by Paul Levine
"You and Victoria are really different," Bobby said. "She likes that, up to a point."
"How would you know?"
"Because she told me."
"What! When?"
"When we talk about relationships and sex and stuff."
"You're too young for that kind of talk."
"I'm twelve!"
"I'm gonna report her to Family Services."
"Shvayg!" Herbert commanded. "Shut and listen to the boy. Maybe you'll learn something."
Bobby leaned over the front seat. "Women can't compartmentalize the way men can."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"A guy argues with his girlfriend, then ten minutes later wants to do her," Bobby explained, patiently. "Women aren't like that."
"You get that from Victoria?" Steve turned to face his nephew.
"Dr. Phil."
Herbert slapped a hand on the steering wheel. "You got nothing, son. No car. No client. No partner. And no gal!"
The Queen was going through Victoria's closet at the Pier House, making faces as she shuffled hangers and critiqued her daughter's wardrobe.
"A denim mini?" Irene arched her eyebrows. "I suppose you've taken up country music, too."
"Do you think, Mother, that you could be a tad more supportive?"
"You asked me to skip the luau and I did. Now, how much more support do you need?" Irene held up the mini, made a cluck-clucking sound. "A ragged hem and rhinestones? Haven't seen that since Urban Cowboy."
"Mother, we need to talk."
"So talk. Do you suppose room service will deliver martinis?"
"Dammit, listen to me!" Victoria balled up a beige tank top and threw it at her.
"Wrong color for you, darling," The Queen said. "Go with something brighter, or you'll be all washed out."
Victoria sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm so humiliated."
"About going nude? I find it liberating."
"That's not it. I watched you and Uncle Grif today. You're lovers, I can tell."
"So?"
"You lied to me. You said you didn't cheat on Dad."
"I didn't. Grif and I made love for the first time last night."
Victoria shook her head. "You must think I'm a child."
"I think you act like one. It was wonderful, by the way. Grif is extremely giving."
"You expect me to believe the two of you weren't having an affair when Dad was alive?"
"Don't use that Nancy Grace tone with me."
"Why not just admit it? Dad found out and killed himself."
"Still singing that song?" The Queen held up a saffron cotton twill jacket. It must have met her approval because she didn't make a face. "Your father had problems. Emotional problems. Business problems. And, of course, his drug use."
"Dad a druggie? You're making that up!"
"Your father abused barbiturates. He was probably manic-depressive."
"I don't remember him that way."
"You were too young." Irene smiled ruefully. "And he was happier around you than he was around me."
Outside the windows, the band on the patio was kicking up. More Jimmy Buffett, damn them. "Simply Complicated," the singer bemoaning the challenges of family life.
Victoria thought of Steve. Maybe she had treated him cruelly, but it was for the best. She should never have brought him into Uncle Grif's case. Look at the trouble he'd caused. She had planned to split up the firm at the end of the trial, anyway. So it was no big deal, right? As for the rest-their relationship-well, let's be honest. That wasn't going so hot, either.
Earlier today, after Steve left the all-nude all-thetime beach club, Junior had asked her to stay overnight in one of the cottages. A hammock strung between palm trees, the gentle caress of the sea breeze, Bahamian lobster steamed inside palm fronds.
No, thank you. Not yet. I don't jump from one man's hammock into another's.
Seeing her mother-all of her-lounging with Uncle Grif had convinced her she'd been right about them. Tonight, Victoria hoped her mother would come clean. Show herself naked in more ways than one. But no, she still claimed to have been the faithful wife, the innocent widow.
"Steve told me to stop asking you about your relationship with Uncle Grif," Victoria said.
"For once I agree with him."
"He said, when you dredge up the past, you never know what you're going to unearth."
"He's not stupid, your Steve. Arrogant and uncouth, but not stupid."
"He's not my Steve." Victoria picked up the phone and punched the button for room service. Maybe they did make martinis.
