by Paul Levine
"All these years," Griffin murmured, yet again.
"Forgive me, Grif," Irene said. "I should have returned your letters and calls, but after Nelson died . . ."
"I know. I know." They released each other to arm's length, Griffin keeping one hand on Irene's back. It looked as if they were going to fox-trot. "But you should have let me help you."
"It just didn't seem right, Grif. I needed the money, that's for sure. But . . ."
The Queen let it hang there, and Victoria tried to remember the days after her father's death. Her mother had gone from society hostess—what's that corny old phrase, "the hostess with the mostest"—to a social pariah. There'd been whispers among the La Gorce Country Club set. Irene Lord's profligate spending had driven the family into debt. Nelson had cut corners in the business. They sank into the quicksand of legal problems, tax problems, money problems.
How much of it was true?
The Queen refused to talk about it.
Uncle Grif and her mother still stared into each other's eyes. Victoria was starting to feel like the uninvited guest at another couple's party, a couple she didn't know all that well. Whatever memories were unspooling, she was not privy to them.
"I'm so sorry about Phyllis," Irene offered. "And forgive me for waiting all this time to say so."
"Thank you, Irene. She always thought so highly of you."
They reminisced a few minutes more before sitting down to guzzle champagne and slather caviar, eggs, and onion onto tiny wafers. Irene had signed the check to the room, meaning Victoria would have to pay.
At a lull in the conversation, Irene lowered her voice to a whisper. "You didn't really kill that fellow, did you, Grif?"
"Of course not. And The Princess is going to prove it. She's outstanding, Irene. Smart like her father, beautiful like her mother."
"I hope she's not in over her head."
"Mother. I've handled murder cases."
"For riffraff, maybe," Irene said. "But Grif's family. He should have the best."
"Not to worry," Griffin said. "Victoria's terrific. Her partner, too."
"Solomon?" Irene wrinkled her nose, which had been expensively sculpted upward, like the prow of a fine yacht. "I suppose he's effective in his own déclassé way." She took another sip of champagne, then said, "How's Junior doing? Victoria tells me he's turned into a real hunk."
"Mo-ther," Victoria said in her chiding tone. No surprise that her mother changed the subject from Steve to the only boy—well, man now—considered good enough for her little darling. Oh, how The Queen adored Junior, or at least the memory of him. As for Steve, a few months ago Irene had told Victoria that three things gave her indigestion: raw onions, men in lime velour sweatsuits, and thoughts of her marrying Steve.
"Junior never cared much about making a buck," Griffin said. "But lately, he's taken an interest in the business. Been riding me hard, telling me I spend too much money, take too many risks."
Irene cocked her head and rolled a pearl earring between thumb and index finger. "I remember years ago the six of us were at the Surf Club for dinner. Junior must have been about ten and Victoria eight, and they were feeding each other stone crabs with little cocktail forks. And one of us, I think it was Nelson, said wouldn't it be great if the kids got together someday." She paused, relishing the memory. "I think we all were hoping for a Griffin-Lord wedding."
"Plans," Griffin said. "If there's anything I've learned, it's that man's hopes are just God's toys."
Irene sighed. "Don't I know it, Grif."
Victoria decided to intervene before the discussion turned to her kindergarten report cards, her childhood measles, or her first menstrual period. "Mother, Uncle Grif and I were working on trial prep, so I wonder if you—"
"Go right ahead, dear. I won't interfere." Irene hoisted her flute and finished off the champagne a trifle too quickly. Pouring herself another, she said: "So, have the two of you been talking about moi?"
"Mother, the world doesn't revolve around you."
"Since when, dear?"
"You have to leave," Victoria said. "We're discussing the case. You're not covered by the attorney-client privilege, and anything Uncle Grif says—"
"Oh, fiddles! Grif, tell my daughter she can't evict me."
"Now, I-rene," Griffin said with mock exasperation.
