Solomon versus Lord svl-1

by Paul Levine

  The image was jarringly at odds with what Steve remembered of his father, the neatly groomed downtown lawyer, and later the respected judge. Some of Steve's earliest memories were of his father's crinkly seersucker suits, a countrified Southern tradition. When Miami became more sophisticated, so did Herbert. As senior partner of his own law firm, he switched to Saville Row suits and advised younger lawyers to “think Yiddish, dress British.”

  Moving closer, Steve heard his father's voice, carried on the easterly breeze. He seemed to be entertaining a fortyish female bartender.

  “So ah'm presiding over this sexual harassment case, and this pretty little lady testifies that her boss browbeat her into putting out for him.” Herbert's voice was so musical you could dance to it. “Her lawyer asks her to tell the jury exactly what her boss said, but she cain't 'cause she's just too proper. Ah say, ‘Write it down, missy, and ah'll show it to the jury.' So she writes on a slip of paper-‘Ah want to fuck you so bad'-and ah give it to the jury. Jurors One and Two read it and pass it on, but Juror Three is sound asleep.”

  “I think I see this coming,” the lady bartender said.

  “Hang on, Ginger. Did ah mention that Juror Two is a cute gal and Juror Three is a middle-aged guy? Anyway, the gal elbows the guy, wakes him up, and hands him the note. He reads it, grins like he's won the lottery, winks at her, and tucks the note into his pocket.”

  The bartender laughed. “I knew it!”

  “Never happened,” Steve said, slipping onto the adjacent bar stool. A sailboard, dented with shark bites, was mounted on the back wall, and a paddle fan made lazy circles over their heads.

  “Hey, son. It's the emmis. Every word.”

  “A courthouse myth.”

  “Dammit, ah was there.” He turned to the bartender. “Ginger, this is mah boy. Stephen, the smart-ass.”

  Ginger had a pile of blond hair and wore white shorts with a floral top that was nothing more than a scarf tied behind her back. Her shoulders were slumped and her suntanned midriff was starting to sag. She had the tired look of a woman who'd spent too much time with too many wrong men and took too long to do something about it. “Getcha something, smart-ass?”

  “Beer. Whatever's on tap.”

  “Something to eat?”

  “You have conch chowder?”

  “Do gators shit in the swamp?”

  “Bowl. A little sherry in it. Basket of crab fritters.”

  “You got it.”

  She left and the two men appraised each other. Herbert's still-handsome face was lined and flecked with age spots, but his eyes were clear, dark, and bright, the same eyes as his son. His deep tan made his smile seem almost too bright.

  “How's Bobby?” Herbert said.

  “Making progress. Fewer nightmares, fewer fits.”

  “You give him a hug for me, tell him his Pop loves him.”

  “Sure thing.” It was easier for his old man to send I-love-you messages by courier than deliver them personally, Steve figured. “He's at the Seaquarium today with Teresa and Marvin. They're crazy about him.”

  “Nice people. Used to pass me notes on the bench, tell me who was lying.”

  Steve already had taken Bobby to the Seaquarium five times in the last month. It would have been thirty times if the boy had his way. Whatever grabbed Bobby's attention quickly became an obsession, and currently he was fascinated with trained seals. Steve could picture him now, expertly mimicking the seals' mating calls, luring them off their platforms, wreaking havoc with the show.

  “So what's up, Dad? What's the emergency?”

  “In due time, son.” Herbert sipped at his martini, straight up. “You seeing anyone special?”

  “You mean a woman?”

  “No, a Saint Bernard. Of course a woman.”

  “I don't have the time.”

  “That it? Or you don't have anything to offer?”

  Aw, jeez. Not this again, Steve thought. Ginger delivered his beer and a steaming bowl of chowder. “C'mon, Dad. Just tell me why you hauled me down here.”

  “Women want a man of substance,” Herbert declared, not easing up.

  “You mean money.”

  “Status. Prestige. Money, too.”

  “False gods, every one,” Steve said.

  “What happened to that TV anchorwoman? Diane something-or-other.”

  Steve took a long hit on his beer. “She dumped me for a partner at Morgan Lewis.”