Three generations of Solomons traveled in silence until they hit the plug-ugly stretch of Cutler Ridge lined with muffler shops, discount furniture stores, and fast-food joints. Herbert kept the radio tuned to NPR, which was airing an endless interview with the oboe player of the Seattle Philharmonic. A thrilling account of how to make your own reeds.
Steve felt himself growing crabbier by the moment. He was angry at the Griffins, father and son. He was angry at Victoria for choosing them over him. Angry, too, at Irene Lord. He could only imagine what direction she was pushing her only child.
"Princess, why go halfway? For heaven's sake, get out of his bed, too."
But most of all, Steve was angry with Herbert. Why couldn't his father ever take his side? Naturally, the old buzzard had stuck up for Victoria. Then there was the Bar license case. He could have shown some appreciation. Instead, he tried to sabotage the case. Not knowing why only pissed off Steve even more.
Maybe I should just drop the lawsuit. But if I do, I'll never know the truth.
What dark secrets were buried in Judge Herbert Solomon's courtroom? A courtroom staffed by Pinky Luber and Reginald Jones. What could his father have done that would make him quit the bench and Bar without a fight?
And now, two decades later, what's my old man so afraid of?
Which gave rise to another thought. Why am I banging my head against the wall? The answer came quickly, though not without embarrassment. Deep inside, Steve knew he wanted to be a hero to his father. That unquenched thirst for approval.
Hell, no, I won't drop the Bar case. I'll show him. I'll get his license back and protect him from harm along the way.
With no murder case to try, he could just double his efforts in the case of In re: Herbert T. Solomon. "So Dad, how's Reginald Jones doing?"
"Who?"
"The guy who used to sit in front of your bench stapling, spindling, and marking."
"You mean Reggie. Nice kid."
"The kid's Chief Clerk of the Circuit now."
"Good for him. How's he doing?"
"That's what I'm asking you, Dad."
"How the hell should ah know? You think ah'm filing papers these days?"
The NPR station went to a fund-raising spot, the announcer insisting that civilization would crash and burn if each listener failed to fork over fifty bucks for a coffee mug. Steve reached for the dial, but his father swatted his hand away.
"What's Reginald Jones have to do with you and Pinky Luber?" Steve asked.
Herbert Solomon kept his eyes straight ahead, Steve studying his profile. A craggy-faced jawline, some speckling from the sun, fuzzy tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears.
"Don't know what you're talking about, son."
"Then why are you still talking to Jones? Five calls the day I deposed Luber."
"You little pissant! You been snooping."
"Twenty years ago, when Luber won all those murder trials, Jones was your clerk. What the hell were the three of you up to?"
"Not a damn thing. And if ah were, it'd be none of your business."
Alternative pleading. The old lawyer trick. I never borrowed your lawn mower. And if I did, it was broken when you lent it to me.
"I'll subpoena Jones, take his depo."
"Why don't you spread manure in your garden and stay out of mine?"
"Because you owe me answers."
"Ah owe you shit. It's
mah life, not yours."
"It's the legacy you left me. I'm Steve Solomon, son of the disgraced judge."
"Live with it. Ah do."
"Just tell me why you won't let me get your license back. If you're as dirty as Pinky, I want to know it."
Herbert hit the brakes and swerved into a gas station, squealing to a stop just inches from the pumps. "Git out!"
"What?"
"You heard me. You can walk home."
"You nuts? We're ten miles from the Grove."
"Tough titties. You show me no respect, get the hell out."
Steve looked around. Six lanes of traffic. A nudie bar and a hubcap store on one side of the street, a strip mall with a palm reader, a video rental store, and a U-Wash-Doggie on the other. Trendy South Beach, it wasn't.
He opened the door, then turned back toward his father. "I'm gonna find out what you did."
"What for? What the hell for?"
Steve didn't say it. Couldn't say it aloud. But he thought it just the same.
To prove to you that I can.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
9. The people we've known the longest are often the people we know the least.
Thirty-four
PUBLIC SERVANT
At the wheel of his new car, Steve raced Lexy and Rexy along Ocean Drive. He drove the egg-shaped Smart- larger than an iPod, smaller than an offensive lineman's butt-as the twins Rollerbladed. An unfair race. Lexy and Rexy were ahead by two limo lengths.