"Don't you 'Now, Irene' me."
They both laughed again, and Irene's eyes glistened with pleasure. The way they spoke to each other reminded Victoria of something, but what was it? She tried to dig up a memory but couldn't.
Just what was her mother doing, anyway? She seemed almost flirtatious. But then, flirting was second nature to her. There'd been many men in The Queen's life the past fifteen years, one rich widower or recently divorced tycoon after another. Much like her hammered gold bracelet, Irene was a most presentable trinket. The Queen's modus operandi, Victoria knew, was to show as little interest as possible, which only fueled men's ardor. She clearly enjoyed the fawning attention, the travel, the perks of private jets and five-star hotels.
When Victoria once asked why she didn't marry any of the suitors, her mother dismissed the idea with a wave of the hand. "Heaven knows, I've been asked, but I've had the one great love of my life."
Meaning Victoria's father, of course. Or so Victoria always thought. But just now, another suspicion was nibbling away, like a mouse in the larder.
Those pealing laughs.
Those glistening eyes.
The tenderness between them.
Her mother and Uncle Grif? No, it was utterly preposterous, to use one of The Queen's own phrases.
Or was it?
Uncle Grif was the one who'd christened them The Queen and The Princess. He had always been around, always been attentive to their needs. That day she got lost at Disney World—she couldn't have been more than six or seven—it was Uncle Grif, not her father, who found her. And what about that bank account in the Caymans? Queen Investment, Ltd. Why not Phyllis Investments? Why not his own wife's name? Did the covert account reveal a surreptitious relationship?
"Now, I-rene."
"Don't you 'Now, Irene' me."
It came back to her then. That's the exchange she remembered between her mother and father. Or was it? Had it been Uncle Grif all along? Was she confusing the two men? And was her mother doing the same?
The two couples had been so close. Until her father's suicide. Logic told Victoria that her mother would have needed Uncle Grif even more in those awful days. So, with such a powerful emotional bond between them, why did The Queen cut him out of her life?
There could only be one reason.
Guilt.
Oh, God, no.
Victoria strained to keep her voice under control. "Mother, you can stay if you'll answer one question."
"Anything to help." Irene neatly knifed a layer of caviar onto a wafer.
"When Dad committed suicide, were you and Uncle Grif having an affair?"
Irene's hand trembled and she dropped the caviar-laden wafer, facedown, onto the carpet.
"Oh, Jesus," Griffin gasped.
Irene forced a smile as brittle as an icicle. "What an astonishingly rude question."
"Dad found out, didn't he?" Victoria's question caught in her throat. "Is that why he killed himself?"
Griffin squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples with his knuckles.
Irene dabbed a linen napkin at the corner of her mouth, a dainty motion. "My goodness. For poor Grif's sake, I hope you're a better lawyer than a gossip, dear."
Twenty-two
TALK, HUG, KISS, SCREW
On the Caddy's radio, Roadkill Bill Jabanoski was singing "I Wanna Get Drunk, I Wanna Get Laid, and Monday Morning Seems Like Two Years Away." Even though it was one of Steve's favorite Key West songs, he turned down the volume as he shouted into his cell phone. "What kind of lawyer are you!"
In the passenger seat, Bobby fidgeted, first covering his ears with his hands, then putting a finger to his lip
s. Unless he was a third base coach signaling a hit-andrun, he wanted Steve to quiet down.
"Don't raise your voice to me," Victoria responded at the other end of the line. Sounding so calm, it aggravated Steve even more. Why couldn't she see past her own family problems?
"The client always comes first, Vic. Not the lawyer's personal needs."
"Then why aren't you here? Why are you wasting your time on your father's case when he told you to dismiss it?"
"You didn't want me there!"
"Since when does that stop you?"
"Don't change the subject. I thought you could handle one simple arraignment without the client firing us."
"Uncle Grif didn't fire us. He just walked out and didn't come back."
"And won't return your calls."
