by Paul Levine
What am I doing here? This isn't me.
On the other side of the bridge, the path opened onto a wide expanse of grassy lawn. The pool was fifty yards away, and they could hear the yelps and cheers from a water volleyball game. They passed nude couples on chaise lounges, soaking up the afternoon sun.
A panorama of bare butts. A smorgasbord of exposed navels and glistening loins. Breasts heavy and pendulous, perky and firm, round and conical. Nipples puffy and nipples flat, nipples like raisins, nipples like raspberries. Forests of pubic hair, some wild and untamed, others as carefully tended as a putting green. Then the slack penises, draped on thighs like dead squirrels on logs. An array of sleeping male organs, ludicrous in their frailty. Did God play a trick on mankind with those distended pieces of droopy, feeble flesh?
As they approached the pool and refreshment stand, smells of coconut oil mixed with grilling meat from a barbecue pit. An aroma both sensuous and carnivorous.
Then Victoria felt the beginning of a piercing headache. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."
"That's what I've been saying. Junior's trying to throw us off. How can we cross-examine him when. ."
Just then, two petite women in their twenties with taut gymnasts' bodies jogged toward them. Perfect bods, Victoria thought. Slick with oil, defined deltoids, small breasts barely moving with each powerful stride.
Steve, of course, was mesmerized.
"When what?" she said.
"Huh?"
"You were saying something. How can we cross-examine Junior when. . something. When what?"
Steve turned to watch the women's perfect tight butts disappear into the foliage. Ten million years of evolution, Victoria thought, and men still act as if they had just crawled, web-footed, from the swamp.
"We're fine here, Vic. Just fine."
Several couples played cards at poolside tables. Others waded through the shallow end of the pool toward a waterside bar. People were staring at them, Victoria thought. Staring at her. Appraising her.
This is insane.
"Steve, I'm really not comfortable here."
He was looking around at the nude women sprawled on the chaises. "I'm not shrinking anymore. I might even be growing."
"I just feel so strange."
"We have work to do."
But his voice wasn't in work mode. Deeper now, his mellow mode.
How could he have relaxed just like that? To her, it seemed like a thousand eyes were drilling into her, and she felt herself blushing.
"Thank God my mother can't see me now."
"Princess! There you are."
That voice. It couldn't be.
"Join us for a pina colada, darling. Then for God's sake, get some sun."
In the second row of chaise lounges, reclining like royalty, there she was. The Queen held half a coconut shell festooned with two straws and a little purple umbrella.
Naked! In front of all these strangers.
Just look at her! An all-over tan. Her tucked tummy flat as an ironing board, her siliconed breasts as buoyant as floating beach balls, her skin tighter than the head of a snare drum. The Queen's bare legs, stretched out on the chaise, were slim and evenly bronzed, all the way up to…
Omigod. My mother, my fifty-eight-year-old mother, has shaved her pubic hair into a champagne-colored stripe the width of an emery board. At the spa, they had a name for it. What was it?
"Wake up! Look's who here." The Queen issued commands to the heavyset older man with hairy shoulders on the adjacent chaise. "Grif, wake up and say hello."
Uncle Grif! God, this can't be happening.
Victoria felt her throat constrict. Could she even speak? "Mother, what are you doing here?"
"Oh, don't act so surprised. I was going nude in Monaco when you were still in boarding school."
Landing strip.
That was the name of the neat little swath of pubes. Perfectly groomed in every way, her mother proudly displayed a landing strip, while she still had a jungle, a woolly rain forest.
Hal Griffin awakened and sleepily scratched his private parts. He extended the same hand toward Steve, who tried pounding-rapping knuckles-instead of shaking. "Hey, Solomon, how they hanging?"
When Steve seemed stuck for an answer, Griffin barked out a laugh. "Relax. Enjoy what you got now. As a man gets older, his dick gets smaller."
"But his boat gets bigger," Irene Lord chirped, happily.
Griffin looked tanned and healthy, a streak of reddish scar tissue on his forehead the only evidence of the boat crash. "Welcome to Polynesia, Princess."
