by Paul Levine
"Morning, Cece."
"Wanna spot for me, jefe?" She hoisted the bar and a cobra tattoo curled upward from rippled triceps.
"I'll make a deal with you, Cece. Type up the overdue pleadings and correspondence, and I'll spot for you."
"Slave driver."
"Anybody call?"
"The usual. Xerox says you're three months behind on the copy machine lease. Bobby's teacher called, something about truancy. A couple bimbos from downstairs. They wanna sue Ben and Jerry's. Just discovered there's fat in ice cream."
"What about Vic? Where is she?"
"Queen Victoria? How should I know?"
"Vic's a princess. It's her mother who's The Queen."
"Whatever, jefe. She ain't here and she ain't called."
He wanted to see her, wanted to talk to her. Why is it, he wondered, when a relationship feels shaky, you crave the connection even more?
Cece started another set, exhaling on the thrust upward, inhaling on the negative downward motion, the bar clanging into the metal brackets. Steve had hired her not from a paralegal school, but from the Women's Detention Center. He considered her crime a mere peccadillo. Beating the stuffing out of her boyfriend, then driving his Toyota into the bay after catching him fooling around with her cousin, Lourdes. Cece was a decent enough assistant, even though she screwed up Steve's pleadings by typing every word phonetically, when she bothered to type at all. She was particularly adept at keeping the models away, mostly by threatening to break their spindly limbs.
Steve walked to her desk and riffled through the mail. Bills, solicitations, and Cece's muscle mags. Maybe he should lift weights, grow some stingray lats like Mr. Deep Diver. He opened a magazine called Big and Brawny, turned to a photo of a guy in a G-string, his granite torso oiled up, his arms bursting with veins like writhing snakes. The headline: "Do Steroids Really Shrink Your Testicles?" Steve tossed the magazine aside.
"Guy's waiting," Cece huffed.
"Who? Where?"
"In your office. Some old geezer. Said he was a friend of your papi's."
Steve shot a look at the door to his office. Closed. He had no appointments today. Who the hell was in there, and why?
"Dammit, you can't let somebody you don't even know into my inner sanctum."
She looked up from the bench. "You afraid they're gonna steal your great works of art?"
"If you're talking about my Florida Marlins posters. ."
"Ain't talking about your briefs."
The premises of Solomon amp; Lord consisted of Cece's reception room/gym and a single office overlooking a narrow alley and a rusting green Dumpster. On warm days, meaning nearly every day, the pungent perfume of rotting vegetables, decomposing ham croquettes, melting tar, stale beer, and fresh piss wafted through the open window. Across the alley, on an apartment balcony within spitting distance, a Jamaican steel band could be counted on for migraine-inducing rehearsals, the musicians smoking giant doobies and occasionally cooking jerk chicken on a hibachi.
The office furnishings were Salvation Army Moderne. Two desks, purchased at police auctions of stolen property; a Jupiter Hammerheads baseball-bat rack, a gift from a grateful client, a minor-league outfielder Steve helped beat a steroids rap; and a fish tank usually stocked with Florida lobster, courtesy of a poacher client. On the wall, instead of diplomas or plaques from the Kiwanis, were posters celebrating the Marlins' two World Series Championships.
The fermenting stench from the Dumpster hit Steve as he stepped inside. Another scent, too, bay rum cologne. Steve knew only one man who used the stuff, and the son-of-a-bitch was here, round and pink, sinking into the sagging client chair.
"Some shit hole you got here, Stevie," Peter Luber said, gesturing with a small pink hand. In his late sixties, Pinky Luber-no one ever called him "Peter" or "Pete"-had a rotund torso with short pudgy legs and a round, bald head with a thin, hooked nose. His face and his scalp were the same carnation pink, as if he were mildly feverish. His cheeks were so chubby that his eyes were reduced to slits of indeterminate color. He wore a jet-black suit, a white shirt with rough-hewn gold nugget cuff links, and a red silk tie as gaudy as fresh blood. On his lap was a black felt hat with a maroon feather and a narrow, upturned brim. The bowler, Steve remembered, was a Luber trademark, as distinctive as an eye patch or a cane, and highly useful for keeping the sun off his already pink scalp. An unlit Cuban cigar, the short, fat Robusto, was clenched in his teeth. On the little finger of his left hand-yeah, the pinky finger-was a black onyx ring set with a glistening diamond.