"You're overreacting," Victoria said.
Steve was driving south on the Overseas Highway, headed to Key West and what was left of their case. Victoria had told him about Griffin bribing Stubbs but continuing to deny that he killed the "greedy prick"— an expression they might want to fine-tune before getting to court.
If we get to court.
The relationship between murder client and defense counsel was as delicate as that between two lovers. Had Victoria destroyed it?
"What the hell happened?" Steve demanded. "I'm the one who breaks the china. You're the one who's supposed to get along with people."
"I told you. It all came clear to me about The Queen and Uncle Grif."
"And you couldn't keep quiet about it?" Steve banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "That's ancient history. Who cares if they were playing hide-the-salami when Bette Midler was winning Grammys?"
"Must you be so crude?"
"Haven't I told you nothing's as important as maintaining your client's trust?"
"Aren't you the one who accused Uncle Grif of murder ten minutes after meeting him?"
"I implicated him. I accused his son. Besides, that's just my interviewing technique."
It was nearly ten p.m., Steve had a piercing headache, and the drive had barely begun. A misty rain was falling when they left Miami, so the top was up, the wind whistling through a small tear in the canvas above Bobby's head. They zipped past rows of Australian pines that looked like the log pilings of a wooden fort. A pale slice of moon peeked out from a thin layer of scudding clouds. On either side of the road, the turquoise water had turned an ominous black, the tangled mangrove trees melding into one indistinguishable dark mass, and the marshy hammocks—baked all day by the sun—were discharging a brackish smell into the moist night air.
"Why can't you understand my feelings?" Victoria pressed him. "Uncle Grif and my mother might be responsible for my father's death. How can I have a relationship with either one of them?"
"Exactly what Griffin's wondering. He thinks you wouldn't mind seeing him go to prison. We're dead in the water, Vic. He'll have new counsel by the morning."
"Uncle Grif never said that."
The Caddy rumbled over the Jewfish Creek Bridge. Steve always wondered if he should be offended by the name. The jewfish was a giant grouper—some weighed several hundred pounds—and he had no idea why anyone would ascribe an ethnic heritage to the ugly old creature. Was there such a thing as a Methodist moray? A Baptist barracuda? He didn't think so. He hoped the reason behind the name was positive. Maybe jewfish were the doctors or professors or comedians of undersea life. But he feared the name reflected some negative stereotype, like the big fat loan shark dishing out a hundred clams at usurious rates. Shylocks of the deep.
"You gonna bill him for the time you spent calling him a sleaze?" Steve said into the cell phone.
"You billed The Beav for time spent wrestling a silicone doll."
"In Judge Schwartz's chambers? That was a hearing."
"I'm talking about at home, the night before."
"That was trial prep."
Judge Schwartz's clerk had called that afternoon, saying he was drafting an order dismissing the lawsuit against The Beav, but that His Honor would be hanging on to Tami the Love Doll a bit longer.
"I would have expected a little more empathy from you," Victoria said. "When I told Junior about the two of them, he practically wept."
"You called Mr. Suntan before me!"
"Why are you so insecure about him?"
Steve heard a throaty roar from behind the Caddy. In the rearview mirror, he saw a motorcycle swoop closer, tailgating them. The road was only two lanes with a solid line, but the chopper—a cherry red Harley—shot past him, the rider in black leather with a Darth Vader helmet.
"You should have called me first," Steve told Victoria.
"Junior has an emotional stake in this. He's sharing my pain."
"What Junior wants to share is your bed."
There was silence on the line.
Steve listened to the Caddy's tires whining across the asphalt. The Harley had disappeared into the distance. He was still waiting for Victoria to say: "I'm not interested in Junior. You're the only man for me, even if sometimes you are the world's biggest dummy."
But she didn't say that, not even the "biggest dummy" part. He decided to make a tactical retreat. "Look, I'm sorry—I'm being a real shit."