  Herbert nodded knowingly. “So now I can ask. Her boobs real?”

  “As real as her smile.” Steve remembered the first time Diane came to his house. She took one look around and suggested he sell all his furnishings on eBay.

  “And that card shark,” Herbert said. “What happened to her?”

  “Sally Panther wasn't a card shark. She dealt Texas Hold 'Em at the Miccosukee casino.” Steve spooned the spicy chowder, thick with conch meat. “She found a high roller, moved to Palm Beach.”

  “Uh-huh. See a pattern here?”

  “Yeah. The women I meet are shallow.”

  “They trade up, is all.”

  Ginger slid a basket of crab fritters toward Steve. “You drag me down here just to bust my balls?”

  “Enjoy your lunch first,” Herbert said.

  “Enjoy” was not a word that Steve usually associated with his father's company. But he had no choice. Herbert Solomon always had to be in control. He would play his poker hand when he damn well felt like it. Steve vowed to get through the meal peacefully, even if it gave him heartburn.

  “You hear anything from Janice?” Herbert asked.

  “Not a word.” Steve chose not to mention the dirty green pickup truck. He thought he'd seen it again on South Dixie Highway, but he'd been looking through the rearview mirror, and it was impossible to tell. “Maybe she already left for her magical mystery tour.”

  “Little Janice,” Herbert murmured, looking toward the water, where a gull was circling. “Ah remember putting the training wheels on her first bike. What the hell happened?”

  “What happened was you didn't pay any attention to her after you put the wheels on.”

  “You laying her shit on me?”

  Steve dipped a fritter in the creamy lime sauce, popped it into his mouth. The smoky crabmeat had the bite of jalapeno peppers. “Doing drugs. Stealing stuff. Running with punks. It was all to get your attention.”

  “And ah suppose you're screwed up because ah didn't come to your T-ball games.”

  “I skipped T-ball, went straight to Little League. Those were the games you missed. Plus Sunday school basketball, Beach High track, and U of M baseball. You were late for my confirmation because you were giving a lecture to a lawyers' convention, and you missed high school graduation when you were in trial upstate.”

  “Jesus. A junkie daughter and a grumble guts son. Maybe ah should get your DNA, see if you two got the milkman's genes instead of mine.”

  “What gets me is that you're so smart about complex stuff and so dumb about simple stuff. Spending time with your kids is good for them. Ignoring them isn't.”

  “Aw, don't be such a pantywaist.”

  Pantywaist? Now, there's one he hadn't heard in years. “Dammit, just tell me what I'm doing here or I'm getting back in the car and you can pick up the check.”

  Herbert ignored him and signaled Ginger for a refill, but she was mixing drinks for a couple of sunburned Yuppies at the end of the bar.

  “Dad, I mean it. What'd I do now?”

  Steve dipped his spoon into the chowder. His father put a hand on his arm and spoke softly. “The way ah hear it, you split open a man's skull.”

  The spoon stopped halfway to Steve's mouth.

  “The night you grabbed Bobby,” Herbert continued.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Jack Zinkavich. He drove all the way to Sugarloaf. Which ah might add is more than mah own son will do.”

  “You like the Fink so much, adopt him.”

  “Too late. Abe and E
laine Zinkavich already did. Thirty-some years ago.”

  “You mean somebody wanted the Fink?”

  “Don't be such a shit. It's gonna come back to haunt you.”

  “Okay, I apologize to the prick. Tell him the next time he comes for a visit.”

  “Didn't ah teach you to always know your opponent? Know what they drink and who they screw, and sure as hell, where they came from. A man's past sticks to him like mud on cleated boots.”

  “You oughta know. Now, why did Zinkavich come all the way-”

  “What do you know about him, smart-ass?”

  Steve guzzled his beer. He'd have to play by his father's rules, answer his questions, take his abuse. “The Fink's a lifer at Family Services. Typical civil service drone.”

  “Nothing typical about him. If you'd done your homework, you'd know that. You'd know that as a little kid, he lived in a trailer park out on Tamiami Trail. His father was a mean drunk who abused his mother, took a leather strap to the boy. When Jack was seven or eight, he watched his father slit his mother's throat. She died in his arms.”

