by Paul Levine
"Shalom, son," his father called out. Chin stubbled with white whiskers, long silvery hair swept straight back, flipping up at his neck. With a bottle of sour mash whiskey within arm's reach, Herbert T. Solomon looked like Wild Bill Hickock in a yarmulke.
Or maybe a biblical prophet. He held a weathered copy of the Old Testament in one hand and a drink in the other. "The Queen of Sheba," Herbert intoned in his Southern drawl, "having heard of Solomon's fame, came to test him with tricky questions."
"Get to the sexy part," Bobby said. "Where Solomon slips it to Sheba and all the concubines."
Herbert took a sip of the whiskey. "In due time, boychik."
"What's going on, Dad?"
"Ah'm teaching Robert the good book." Herbert flipped a page. " 'The Queen of Sheba gave Solomon gold and spices, and—' "
" 'Spice' is Bible talk for nookie," Bobby interrupted, grinning at Steve. "Grandpop taught me that."
"Grandpop's a regular Talmudic scholar."
Bobby went on, excitedly: "In the first book of Kings, it says that Solomon gave Sheba 'everything she desired and asked for.' You get it, Uncle Steve?"
"I think I can figure it out."
"Did you know King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines?"
"No wonder he wanted to get out of the house and conquer Mesopotamia." Steve turned to his father, who was pouring whiskey over ice. "Dad, why are you filling Bobby with this nonsense?"
"Our roots are not nonsense." Herbert took a noisy pull on his drink and turned to his grandson. "Robert, our ancestors were warriors in the court of King Solomon. We're direct descendants from His Honor's own wise self."
"Oh, for God's sake," Steve groaned.
"Don't you blaspheme in mah presence."
"And what's with the yarmulke? You covering a bald spot?"
"Ah pray for you, Stephen. You've become a Philistine."
"And you've flipped out. Going orthodox at your age is just plain weird."
Herbert shook his head. "Cain't believe mah son's a heathen and mah daughter's a whore."
"Hey, Dad. Cool it in front of Bobby with that stuff, okay?"
"Nu? What's the big deal? You think the boy doesn't know his mother's a junkie and a tramp?"
"Dad, that's enough." Not that it wasn't true, Steve thought, but you don't smack a kid in the face with that kind of talk.
"It's okay, Uncle Steve." Bobby fiddled with a two-by-four, showing no apparent concern. But Steve knew that look. A blank, neutral mask. It was how the boy hid the pain. What the hell was wrong with his father, anyway? Didn't he realize how sensitive Bobby was? Probably not. When Steve was a kid, his father treated him just as callously. Hadn't he called him a "wuss" when four Marieltos at Nautilus Middle School beat him up for his lunch money?
Without looking up, Bobby said: "The other day in the cafeteria, one of the kids asked about my parents."
Steve held his breath. Kids can be so cruel. Little predators preying on the one who's different.
"I told them I didn't know my father, and my mom was in prison," Bobby continued.
"You take some heat over that, kiddo?"
Bobby shook his head. "Everybody thought that was way cool. Manuel said he wished he didn't know his old man. Jason asked if I ever visited Mom in prison."
The boy let it hang there. His way of asking Steve why they never drove down to Homestead Correctional. So hard to understand the boy's longing. Janice had neglected and abused him. Locked him in a dog shed, starved him while she got stoned. And Bobby, what . . . missed her? Steve decided to let it go. What could he say, anyway?
"If you visit your Mom, those nightmares will come back, kiddo."
No, he would rather stay clear of the subject of Janice Solomon, junkie, tramp, and utterly worthless mother.
"If mah son won't go to Shabbos services with me," Herbert declared, "maybe mah grandson will."
"I have to study," Bobby said.
"On a Friday night? You oughta be praying, then chasing tail. Maybe praying you catch some."
"Dad, what the hell's going on? You haven't been to synagogue in thirty years."
"The hell you say. When ah was a practicing lawyer, ah went to High Holy Days every year."
"Right. You handed out your business card on Yom Kippur. What's up now?"
"Mah grandfather was a cantor, you know that?"
Steve had heard the stories since he was a child. Herbert claimed to have traced the family tree back nearly three centuries. Ezekiel Solomon was among the first English colonists to settle Savannah in the 1730s. The Solomons grew and prospered, and over the generations the family sprawled to Atlanta and Birmingham and Charleston. According to Herbert, who specialized in the tradition of exaggeration employed by lawyers, peddlers, and Southerners, the tree that sprouted from old Ezekiel produced farmers and weavers, stone masons and mill owners. Even an occasional rabbi and cantor. Not to mention a stock swindler and a bookie who went to prison for fixing college football games in the 1940s.
But what was this crap about the court of King Solomon? It was one thing to trace your ancestors back to James Oglethorpe. But quite another to lay claim to a royal name three thousand years old.
Until recently, Herbert hadn't cared much about spirituality. So, why now? He was getting older, of course. Probably sensing his own mortality.
Then there's his fall from grace.
Nearly fifteen years ago, snared in a bribery and extortion scandal, Herbert had protested his innocence but nonetheless quit the bench and resigned from the Bar in disgrace. That had to be it, Steve thought.
Lost and found. My old man found religion to make up for what he's lost.
Career and status, gone. Wife—Steve's mother, Eleanor—dead of a vicious cancer. Daughter Janice in and out of jail and drug rehab. A touchy relationship with Steve.
Herbert picked up a hammer and a handful of nails and grabbed a two-by-four. "Gotta get to work, son."
"On what?"
"Gonna make a scale model of the Temple of Solomon," Herbert said.
"You got a building permit for that?"