Still nothing.
"I'll try to be more understanding of what you're going through."
Line static.
"We should talk about the case, Vic, just in case we're not fired."
"I'm tired, Steve. I'm going to sleep."
Avoidance. Steve had never been in therapy or couples counseling or Deepak Chopra seminars, but he intuitively knew that you had to talk through your problems. In his experience, there was a surefire, four-step method for making up:
Talk.
Hug.
Kiss.
Screw.
Occasionally, it was possible to skip a step or two on the way to number four, but women loved to talk as much as they loved to buy shoes, so it was best to start there.
"How 'bout waiting up for me?" he suggested. "It's a beautiful night. Maybe we can walk on the beach, sip some sour mash whiskey."
"I'm really tired."
"It's been a few days and I really miss you."
"Uh-huh."
Okay, he thought, just lay it on the line. "I've got an itch that needs scratching."
"Gross," Bobby said.
"Try calamine lotion," Victoria said, and the phone clicked dead.
Twenty-three
A THOUGHT BEFORE DYING
"Why do you always fight with everybody?" Bobby
drilled him.
"I'm a lawyer," Steve said.
"I don't mean in court. With Victoria and Gramps."
"I guess 'cause I love them, kiddo."
"So why not tell them that, then just let them do what they want?"
"Objection. Compound question."
"I mean it, Uncle Steve. When's the last time you told Victoria you loved her?"
Steve shrugged. No way he was going to tell a twelve-year-old kid that his "I love yous" were generally confined to moments of priapic, pre-orgasmic bliss. And now that he thought of it, their lovemaking had tailed off recently. Starting the day Hal Griffin's boat went airborne, there'd been a definite slowdown in the hot-and-saucy department. No doubt about it: life would be better if the Griffins—Senior and Junior— had never shown up.
"And why don't you listen to Gramps?" Bobby continued. "He's older than you, so he's gotta know more, right?"
"The old man's being stubborn about his case."
"He says you're an egg-sucking gallywampus."
"I'd deny it if I knew what the hell it was."
They were on the bridge crossing the Spanish Harbor Channel, thirty miles from Key West. On the oldies station, the Zombies were asking, "Who's your daddy?" and inquiring if he was a man of wealth like the singer.
"Victoria says you're overbearing," Bobby said. "What's that mean, exactly?"
"It means sometimes I care so much about her that I
invade her space."
"Is that why she threw your autographed Jeff Conine baseball at your head the other day?"
"We were just playing pitch and catch."
"Then how'd the window get broken?"
"I ducked. Look, kiddo. Women act weird sometimes. Once every month, for a few days, they have this hormonal thing going on."
"I know all about that stuff, Uncle Steve."
"Good, but there's more to it. It's probably time I taught you everything I know about women."
"Go ahead. I've got a minute."
"I'm serious, kiddo. You can learn from my mistakes."
Steve was trying to figure where to start when he heard the roar. In the rearview mirror, another chopper. As it pulled around to pass, he saw that it was the same one, a red Harley, the Screaming Eagle, all steel and chrome, with Darth Vader still aboard. It must have pulled off the road somewhere after passing them earlier. Now it came alongside and hung there.
"What's with this cowboy?" Steve said.
"Maybe he wants to race," Bobby said.
"On a two-lane bridge? What a jerk." Steve eased off the gas, but the Harley did, too, hanging with him. They were neck and neck, a mile from Big Pine Key and dry land.
Steve gave the Caddy some gas, and the old speedometer wand wiggle-waggled to seventy, seventy-five, eighty, the engine clearing its throat, then snarling to life. The Harley kept alongside, effortlessly.
"Asshole," Steve muttered.
Darth Vader waved. He seemed to have something in his hand. Then he let go, and sheets of paper flew across the road.
"Litterbug," Steve said.
Darth reached into a saddlebag and came up with something else in his hand. A jar, or a jug, half-gallon size.