  “Jesus. I didn't know.”

  “Jack goes to a state shelter for a year. A shelter run by Family Services. He bounced around in foster homes for a while, but it was hard as hell to place him. Too old, too angry, and not exactly a cute little teddy bear. But this social worker at Family Services wouldn't give up. You see where I'm heading?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “The social worker found Abe and Elaine. Now, what do you suppose Abe Zinkavich did for a living?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Juvie Court judge up in Lauderdale. That's how the social worker knew him. Abe provided a good education, taught the boy the importance of protecting children. Not that Jack needed much instruction. So the guy you call a drone is anything but. Jack's a crusader, a true believer, a zealot who hates violence. And you're the guy who kidnapped your nephew and nearly killed a man doing it.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “So you say. What about choking Zinkavich in the courthouse?”

  “I was straightening his tie and got carried away.”

  “You called him a Nazi storm trooper, for chrissakes.”

  “He sent investigators to the house at night. Scared the shit out of Bobby.”

  “And you told him Family Services was run by incompetent fools who should go to prison.”

  “Didn't you read about them losing a little girl in the system?”

  “So write an op-ed piece, but stop sticking your thumb in Jack's eye.”

  “Look, I'm sorry about what happened to him, but he's still an asshole.”

  “Ah'm sure he can be a bigger shit than a ton of manure, especially when provoked by the likes of you.”

  “Didn't you ever run up against someone who hates you right off the bat?”

  “Not as much as you seem to, smart-ass. But you're missing the point. Family Services isn't just Zinkavich's employer. It's his family. It's his home. And you've crapped all over his front stoop. Now he's coming after you with everything he's got.”

  “So what's he got?” Steve asked.

  “He's looking for the guy you clobbered the night you grabbed Bobby.”

  Steve felt his stomach tighten. The shepherd in the shed, the guy who smelled like a wet dog. Steve believed he had lawfully used self-defense when he hit the guy with the staff. The guy had a knife, right? But you can only fight back with reasonably necessary force. Had he? That's what they call a jury question, and Steve didn't want to hear a judge asking if the jury had reached a verdict.

  “I assume you told Zinkavich you didn't know anything.”

  “Ah told him he could kiss mah kosher butt.”

  Steve thought about it a moment. “I don't get it. Why would the Fink think you'd rat me out?”

  “Excellent question.” Herbert waved at the bartender, who was working on a tray of colorful drinks. “Ginger, what the hell's that disgusting thing that looks like toilet bowl cleaner?”

  “Apple martini, Herb.” She dropped a slice of a Granny Smith into the green drink.

  “Apple martini, now there's an oxymoron. Gin plus vermouth equals martini. An olive's okay. Onion's okay. Fruit is not okay.”

  “Dad…”

  “A martini should taste like liquid steel.”

  “Dad, why did Zinkavich-”

  “And what's that red one?” Herbert gestured at her tray.

  “Sea breeze. Vodka, cranberry juice, and grapefruit juice.” She pointed to the other drinks. “This one's a sex on the beach, and the tall one, that's a Long Island iced tea. Vodka, gin, rum, tequila, cointreau, and Coke.”

  Herbert made a face. “That's not a drink, it's a frat party. When the circus is over, can you fix me another martini?”

  “Why'd Zinkavich think you'd help him?” Steve persisted.

  “He said if ah cooperate, he'd put in a good word in Tallahassee, maybe get me reinstated with the Bar.”

  “Lousy deal. Hold out for the governorship.”

  “So ah figure ah'm not the only member of our mishpoche that Zinkavich is talking to,” Herbert said.

  “Meaning?”

  Ginger delivered the martini, and Herbert nodded his thanks. “Think about it. Who gave Janice a get-out-of-jail-free card? And why?”

  “You're saying my worthless sister's helping Zinkavich nail me.”

  “Ah'm saying it's possible.”

  Teresa Torano had been right. From the Panhandle to the Keys, Zinkavich was covering a helluva lot of ground. And why?

  To bury me. All I want is to raise Bobby, and the state unleashes this vengeful fuck on me.

  “This much ah know for sure.” Herbert twirled the martini glass by the stem. “Zinkavich wants to squash you like a palmetto bug. He was tossing around words like ‘aggravated assault' and ‘attempted murder.'”