Again she fought the urge to cover herself. "We were expecting to see Junior, Uncle Grif."
"And you will, but I have something to say first. Something important."
"They just got here, Grif," Irene said. "Why not talk business later?" She propped herself on one elbow and tucked her legs under her firm butt. "Princess, I hope you don't mind my saying so. ."
Dear God. I don't have cellulite. Pilates keeps my abs tight. I don't need plastic surgery. What could she possibly say?
"Have you ever thought about a bikini wax, darling?"
Thirty-two
ADIOS, STEVE
Griffin began giving orders. Telling Irene to take a swim, the lawyers to sit down, and the waitress to bring a round of beachcombers.
Irene sashayed into the shallow end of the pool, giving everyone a chance to admire her newly tucked tush. Steve and Victoria took seats at a bamboo-legged table shaded by a thatched palm umbrella. And the nude waitress jiggled off to get their tall lemonades spiked with rum and triple sec.
"Clive Fowles called me right after you left him," Griffin told them. "All worked up. Afraid he'd given you the wrong idea about Junior."
"Maybe you're the one who gave us the wrong idea," Steve said. "Why didn't you tell us you and Junior fought about Oceania?"
"Ever argue with your father, Solomon?"
"Only for the last thirty years."
"Ever kill him as a result?"
"Not yet."
An unfamiliar sensation, Steve thought, the breeze between his legs. But not unpleasant. These naturists might be onto something. In the pool, two young women-barely old enough to drink-screamed as they sailed down the water slide. Maybe there'd be time for a coed volleyball game before they left.
Griffin turned toward Victoria. "Princess, you don't go along with this nonsense about Junior killing Stubbs, do you?"
"I'm trying to keep an open mind."
That's my partner. She doesn't think Junior did it, but she won't split ranks outside our little family. Lawyers and mobsters follow lessons learned from The Godfather.
"But it makes no sense to me, Uncle Grif," she continued.
So much for the Sonny Corleone rule.
"Because it's bullshit," Griffin said. "Junior had nothing to do with Stubbs' death."
"I'd like you to hear me out," Steve said.
"Hey, guys!"
Coming toward their table was the killer hunk himself. Twirling a croquet mallet, chest out, shoulders back, smiling with those Chiclet teeth. And between his legs…
Oh, shit. The Monster.
Angled out a bit, surrounded by tufts of blond hair, was a happy, confident, hey-look-at-me salami. The son-of-a-bitch could play croquet without a mallet.
"How'd you do, son?" Griffin called out.
"Good enough to win." Junior grinned and swung the wooden mallet by its blue suede handle. "Twentysix to fourteen in the final."
"Attaboy."
"Hi, Tori." Junior leaned over the table and kissed Victoria on the cheek.
Jesus, did his pendulous pendulum just brush her bare shoulder?
"Hey, Junior." She smiled up at him.
"Steve." Junior nodded.
"Nice mallet," Steve replied.
"Son, why don't you swim some laps while I finish up with my lawyers?" Griffin suggested.
"No problem, Dad. I'll do five hundred meters of butterfly."
J
unior bounced toward the pool, Victoria staring after him.
Griffin sipped at his lemony drink. "Go ahead, Solomon. Make your pitch."
"To win your case, we need to point the finger at someone else."
"Not at my son, you don't. Jesus, Junior wasn't even on the boat."
"You're sure?"
"I was there, dammit."
"You were up on the bridge. No way you could see what was going on below."
"I'm not buying it, Solomon."
"Junior thought Oceania might bankrupt you," Steve barreled ahead. "If he thought that killing Stubbs would stop the project-"
"Bullshit. I'm the only one mad enough to kill the bastard."
Victoria wrinkled her forehead. "Uncle Grif, I don't understand that."
"What's not to understand?" Steve shot back. "He's sticking up for his kid."
"Listen to me for once, Steve," she ordered. "That's not what I'm talking about. That day on the boat, Uncle Grif, what were you mad at Stubbs about?"
"Like I told you before, he was extorting me for a million bucks."
