by Paul Levine
"Actually, Junior's in town," she admitted after a moment.
"No problem. Tell Junior to join us. He can pick up the check."
"The thing is . . ."
"Yeah?"
"He already asked me to dinner."
Steve felt like he'd been slugged in the gut. "You mean, like a date?"
"Not a date-date. Just a chance for us to catch up on old times without you cross-examining him."
"No fucking way."
She shot him a harsh look. He knew she hated the F-word, and he'd curtailed using it as the modifier of choice. No more "fucking hot out there." He'd cut back on the action verb, "fuck him," and the noun, "the fuck you doing?" And he was working on not using it as a suffix of the word "mother."
So when he chose to smack Victoria with a "no fucking way," it was a calculated verbal slap on the kisser to let her know just how pissed he was.
How pissed was he? Fucking pissed.
"Ste-phen," she dragged out his name, showing her irritation, "just chill. Having dinner with Junior is no big deal."
"Where you going?"
"Norman's. In the Gables."
"A date restaurant. The most romantic place in town."
"Then why don't you ever take me there?"
"Because we're not dating. We're together. We don't need a dark, expensive place with fancy food."
"Meaning what? Romance is dead?"
He'd walked into quicksand, and struggling was useless, but he flailed about, anyway. "C'mon, Vic. I've taken you there when a client paid."
"Which would make it a business restaurant, correct?"
Touché. The woman was a born cross-examiner.
"That's irrelevant," he scrambled, trying to counter-punch. "You're not going to talk business. You're going to relive the joys of playing strip poker at Bunny Flagler's."
"You're overreacting."
Was he?
No. This is how you react when the woman you're crazy about might jump ship.
He remembered the day he met Victoria, the ultra-proper, rigid-postured, long-legged young prosecutor in a conservative glen-plaid suit. She'd had a meltdown when he tried to call Mr. Ruffles, a talking toucan, to testify. Face flushed, she'd lost her cool and called Steve unethical and sleazy, diabolical and dangerous, a disgrace to the profession. How could he not fall for her?
That day in the courtroom, she was still a novice, and he'd caught a tremor in her lower lip as she rose to speak. But when she did speak . . . Oh, Lordy, as his father might say. In her tailored suit and velvet-toed shoes, with her short, butterscotch hair tousled just a whisper, with her commanding height, and her voice, growing stronger and more confident by the minute, Victoria Lord conveyed intelligence, competence, and unshakable integrity.
She had what every great trial lawyer desires, something that cannot be taught, bought, or even forgotten; she had presence. You couldn't not watch her.
Still, Steve the Slasher was the wilier practitioner, and he'd tricked her into a mistrial, which got her fired from the State Attorney's Office. He'd been regretful about that, at first. But no more. Had she not been sacked, they never could have hooked up to defend Katrina Barksdale on charges she'd strangled her husband.
Victoria had been engaged to the Avocado King then, and she'd stiff-armed all of Steve's advances. Until she came to the conclusion—not rationally, Steve figured, but chemically, magically, hormonally—that he, Last Out Solomon, was the man for her. Not Bruce Bigby. Which, at this moment, gave him precious little solace. For it stood to reason that if he stole Victoria's heart from Bigby, could not another man do the same to him? Was he this year's Bigby?
Seventeen
THE LOVE SONG OF
JUNIOR GRIFFIN
Victoria felt her cheeks burn as she followed the maître d' past the open, wood-burning oven on the way to the table. Or maybe the warmth wasn't coming from the oven at all. With Junior Griffin's strong hand on her bare skin, just above the top of her sequined silk chiffon ruffle top, was she blushing?
Diners at other tables stared as they walked by. Usually, she was the one who drew the looks, but now it seemed that her companion was the focus of attention. Junior wore an unstructured beige silk jacket, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his dark tan a burnished bronze in the subdued lighting. Underneath the jacket, a coral blue silk shirt was open at the neck, the fabric picking up the color of his eyes.
Adonis in Armani.
Sounds and smells filled this room of dark woods, a feel of old-world Spanish architecture. From the open kitchen came the crackle of rum-painted grouper, sizzling in a pan. From the tables, the tinkle of glasses and quiet conversations—in English, Spanish, Portuguese— giving the place an exotic feel.