What's the perjurious pink bastard doing here?
"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have fumigated for vermin," Steve said. "Now I'll just do it after you leave."
A hard look flickered in Luber's tiny eyes, then passed quickly. In that instant, Steve saw the toughness the man tried to hide behind his cherubic pinkness, his bowling ball physique, and his silly English hat.
"If I were you, I'd burn this joint down," Luber said, gravel in his voice.
"If you were me, I'd kill myself."
"Nothing like your old man in the old days. Herb always went for mahogany. When he was first elected judge, he spent his own money to panel his office in the Justice Building."
His father's name coming out of Luber's mouth made Steve want to toss the son-of-a-bitch into the Dumpster.
"Herbert T. Solomon," Luber mused. "Now, there was a lawyer."
" 'Was' being the operative word. Just what the hell are you doing here, Luber?"
"C'mon, Stevie. Call me 'Pinky.' Everybody does."
"Wouldn't feel right. But I got some other names that might."
"You got some attitude, kid. As for your old man, he's better off fishing in the Keys. I wouldn't want to be in that rat race downtown now."
"You don't have a choice. They pulled your ticket when they sent you away."
Luber took the Robusto out of his mouth and waved it like a wand. "Eighteen months in Eglin. No big deal. I worked on my tennis game, got my life master's in contract bridge."
"Didn't know you can cheat in bridge."
"Mind if I smoke?" Luber licked the tip of his cigar with a pink tongue. "Might improve the smell in here."
"I mind."
"Aw, hell, Stevie. Your old man's let it go. Why can't you?"
"I'm not my old man."
"I remember when you'd come to the courthouse and play with your baseball cards in the holding cells." Luber's unlit cigar bobbed up and down as he spoke. "I was Chief of Capital Crimes, your old man Chief Criminal Judge."
Suddenly, Steve felt the room get warmer. Pinky Luber's cologne had turned the air sticky sweet. "You were chief of sleaze. Dad was a public servant. I can't fucking believe what you did to him."
"You blame me for your father's tsuris." Giving Steve some Yiddish for old-times' sake.
"You're the momzer who lied under oath." Adding his own Yinglish to the yin and yang of the sparring match.
"Kid, there are things you don't know, and that's all I'm gonna say."
Steve walked to the corner of the room and pulled a Barry Bonds bat from the rack. Gorgeous maple, only twenty-eight ounces, with a thin, whippy handle. Steve took a swing. Wishing he could take batting practice, tee off on Pinky Luber's round, pink head. What did he want, anyway? The bastard still hadn't said.
Pinky was fingering the hatband on his bowler, his look inscrutable. His face was remarkably unlined for a man his age. He appeared much the same as he had twenty years earlier, when he was trying murder cases in front of Judge Solomon. A smooth if ruthless prosecutor, Luber won seventeen capital cases without a loss. Not even a hung jury. Just like the 1972 Miami Dolphins, 17-0, with a sizable number being sentenced to death. About halfway through that Super Bowl run of convictions, the newspapers began calling Luber "the Electrician" and Herbert Solomon "the Frying Judge." In those days, Florida still used the electric chair, affectionately known as Old Sparky in law enforcement circles. The name, Steve knew, was not e
ntirely fantastical, as the condemned would occasionally burst into flame, much to the chagrin of prison authorities.
Then, inexplicably, the Electrician and the Frying Judge parted. Herbert transferred to the Civil Division and Luber, hungry for dollars instead of headlines, left for private practice. He publicly vowed never to "go over to the dark side," as prosecutors called criminal defense. But Luber's foray into plaintiff's work-medical malpractice, auto accidents, products liability-didn't work out. He spent a fortune working up contingency fee cases that he lost at trial. Luber was nearly bankrupt when he returned to the corridors of the Justice Building, a Prince of Darkness working the shadows of the law. He developed a reputation as a fixer, both in court and in City Hall. He turned out to be a master briber and extortionist. A life master, just like his contract bridge, Steve thought.