It was the morning after Steve had thumbed a ride home, helped by an amiable but odoriferous septic tank truck driver. Now, headed to the office, Steve put the pedal to the metal-or was it plastic? — and the little German car pulled even with the long-legged Rollerbladers.
He got to the Les Mannequins building first, thanks to a Miami Beach bicycle cop, a lifeguard type in cargo shorts and epaulet shirt, who pulled over the twins. The official charge was reckless skating, but the cop obviously wanted to meet the leggy speeders, who wore cutoffs with bikini tops.
Steve wheeled the Smart to a stop, perpendicular to the curb, where it fit into a parking space without sticking out into traffic. The two-seater was on loan from Pepe Fernandez, a client whose primary occupation was stealing cargo containers of frozen shrimp from the Port of Miami. The enterprise lost money because Fernandez seldom could sell the booty before it melted into a disgusting crustacean slime. Lately, Fernandez and two buddies had begun boosting imported cars by physically picking them up from the dock and tossing them into waiting trailer trucks. This naturally limited the size of vehicle they could steal and resulted in their inventory of Smarts, cars that made Mini Coopers look like Mack trucks. Ordinarily, Steve would have felt guilty driving a stolen car, but the Smart got approximately five times the mileage of his old Eldo, so he rationalized his actions as good for the environment.
Moments later, he was at his second-floor office overlooking the Dumpster. He'd been planning on putting a plaque on the door:
SOLOMON AND LORD
ATTORNEYS AT LAW
But he'd never gotten around to it. Now it was too late.
"You got checks to sign," Cece Santiago announced as Steve came in the door.
Cece was in her customary position, grinding out bench presses in front of the desk she seldom used. Wearing her uniform, Lycra shorts and a muscle tee, with the requisite three studs through one eyebrow.
"What checks?" Steve asked.
"Court reporter. Credit cards. My salary."
"Didn't I just pay you?"
She eased the bar into the brackets and sat up. "Two months ago. For services two months before that. You owe me like a gazillion dollars."
"You get me an appointment with Reginald Jones?"
"No can do. His assistant says he's in conference all day."
"What about tomorrow?"
"County Commission meeting."
"Thursday, then?"
"Public hearings on a new courthouse in Sweet-water."
"He's scared."
"He's busy." Cece lay back on the bench and began her stomach crunches.
"They're in it together. My father. Pinky. Reggie."
"In what, jefe?"
"I don't know. Something bad."
"Malo? Not your father."
"I wouldn't have thought so. But I'm starting to think that our parents-the people we've known the longest-are the people we know the least, Cece."
"When that stinky old car of yours went off the bridge, just how hard did you hit your head?"
"Don't you start with me."
"You want to lose your papi, too?"
"What do you mean, 'too'?"
"Victoria. Chasing her away. Stupid. Muy stupido, jefe."
That afternoon, Steve sat in the chief clerk's waiting room, reading a stimulating article, "Managing Cubicle Space in the 21st Century Office," in a magazine called Municipal Administrator. The walls were covered with plaques from the Rotary and the Kiwanis and photos of a beaming Reginald Jones with numerous politicos, all wearing their pasted-on, ribbon-cutting, power-brokering smiles. Governor Jeb Bush here, Senator Connie Mack there. Local movers-and-shakers, too. Jones was an African-American man who seemed fond of Italian suits and silk jacquard ties, with kerchiefs in his coat pocket that matched his shirts. The word "dapper" came to mind.
Jones had manned the clerk's desk in Judge Solomon's courtroom all those years ago. Pinky Luber had captained the prosecution table, long before he became a fixer and a perjurious witness. Now Herbert Solomon was covertly calling Jones and mad as hell about Steve finding out about it. Just what was going on with these three, the Bermuda Triangle of the courthouse?