The maître d' led them to a prime table, and why shouldn't he? They looked like an upwardly mobile young couple, sophisticated and successful.
Except we're not a couple at all.
She felt a moment of confusion as they ordered drinks, tequila for Junior, a Cosmopolitan for her. She was trying to convince herself that she had been honest with Steve. This wasn't a date. This was just a reconnection with her childhood friend. An opportunity to learn more about her father, more about her mother's secrets, maybe even a nugget or two for the murder case.
But not a date. Definitely not a date.
She hadn't let Junior pick her up at the condo. There'd be no awkward moments—"Want to come up for a drink?"—at the end of this evening.
So why had she taken such care dressing? She didn't have to change out of the high-collared, pin-striped suit she'd worn to court. But she had showered, washed and blow-dried her hair, then tried on four outfits. First, the conservative blue-green tweed jacket with a fringe trim and matching skirt with a silk scarf tie. No way. She looked like Mary Poppins.
Then the racy Balenciaga criss-cross halter minidress. But she didn't have the nerve for that one. Next, a middle-of-the-road Burberry beige wrap dress with splotches of black spots. Forget it. She looked like a demented schoolteacher whose fountain pen had exploded in her closet.
Finally, she decided on the bare-shouldered, sequined Max Azria ruffle top with the black tuxedo pants. When Junior met her at the bar, he'd cocked his head and said: "Wow, you look gorgeous." They brush-kissed and she felt a tingle of excitement and a creeping blush that rose like a fever from the back of her neck.
Now, as the waiter served pre-appetizer snacks like little party favors sent from the kitchen—a bite-size flan risotto flaked with lemon and a griddled masa cake topped by a tomatillo sauce—Junior surprised her with a question. "So, you and Solomon, law partners and how much more?"
She told him the story. How months earlier she'd called Steve "the sleaziest lawyer she'd ever met." How they'd shared facing jail cells after being held in mutual contempt for bickering in court. How he'd tricked her into a mistrial, which got her fired, and then how they'd teamed up to try a murder case. She left out the bit about making love in her fiancé's avocado grove. Wildly romantic at the time, it just seemed tawdry in the telling. But as she spoke to Junior, that night kept coming back to her. A snowstorm in Miami, a hurricane in her heart. She could still smell the black smoke of the smudge pots, could see the twinkling Christmas lights warming the trees. One indelible image: Steve's face. Startled . . . because she had made the first move. He had resisted—well, hesitated, anyway. The tough guy had been afraid of getting hurt. She was, after all, engaged to someone else.
So I must have fallen in love with Steve, right?
Or was that just her rationalization for what she had done? Now she wondered, had things happened too fast? And that nagging thought returned: Were her first instincts about Steve—the cutthroat, corner-cutting competitor—correct? Were the two of them just too different?
But now, another scary thought whipped through her like a chilly wind. Was she about to do something tawdry again?
"We've been together since then," Victoria told Junior. Giving away none of her concerns.
Or was she? Was just being here in a darkly lit romantic restaurant in her ruffled top with the bare shoulders . . . was that some signal that she was available?
He nodded and gave her a little smile with a raised eyebrow. As if it just didn't compute, Steve and her. But what he said was: "He's a lucky guy."
"Steve's charms are not always readily apparent. He has a real affinity for the underdog, and he's truly fearless. He doesn't care what people think of him, and if he believes in a client, he'll do anything to win, including risking disbarment and sometimes dismemberment."
"Yeah, he seems a little aggressive."
"Steve actually has a tender heart." Why did she feel the need to defend him? To justify her choice in a man, maybe? "You should see him with his nephew."
"Let's not talk about Solomon," Junior said, even though he was the one who'd raised the issue. "A toast."
He hoisted his glass and swirled the tequila. Victoria held the stem of her martini glass, the Cosmo glowing crimson in the candlelight.
"To old friends," Junior proclaimed, his eyes a deep azure pool. "And new beginnings."
And self-knowledge, Victoria thought. Awareness of who I am and what I want.
She felt her face heat again and sipped her Cosmo, hoping it would cool her, erase the blush from her neck. Then, like an attentive beau, Junior focused the conversation on her.
