-length, was held in place by silver strips. She had gold studs in her earlobes, an expensive watch on her left wrist, and appeared stylish in a quiet way. Maria
slid the door open, went into the living room, shut the door. Midfifties, Steil guessed.

It was amazing to find out that Scheindlin had married a much younger woman. Was Maria his second wife? Had he divorced the first to marry her? Well, Steil reasoned, concerning women, some very bright, shrewd, and experienced men have been known to fuck up badly. Many of the less talented bring disgrace on themselves and their families on account of pussy. As a young dude he had twice dropped the good girl for hot, sexy babes who had dumped him after a few months. Nevertheless, it provided consolation to recall that the women who had made him act like a complete fool had great bodies. Maria had bony arms and legs, a can flat as a board, lemon-sized breasts, and narrow hips. Maybe Scheindlin had had a weakness for skinny broads. Or perhaps Maria was a decent, faithful wife whose lone extramarital love affair had been carried on with the sun. In which case he was just a narrow-minded, shallow, and backward male chauvinist who favoured chicks à la Salma Hayek.

The two years during which Scheindlin had smuggled chlorofluorocarbons into South Florida sprang to mind. Maybe he had tried to persuade his wife and daughter that excessive exposure to ultraviolet rays was risky and failed. Then the old man probably concluded that if he did not seize the opportunity, others would. Scheindlin had made a lot of money with CFCs, the visitor remembered.

…

The day before, out of the blue, the widow had called him at the office and asked him over for drinks and a friendly chat. He told her he was honoured by the invitation and would most surely attend. Then, after hanging up, he had asked Sam Plotzher whether he had any notion what Mrs. Scheindlin might want from him. Plotzher said he had met the widow at her home two weeks earlier. It appeared that she wanted to learn as much as she could concerning a company of which she and her daughter had inherited 79 per cent of the shares. Sort of a test-the-waters meeting.

Steil uncrossed his legs and jumped to his feet. In the living room, supporting a tray with paper napkins and two glasses full of orange juice on the palm of her left hand, Maria was struggling with the door handle. The lady was rich but had no live-in maid; so very Jewish, he thought as he hurried to the sliding door. He opened it; she thanked
him, then came back into the courtyard. Steil slid the door shut and both returned to their seats. The guest waited for Maria to place the tray atop the cocktail table and make herself comfortable in her armchair before sitting down.

She wrapped a napkin around the bottom of a glass and presented it to Steil. “Please,” she said. He reached for it, nodded, waited. She enwrapped the other glass and raised it in midair.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

She sipped once, slowly; he took two quick sips. Freshly squeezed, pulpy, not too sweet. Good.

Maria returned the glass to the table and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Tell me, Elliot. When did you meet Ruben?”

“In 1994.”

“So, you were with him for eight years.”

“Exactly.”

“Now, if I ask you to rate my husband’s reserve, or secrecy, or whatever you call it, on a zero to ten scale, how secretive would you say he was?”