When the U.S. Attorney's public corruption unit pulled a sting operation, it swept up Luber, some zoning inspectors, and two public works employees in a kickback and bribery scheme. Luber flipped quicker than you could say "minimum mandatory sentence." He signed affidavits implicating several other public officials, including Circuit Judge Herbert T. Solomon.
Steve pleaded with his father to fight the accusations, but the old man caved, quitting the bench and the Bar, even while protesting his innocence. Luber pled guilty to reduced charges, spent his eighteen months at a country club prison in the Florida Panhandle, then came back to Miami. Stripped of his Bar license, he set up shop as a lobbyist. From talk around City Hall, Pinky was making more money than ever, securing lucrative concessions at the airport, rezoning agricultural land for shopping centers, and selling fleets of not-quite-wholesale sedans to the county-all under cover of darkness. It never hurt Pinky's clients in such matters to make substantial, unreported contributions to local public officials. The contributions were always in cash, and usually delivered by Pinky Luber. In Miami politics, the term "lobbyist" was a pleasant euphemism for "bagman."
The sight of Luber, fat and prosperous, stinking of treacly cologne, gave Steve the creepy-crawlies. He took a swing with the Barry Bonds. And then another. Closed his eyes. Visualized a ball on its upward arc leaving the bat, soaring toward the fence, nearing the warning track, then plop, into the outfielder's glove. The outfielder's face appeared: round and pink and chomping a cigar. Damn! The bastard even screwed up Steve's daydreams.
"I was there the day you stole home to beat Florida State," Luber said.
Steve opened his eyes. "Who gives a shit?"
"Won five thousand bucks."
"You bet on college baseball?"
"Stevie, I bet whether the next gal to get on the elevator is a blonde or brunette." He smiled ruefully. "Then I lost ten grand on the College World Series when you got picked off third in the bottom of the ninth."
"Ump blew the call."
"Yeah, a tough break." Luber took a moment to size him up. When he spoke, it was softly and with a touch of sadness. "You were an arrogant little shit. That dancing off third base, that big lead you took in the series. Why the hell do it? You woulda scored on any hit."
"I was trying to draw a bad throw. If the pitcher puts it in the dugout, I score and we tie it up."
"You put the whole team at risk so you could be the hero. Now you're doing the same thing with Herb." Luber rocked forward in the chair and got to his feet. He brushed off his pants, as if he'd just hopped off a particularly dusty horse instead of a relatively clean, secondhand chair. "I gotta get going. Ponies are running at Calder."
Luber had always seemed short, but now, aged and a tad stooped, he was truly pint-size.
Luber started for the door, stopped, and turned. "Getting picked off. There's a lesson in that you never learned. You can't depend on umpires. Same for judges. Same for the whole damn system. That's why it's better to resolve matters informally. Between people."
Steve put the head of the bat on the floor, leaned on the handle. "What are you getting at?"
"That cockamamie suit you filed to get Herb's license back. You drop it, I could give you some help."
"What kind of help?"
Pinky's cheeks crinkled with a chubby smile. "Let's say you had a murder case that's got you stumped."
That caught Steve by surprise. "What do you know about it?"
"C'mon, Stevie. I got friends who say Hal Griffin's been pulling some pretty cute permits down in Monroe County. New docks, hydrofoil service, liquor license for a gulfside terminal. Then a guy from Washington gets whacked on his boat. If I were defending Griffin, I'd be asking myself one mighty big question."
"What's that? Who could you bribe to get the case dropped?"
"The one the ancient Romans asked, wise guy. Cui bono? Who stands to gain?"
"Already doing that. Looking for who profits if Griffin takes a fall."
"So let me help you. I know people. I hear things."
"So whadaya know? Whadaya hear?"
"Oy! I should give it away, you gonif?" Pinky Luber sniggered and waddled toward the door. "Got another Roman expression for you. Quid pro quo." He opened the door to the reception room and slipped the bowler onto his head. "Without some quid, kid, there ain't no quo."
Fifteen
IN PRAISE OF INANIMATE WOMEN
"Pinky Luber tried to bribe you?" Victoria sounded skeptical.
"I don't know if you'd call it a bribe," Steve said, "but he implied he'd help us in Griffin's case if I'd drop Dad's Bar petition."