Not the Marlins, the Dolphins, or the 'Canes, like what's-his-name?
It was fun answering Junior's questions, his eyes never straying from hers. "Tell me about Princeton." Then Harvard Law. "Wow. Competitive, right?" Then, prosecuting criminals in Miami. "Wow, that takes some cajones." Asking how she'd kept her femininity. Those balls-to-the-wall lady prosecutors he's seen on Larry King seemed like man-eating sharks. She told him about the murder case she'd handled with Steve, drawing another "Wow" from the Wow-zer.
By the time his third tequila arrived, along with her second Cosmo, Junior was telling her how deeply his father had been affected by her father's suicide. When the Griffins moved to Costa Rica, his father was practically catatonic. Then, a year later, Junior's mother died of a particularly vicious form of stomach cancer. After another year of semiretirement, Hal Griffin got back in the game, building hotels in the Caribbean, then off to the Far East, and back home again. Junior was never able to sink roots, never found a woman he'd want to settle down with. Oh, how he'd missed Florida and his closest companion from childhood.
"I thought about you a lot." His look earnest. "I know we were just kids then, but we had such a natural rapport. Everything was so easy."
"How hard could it be when the biggest issue is ten o'clock curfew?"
An old defense mechanism, she knew. Using humor to deflect serious insight into feelings. So conflicted. Junior seemed to want to unburden himself of his pent-up feelings. Part of her wanted to hear him; part of her was afraid of what he would say.
He smiled and said: " 'Let us go then, you and I . . .' "
She finished the line: " 'When the evening is spread out against the sky . . .' "
They both laughed. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." They'd read the poem as children and tried to memorize it, but it was too long. That Junior would remember the opening stanza just now touched her. It was their poem. Did she have a poem with Steve? No, but if they did, it would probably be "Casey at the Bat."
Junior reached across the table and placed a powerful hand gently over her forearm, his thumb making tiny figure eights just above her wrist. "That's why this is such an opportunity," he whispered. "It's horrible, the mess Dad's in, but somehow, it's almost like fate brought us back together." He took a sip of his drink as if to fortify himself for what he had to say. "I've been thinking about this ever since I saw you the other day, and what I want you to know, Tori, is this. You're the only . . ."
He paused. Did he need another drink to say it? No, he was looking over her shoulder at someone. Who?
Then, a male voice, hearty and loud: "Well, well, look who's here!"
Oh, dammit. Dammit to hell!
"My law partner and the lobster poacher!" Steve exclaimed, with mock surprise.
He headed to their table, flanked by those twin blond bimbos, Lexy and Rexy from Les Mannequins. Lexy (or maybe it was Rexy, who could tell?) was dressed in a shimmering, low-cut, red silk dress that would have been ankle-length, had it not been for the flapping pleats—as wide as rubber flaps at a car wash—that opened at the waist, and curled around her long legs with each step. Rexy (unless it was Lexy) wore a simple black tube dress that stopped a foot north of her knees. Both had silicone breasts that were too mammoth for the twins' bony frames. Both were perched on the latest Jimmy Choo skyscrapers, with hundred-millimeter heels, and both moved with that hip-shot, glide-in-the-stride walk of accomplished runway models. Or hungry lionesses.
Victoria painted on a smile like the chef painted rum sauce on the grouper. "Hello and good-bye, Steve."
"What do you mean? Junior, you don't mind if we join you, right?"
"Well . . ."
"Great!" Steve turned to the nearest waiter and cried out, "Garçon. Camarero. Three more menus. Pronto, si'l vous plait."
Mixing his languages like a fish stew.
Steve introduced his two props to Junior, then signaled the waiter to take a drink order. Cristal champagne, and sure, put it on Mr. Griffin's check. He positioned Lexy and Rexy on either side of Junior and took a seat next to Victoria.
"Isn't this cozy?" Steve asked.
"And quite a coincidence," Junior replied.
"I eat here all the time," Steve said.
"Hah," Victoria exhaled.
Junior looked at Victoria and shrugged, as if to say: "What can we do?" In that moment, she liked him even more. So calm, so confident in himself, he didn't need to rebuff Steve or toss him headfirst across the bar.