  The tightness in Steve's stomach had become a thudding pain. So many questions, so many fears. How much did they have on him? Had Janice led Zinkavich to the guy in the shed? Would there be a knock on his door, cops dragging him away, social workers grabbing Bobby?

  “Let me in, son,” Herbert said.

  “In where?”

  “Your life.” Herbert drained the martini. One long, silvery river of liquid steel, just as he liked it. “Ah'm still your father, and ah want to help.”

  So that's what this was all about, Steve thought. Some buried paternal instincts had been unearthed like fossils after a flood. Maybe some guilt, too. Is this what happened to inattentive fathers as they aged? For a moment, Steve felt sorry for his old man. At forty, he'd been one of the leaders of his profession. And at sixty? Widowed, disgraced, living alone. Two grown kids, both alienated in varying degrees.

  Were his own troubles a boon to his father, a way to reconnect? The thought angered him. What did his old man expect him to do? Pull up a chair, pour some bourbon, and ask for advice? The lyrics of Warren Zevon's “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” floated into his head: “Dad, get me out of this.”

  But that had never been their relationship, and it wasn't going to start now. Too much emotional overload. His father helping now would only stir up old resentments by reminding Steve of his earlier absence.

  “I appreciate the gesture, Dad, but it's a little late to start tossing the ball in the backyard.”

  “Ah know ah wasn't always there for you. But anybody wants to do you harm, they're gonna have to deal with me.”

  Herbert blinked, his eyes watery. From the gin or something deeper, Steve didn't know.

  Nine

  MINIMUM HUSBAND STANDARDS

  What more could go wrong? Victoria wondered.

  In one lousy day, she'd been jailed, fired, shit on… and she'd lost her shoes.

  Now, two days later, the dry cleaner said it would take a nuclear weapon to purge the bird poop from her Ralph Lauren tweed; she couldn't get her resumes to print out; and that lunatic Solomon was holding her snakeskin Gucci pumps for ran
som. Not only that, she was irritated with Bruce.

  He could have been more supportive.

  He could have said: “You're a terrific lawyer with awesome talents. You'll overcome this.”

  But he didn't say that.

  Or he could have said: “Pincher's a jerk, and someday you'll go into court and kick his butt. Solomon's, too.”

  But he didn't say that, either.

  Bruce, her betrothed, had said: “Maybe getting sacked is for the best. Now you can come to BRV with a clear head, make a fresh start.”

  BRV being Bigby Resort amp; Villas. Drafting real estate documents. Deeds and mortgages, liens and affidavits. Yawn, yawn, yawn… and yuck.

  He just didn't get it, she thought. But how could he? His father bequeathed him thousands of acres and several thriving businesses. Bruce didn't know what it was like to stand alone in the Colosseum, surrounded by lions, armed only with your wits.

  She was thinking all this while staring into the open maw of her printer, which had been chewing up copies of her resume and spitting out confetti. Wearing an old pair of corduroy jeans with one of Bruce's Oxford-cloth blue shirts, she sat at her desk in the spare-bedroom-turned-study of her condo. She closed the lid of the printer and hit the RESET button.

  Nothing but a message: Error 31, whatever the hell that meant.

  She looked out the window at cars crossing the Rickenbacker Causeway, headed for the beaches of Key Biscayne. Across the bay, she could see a dozen white sails, a boat race forming up. She pictured the people on board, enjoying the breeze, the sunshine, the company. Enjoying life, while she sat here, cursing her computer, mourning her shattered career.

  If she went to work for Bruce, wouldn't it all be so much easier? She'd have time to sail and learn French cooking and play tennis at the club… like Katrina Barksdale. Maybe she should call Katrina, ask if she'd found a lawyer, offer her services. No, that would be unseemly, like inviting yourself to a party.

  Her mind drifted back to the previous evening. Bruce wasn't being mean. He was just trying to cheer her up. First, his personal chef had cooked another of those tasteless vegan meals, some greens sizzling in a wok with tofu the consistency of snot. She longed for filet mignon, rare, pommes frites… and another chance in the courtroom.