As prearranged, Jane followed Bernie Riggowitz to the outskirts of Tucson, less than an hour from Enrique de Soto’s unconventional car dealership, where they parked side by side in a supermarket lot. They transferred Jane’s suitcases and tote bag from the Mercedes to the Ford Explorer.
“Better take off that hat,” she said, “or some cop might arrest you for being a Mob boss.”
“Who knew I could look like a stone-cold killer? Enough with this retirement business, I got a career as a character actor.”
“You’re a character, that’s for sure.”
They hugged each other, and she kissed him on the cheek, and he said she should wait, there was something he wanted to give her. He gave her his iPhone number, his address in Brooklyn, the address of his daughter in Scottsdale, his daughter’s phone number, the name and number of his nephew, a periodontist, in case she ever needed a tooth implant, a card from a bakery in Scottsdale where their challah was to die for, and one of the photographs of Miriam that he carried in his wallet as he traveled the country with her spirit.
After another hug, she got in the Explorer and closed the door, and Bernie leaned in the open window. “Make like you really are my granddaughter, Alice, and tell me true—are you going to be okay?”
“I have a chance, Bernie. What do any of us have but a chance?”
“Whatever you’ve mixed yourself in, I hope you mix yourself out. By me, you deserve more than a chance, you deserve the best.”
She hesitated and said, “Do you really not know who I am?”
“Should I maybe watch the news, read the news? Feh! It’s all lies or depressing, or depressing lies. I don’t need to know who you are to know who you are.”