"Showing some skin, Vic." Steve nodded toward her décolletage. "New dress?"
"I wore it to the Vizcayans Ball. You forget?" Her voice steely.
"Don't wrinkle your forehead, Vicky," Lexy cautioned. "Those lines will harden like concrete."
"How many carbs, you think?" Rexy mused, examining a rosemary breadstick as if it were a deadly spear.
"So, ladies." Junior smiled, like an amiable host.
"What do you do?"
"They're brain surgeons," Victoria said, drily.
"We're mo-dels," Lexy said. Moe-dells. "Can't you tell?"
"Cutie here's our lawyer." Rexy pointed a breadstick at Steve.
"We're celebrating," Steve said. "Lexy and Rexy got a TV commercial today."
"Vagistat!" the gals honked. Lexy looked into Junior's eyes, as if staring into a camera lens: "Do you suffer from vaginal itching, soreness, or burning?"
"With a thick, smelly discharge?" Rexy chimed in.
"You may have a yeast infection!" Lexy proclaimed cheerily, as if congratulating a friend on winning the lottery. "So, if you don't want a fungus among us . . ." In unison, they sang:
"Vag-i-stat your yeast away.
Don't you wait a-nother day.
Buy one tube, get a-nother free,
It won't sting when you pee."
"They say that on TV?" Junior asked.
"Cable," Steve explained. "Spice Channel."
The waiter approached and said: "If you're ready to order, may I recommend the barbecued duck?"
"Fuck that," Lexy said. "I'm a veterinarian."
They finished a second bottle of Cristal and an array of hired hands were clearing empty plates, picked clean of yuca-stuffed crispy shrimp, pan-roasted swordfish, catfish in a pecan crust, and a hearts-of-palm salad, the sole sustenance for the twins, who split the dish, wishing to retain their 112 pounds spread over their whooping-crane frames.
Steve spent the meal sizing up the body language of Junior and Victoria, but what could he tell? He had shattered the dynamics of the table with his intrusion. Maybe he should have worn a disguise and sat at the bar. Then he could have done real surve
illance, picking up their vibes, unobserved. In the next moment, he wondered if he was losing his mind.
Hey, relax. Vic deeply cares for me. We're just going through a rough patch.
Steve listened to Junior entertain the table with tales of free diving off Cabo San Lucas—descending to four hundred feet but finishing only third in the competition—and catching a record swordfish off the Caicos Islands, but tossing it back, instead of roasting it for fifty people with black bean muneta. Actually, the guy seemed okay. He wasn't playing footsie with Victoria under the table, and so far, he hadn't speared anyone with his butter knife.
Was Victoria right?
Have I screwed up, trying to pin two crimes on Junior? Killing Ben Stubbs and lusting after my lady— the latter being the true capital crime?
As the waiter applied a blowtorch to the top of Junior's crème brûlée, Steve said: "This reminds me of something, Vic. Remember the case of the flaming toupee?"
"Café Jacquet in Lauderdale." She turned toward Junior. "Our client's toupee got caught in the duck flambé."
"Wow," Junior said.
"Only his pride was hurt," she said. "His date didn't know he was bald, so Steve sued for his embarrassment."
"Ten grand plus free desserts for life," Steve said.
Another server brought out a medley of tropical ice creams. Guava, mango, papaya. Steve launched into a recitation of restaurant legal cases, including a libelous review that referred to one dish as "veal à la bubonic plague," a collapsing chair that injured a four-hundredpound diner, and a careless sushi chef who served his own fingertip with the California roll.
Junior laughed, displaying his well-advertised dimples and clefted chin. The discussion turned to the legal system, Steve calling trial lawyers the last hope of the common citizen in fighting megacorporations, incompetent doctors, and insurance companies. This went on a while, Lexy and Rexy sharing their fruit platter for dessert, slicing the skin off the grapes to save calories, Steve ranting that insurance companies were racketeering gangs and their executives were the spawn of Satan who denied coverage to honest policyholders, and when that didn't work, fought dirty against the truly injured, all the while gobbling their expense account beef tenderloin and whining about malingerers and malcontents who file workers' comp claims for having limbs torn off by ten-ton jig grinders.