Steve had already downed two cups of motor oil from the coffee machine in the corridor. He'd checked his cell phone for messages from Victoria. Nada. He was camped out with no appointment, but he'd been rehearsing what he would say to Reginald Jones, should he ever get the honor of seeing him. Steve might start off with the bluff:
"I know all about you and Pinky and my old man."
Or maybe the good son approach:
"You can trust me, Reggie. I'm just trying to help out my dad."
Or even a threat:
"You wanna talk to me or the Grand Jury?"
But so far, there'd been no chance to talk to anyone. Mr. Jones was in conference, according to the receptionist charged with keeping vagrants, terrorists, and wayward lawyers out of the chief clerk's inner sanctum.
After what seemed like long enough for most statutes of limitations to expire, an attractive woman in a beige business suit appeared and asked Steve to follow her. They were buzzed into a corridor teeming with deputy clerks parked in front of computers, doing whatever it is that runs the local justice system. At the end of the corridor, the woman dropped him off at a corner conference room with an easterly view. Walking in, Steve could see Biscayne Bay, with Fisher Island and Miami Beach in the background. He could also see two turkey buzzards. One buzzard was perched on the railing outside the window, one was inside, sitting at the conference table. The one inside had a round pink face, a shiny pink head, and a diamond pinky ring.
"Pinky, what the hell you doing here?"
"Same thing I've done for years," Luber said. "Helping my friends."
Outside the window, the buzzard flapped its wings and took off. Steve took a seat. "Where's Reggie Jones?"
"Forget him. He's got nothing for you. But I do." Pinky leaned across the table. "I got a name. Conchy Conklin."
"Who's he?"
"Conklin was in Alabama Jack's the other night, drinking his ass off, throwing hundred-dollar bills around."
"So what?"
"Did I mention he was bowlegged from riding a red Harley he'd parked outside?"
"Keep talking."
"He's flapping his gums about the easiest ten grand he ever made. Messing up some guy in an old Caddy."
"Conchy Conklin," Steve muttered to himself. Trying to find something in the name to spark a memory. Coming up empty.
"Unless his parents were morons, which I don't rule out," Luber said, "I figure 'Conchy' is a nickname."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah. He was bragging about how quick his hands are."
"Quick hands? I don't get it."
"Says he catches snakes barehanded, sells them to reptile farms. Claimed he caught a whole nest of coral snakes on Crab Key last week."
"The son-of-a-bitch." If it was true, Conklin was the guy who ran him off the bridge and planted the snake in Victoria's hotel room. "What else? What about a description?"
"Thirties. Beard. Sunburned. Like he does outdoor work, not a sunbather. He's not a regular at Alabama Jack's. Left the impression he lives farther south in the Keys."
"How do you know all this?"
"Like I told you before, I grease the skids, kid."
"So who hired this Conklin?"
"I give you the moon, you want the stars, too? That's all I know."
Steve would call Sheriff Rask, give him the information, see what he could come up with. "Pinky, why you telling me this?"
"Because I remember you when you were a snotnosed kid. Before you became a snot-nosed lawyer. And I like your old man."
"What do you want in return?"
"What do you think?"
"I'm not dropping Dad's case. I'm gonna get his license back."
Pinky sighed. "Herb thinks you're a helluva fine lawyer."
"No he doesn't."
"Maybe he doesn't say it. But he admires you. Your damn stubbornness probably reminds him of himself. Problem is, you're too close to this one. You got your feelings all wound up in it." Pinky showed a grin that crinkled his cheeks and slitted his eyes. "Just like Hal Griffin's case."
"For a guy barred from every courthouse in the state, you seem to know a lot."
"I know Griffin fired you. And you deserved it. You looked at Griffin's case through your dick, and all you could see was that playboy son. Nothing fouls up the brain cells like a woman."
"How do you know. .?" But then it came to him. There could only be one way. "Dammit, Dad's been talking to you."
"Aw, lay off Herb. He loves you more than you deserve." Luber pulled out a Cuban cigar, the Robusto, and licked the tip with a pink tongue. "What makes you think that waterlogged beach boy is a killer?"