"No, that was a week earlier. On the boat, you settled everything. You gave Stubbs the hundred thousand from the lobster pot with a promise of more. You told me he accepted it."
There was an unspoken question hanging in the humid air, Steve knew.
"If you'd told the truth, if you'd reached a deal with Stubbs, why were you still mad enough to kill him?"
Doing good, Vic. Steve felt a sense of pride. She was using skills he'd taught her. Always precise with time lines, she'd picked up an inconsistency he had missed. Now he'd just settle back and follow her orders; he'd shut up and listen.
"Were you lying to me before, Uncle Grif? Did you have a fight on the boat over money?"
Griffin waved at Irene, who was hanging on to the side of the pool, doing leg kicks. The reluctant witness buying time. Then he sighed and said: "What I told you was true as far as it went. Stubbs took the hundred thousand. But only after trying to hold me up for more. The dumb shit told me he had a better offer."
"A better offer for what?" Victoria asked.
"Another 'bidder' is what he called it. 'I got another bidder soliciting my services.' Someone promising him a million bucks to write a negative environmental report. To kill Oceania."
"Who?"
"Stubbs wouldn't say, and the more he refused, the madder I got. So, I pulled that old speargun of Junior's out of the lockbox and aimed square at Stubbs' chest."
Victoria's hand flew to her own bare breasts. "Uncle Grif, no."
"Hold on, Princess. I yell at Stubbs he'd better tell me who my enemies are or I'll nail his hide to the bulkhead. He laughs at me. I look down and see there's no spear in the gun. That breaks the tension a bit, and we both calm down. We talk, and I tell him I'll pay him a hundred thousand every year. He chews it over, then says fine, he'll be loyal to me. As if the asshole knows anything about loyalty. Anyway, we got a deal, so I go back up to the bridge and head for Sunset Key to meet you two. Maybe half an hour later, I put her on auto, come down the ladder, and he's got a spear sticking in his chest."
For a moment there was no sound but the joyous chatter of the naked volleyballers.
Victoria pursed her lips. Attuned to her expressions, Steve knew she was framing a diplomatic reply. Whereas he might blurt out: "What a load of crap!" she chose words like a florist picking roses, right down to pruning back the rotting leaves.
"That's a pretty tough sell, Uncle Grif," Victoria said, evenly.
"Pretty tough?" Steve broke his vow of silence. "Tell that story in court, better bring your toothbrush, because you're taking a long vacation."
"What are you saying?" Griffin asked. "You don't believe me, or a jury won't?"
"I believe you can't see the truth because you're blinded by love for your son."
"That again?"
"Ste-phen, don't." Victoria's warning tone.
Steve gave them his victory smile. "Don't you get it? You solved the case. Junior's the other bidder. He gave Stubbs forty thousand as a down payment but didn't trust him. The day you're coming to see us, Junior dives off the boat then comes back on board and hides below. When he hears Stubbs accept your offer and turn him down, he waits till you go back up to the bridge. Then he comes out and kills Stubbs."
"That's ridiculous." Griffin laughed but there was no joy behind the sound.
"There is one more possibility."
"There damn well better be."
"None of this is news to you. You come down the ladder and find Junior standing over the bloody Mr. Stubbs. Sure, you're angry. Your son just offed the one guy you need to build Oceania. But he's still your son and you love him more than a floating casino. So you put Junior ashore, fake the hit on the head, run the boat onto the beach, and hope your lawyers can get you off. And why shouldn't they? You're an innocent man."
Steve sat back, triumphant. He felt like lighting up a cigar, except he didn't smoke. But he savored this moment, distracted only by the discomfort caused by the cedar slats of the lawn chair sticking to his bare butt.
Griffin leaned forward, his neck seeming to lengthen, like a tortoise extending from its shell. "How you gonna represent me if you don't believe me?"
"I represent liars all the time. I just like knowing the truth."
"Uncle Grif, Steve's been under a lot of strain. He suffered a concussion."
"Don't make excuses for me, Vic," Steve commanded.
"This is just the way Steve's mind works," she continued, ignoring him. "He comes up with different scenarios. Maybe Junior killed Stubbs. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you were there. They're just guesses and theories."