Victoria wanted to ask more, but it was awkward, with all the people staring at them. "This is so embarrassing."
"What's the problem?" Steve said.
They were hurrying along Flagler Street, a woman in a thong bikini slung over Steve's shoulder. The woman's breasts, full spheroids, overflowed her bikini top. Her hair, a blond avalanche-Farrah Fawcett circa 1976-tickled Steve's neck.
"Everyone's looking at us," Victoria said.
True. Patrons at the cafe Cubano stands, clerks from the discount camera shops sneaking smokes on the sidewalk, Latin-American tourists rolling luggage carts. . everyone was gaping, pointing, laughing. Probably because the woman in the bikini was a hundred-pound, custom-made, silicone "love doll," anatomically correct right down to every digit and orifice.
"We should have parked right across the street from the courthouse," Victoria said.
"And pay fifteen bucks? No way."
Steve had parked his old Caddy at a meter around the corner on Miami Avenue. They had three minutes to get to the hearing. Motion for summary judgment in the case of Pullone vs. Adult Enterprises, Ltd., dba The Beav. Long before Steve hooked up with Victoria- professionally and personally-he had represented The Beav, the strip club in Surfside. The cases were usually mundane consumer-fraud actions: selling sparkling cider as champagne for twenty bucks a glass or running multiple credit card charges every time the song changed during a lap dance. There was also the occasional personal-injury suit, including today's case. Clayton Pullone, a middle-aged, married CPA, claimed to have suffered a dislocated hip while wrestling Susie Slamazon, The Beav's famed bikini grappler, in a vat of lime Jell-O. Although the blonde on Steve's shoulder was not Susie, her specs were as close as he was likely to find. Her name was Tami, according to the instruction manual, which also included helpful hints about washing various parts with warm, sudsy water.
"Cuanto cuesta la rubia?" a man in a guayabera shouted as they passed Castillo Joyeria, a cut-rate jewelry store. Inquiring into the price of the blonde.
"You can't afford her," Steve called back.
In fact, Tami cost six thousand dollars. Custom-made to the buyer's specifications. Skin tone: tan. Hair: honey blond. Nails: French manicure. Pubic hair: lightly trimmed. Breasts: 38DD and jiggly. Articulated hands that can grip. Mouth, vagina, and anal cavity, well. . in working order. Lubed and suction ready, if you were into that sort of thing. Tami was on loan from Harvey Leinoff, The Beav's owner, who after dating the hired help for years had recently turned to inanimate sex objects for his person
al needs. No back talk, no dressing room catfights, no overtime pay.
The three of them-Steve, Victoria, and Tami- headed up the granite steps to the courthouse, Steve beginning to wish they had parked closer. Tami was damn heavy, and as her weight shifted, a perky silicone nipple lodged-like a pencil eraser-in his ear.
Victoria tried to ignore the carnival going on next to her. "So how could Luber help us in Uncle Grif's case?"
"He let on that he knew who stuck Stubbs with that spear. Or could find out. It wasn't clear which."
"Do you trust Luber?"
Steve struggled up the last step. "About as far as I can throw Tami."
They were at the front doors, waiting to go through the metal detector, the guards stifling laughs.
"This is crazy," Victoria said. "There's no way you can force the plaintiff to roll around on the courtroom floor with your rubber doll."
"Don't need the plaintiff. I'm gonna wrestle Tami."
"Oh, please. ."
"I'm gonna strip down to my briefs-"
"Not the leopard-spotted ones!"
"Of course not. That would be tacky. I'm wearing my Florida Marlins silk boxers. Which you'd know if you'd slept over last night."
Waiting for an overweight bail bondsman to go through the security check, Victoria whispered: "Please try not to get us held in contempt."
"Vic, a lawyer who's afraid of jail-"
"Is like a surgeon who's afraid of blood," she finished. "I know. I know."
They'd reached the front of the line, where Omar Torres, a portly courthouse security guard, was manning the walk-through metal detector.
"Omar, we're late for a hearing," Steve said. "Could you speed it up a bit?"
"No way, Steve," Torres said. "Yesterday, some santero sneaked in here with a human skull, cast a spell right in Judge Gridley's courtroom."