"Dammit, Vic." Steve didn't want her help. "I know what I'm doing."
"Then do it somewhere else," Griffin barked.
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you're fired."
"You might want to think that over," Steve said. "Trial's set and you won't get a continuance."
"I don't give a shit. You're fucking fired."
Steve stood, aware his private parts were now at eye level. "Fine. C'mon, Vic. We're out of here."
Griffin stabbed a finger at him. "I said you're fired, Solomon. Victoria's still my lawyer."
"Doesn't work that way, Griffin. Vic and I are partners. One goes, we both go."
Steve was aware of the crashing silence at the table. From the pool, he heard splashing, Junior plowing through his laps.
"Vic? You coming?"
"Uncle Grif is my client. I let you come along for the ride."
"Aw, shit, don't do this."
"You promised to sit second chair, to let me take the lead. But instead, you steamrollered me. Like always."
"We're a team. Ruth and Gehrig, Gilbert and Sullivan, Ben and Jerry."
"I've given you every chance, but you-"
"Big mistake, Vic. You need me."
"What!"
"You're good, but you'll never be great on your own."
"That's it. I've had it with you." Her voice a serrated blade. "We're done. There is no more Solomon and
Lord. Good-bye, Steve."
"You can't mean it."
"What part of adios don't you understand?"
Steve's mind went blank. He needed a retort. An exit line. Something that would set them both straight. Show them that Steve Solomon was The Man. That Victoria would fail and Griffin would be convicted. But he couldn't come up with a thing, so he stood there a long, ego-crushing moment, until. .
"Hey, Solomon." Griffin grinned at him. "You're shrinking."
Thirty-three
DREDGING UP THE PAST
"What a horse's ass! What a damn fool!"
"Thanks, Dad."
"You putz." Herbert Solomon's diatribe shifted to Yiddish with a Savannah accent. "How could ah have raised such a schmendrick?"
Steve knew a tongue-lashing was the price of hitching a ride back to Miami. Herbert piloted his old Chrysler north on U.S. 1, taking Steve and Bobby
home. The car-underbelly rusted and carpets mildewed-was redolent of bait fish. The night air smelled of moist seaweed and crushed shells. A three-quarter moon cast a milky glow across the smooth inky water of the Gulf.
"You ever think that maybe you're jealous of this guy?" Herbert prodded. "What's his name?"
"Junior Griffin." Even saying his name left a rancid taste.
"IF RUN JOIN FRIG!" Bobby contributed from the backseat. Making an instant anagram out of the bastard's name.
"I'm not jealous. I just can't stand him."
Herbert had a three-day growth of white stubble. He wore tattered khaki shorts, a gray T-shirt with permanent sweat stains in the armpits, and his white hair was crusted with salt from an early-morning snorkel run. To Steve, his old man looked like a cross between a pirate and a serial killer.
"You're afraid he's gonna take away your gal," Herbert said, "so you got no credibility when you accuse him of murder."
"I've got logic and evidence on my side."
"You got jack shit."
"Junior's as likely the killer as his old man. In a reasonable-doubt case, I have an ethical obligation to tell the jury that."
"Since when did you start caring about the ethical rules?" Herbert hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat out the window. "Ah see right through you. You're running scared with Victoria so you lash out at this Junior Griffin."
"JUROR IN FIG FIN," Bobby proclaimed, still working on Junior's name.
"Doesn't make any sense, kiddo," Steve said.
"I JOIN RUFF RING. 'Ruff' is with two 'f's."
"Doesn't count. There's no such word."
"Yes there is. It's a big ruffled collar. Everybody knows that."
"Are you listening to me?" Herbert said. "You haven't learned self-control. You open your big mouth and boom! You lose your paramour and your client."
"But I still have my principles."
"Gonna sleep with your principles?"
"Hey, maybe Vic doesn't want to practice with me. But she didn't break up with me."
"Schmegege." Herbert doled out another insult.
"Uncle Steve, you don't understand women."
Double-teaming him now, the grouchy old judge and the smart-ass savant. "And you do, squirt?"