"Got the blueprints. How long's a cubit, anyway?"
Steve doubted his father could drive a nail straight. When Steve was Bobby's age, Herbert couldn't glue the wings of a balsa airplane to the fuselage.
"Robert, the temple is where King Solomon kept the Ark of the Covenant," Herbert said, "the very tablets the Lord gave to Moses."
"I know, Gramps. I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark."
Enough was enough. "Bobby, I need to talk to your grandfather for a few minutes," Steve said.
"So?"
"There are fresh mangoes on the counter. Go make yourself a smoothie."
"You can't order me around. I'm descended from King Solomon." Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. "King Solomon. SOLO GIN MONK."
"Fine, kiddo. Now, give us a few minutes."
"Okay, okay." The boy got to his feet and slouched toward the kitchen door.
"I've got a problem, Dad. I need advice."
"Then you damn well came to the right place," Herbert Solomon said.
* * *
Just as he had done with Victoria, Steve told his father everything. How he learned Kreeger's philosophy by reading his monograph on rational murder. How he uncovered Beshears' death, then sold Kreeger out in the murder trial by tipping off Pincher. How he found the marlin on his door and the gaff in his office, symbols of Kreeger's homicidal fishing trip. And how upset Victoria became when he confessed his lawyerly sins. When he was finished, Herbert exhaled a long, low whistle. "Jesus and Magdalene, David and Bathsheba."
"I don't think those two couples are equivalent," Steve said.
"Then you didn't read The Da Vinci Code. Son, when you stroll through the cow pasture, you best not be wearing your wingtips."
"What the hell's that mean?"
"You stepped in deep shit. So what is it you want? Girlfriend advice or Florida Bar advice? 'Cause if it's girlfriend advice
, ah'd say it's high time that shiksa converts. A dip in the Mikvah, the gateway to purity. Miriam's well in the desert."
"Jeez, Dad. Can you focus? I'm telling you this guy's coming after me."
"You mean to do you harm?"
"No, to wish me happy Chanukah. Don't you get it? Kreeger killed two people. I was supposed to defend him, and I double-crossed him. He's out of prison and he's pissed. It's a Cape Fear deal."
"Cape Fear, cape schmere. Ah heard him on the radio today. Talking about what a shitty lawyer you were. Some of it was damn funny."
"Glad you enjoyed it."
"He was riding you hard, sure. But it didn't sound mean. More like joshing."
"So what's the message he's sending?"
"The way Ah figure, he's saying he knows what you did. Confirming you were right about him being a killer. Boasting about it. Thinking maybe you would appreciate the artistry of it."
"Why would I appreciate him killing two people?"
"From what you say, he admires men who break the rules. That's you, son."
"But not by killing. Not like him."
"Dr. Bill probably considers you just a step or two up that slippery slope from where he stands."
"And what do you think he wants from me?"
"Take the man at his word. He said he wanted you to come on his show. Maybe he thinks he's Johnny Carson and you're his Ed McMahon. His sidekick. Ah don't believe Kreeger wants to kill you, Stephen. Ah believe he wants to be your pal."
"That's crazy."
"Just listen to the man flap his gums. He's a talker.
But who's he gonna talk to about killing those people? You, son. In his head, you're the only one who understands."
"I don't want to talk to him. I want him off my back."
"Okay, go tell him that. But what if he won't let up?"
"Then I'll bring him down. I don't know how, but I will."
"You best be careful about that."
"You saying I should do nothing, let him smear me?"
"Ah'm saying, you call me if you plan to take him on. That sumbitch ain't a one-mule load."
* * *
Bobby sliced the mangoes, taking care to cut around the pit so it would pop out, the way Uncle Steve had taught him. He could hear the two men talking in the yard. On the farm, when Bobby had been locked in the shed in the dark, his sense of hearing had sharpened. At night, he'd listened to the coyotes until he could tell one from another as they sang their songs. He could hear the horses shuffling in the barn, their rumps smacking the wall. Could almost feel the hot breath of their snorts and whinnies. During the days, he'd heard the trucks, their doors slamming, men cursing. When he was let out to work in the fields, he would listen to the birds chirping and the bees buzzing.
He'd liked it outside, even if the men would sometimes hit him for not working hard enough. The men smelled funny, and their beards were tangled and yucky. The women worked in the vegetable garden, bent over, greasy hair falling in their eyes.
Mom said they were organic farmers, but Bobby saw drums of insecticide and bags of artificial fertilizer. And he knew the leafy green plants were marijuana. On moonless nights, he heard the trucks pull in, heard the men grunting as they hoisted bales, heard them yelling at the moon, whooping after their women, guns blasting empty liquor bottles to smithereens.
Now Bobby listened as Uncle Steve told Grandpop about the psychiatrist named Kreeger. Uncle Steve sounded worried, which was weird. He was always getting into trouble but it never seemed to bother him. But this was different. Was Uncle Steve scared?
Bobby tossed the mango slices into the blender with a sliced banana, a handful of ice, and two scoops of protein powder. He wanted to gain weight so he didn't look like such a weenie, but it wasn't working. Despite the smoothies and ham paninis and all the pistachio ice cream he could eat, his body still was all wires and bones. With the blender whirring, he could no longer hear the men. Were they talking about his mother?
Uncle Steve doesn't understand. He thinks just because Mom messed me up, I don't want to see her. But she's still my mom.
There was something he needed to tell Uncle Steve, but didn't know how. His mother had called him yesterday. She cried on the phone, and he did, too. Said she loved him and was sorry about everything and she had completely changed.
"I'm a new woman, Bobby. I'm clean and sober."
"That's great, Mom."
"I'm never going back to those old ways. I have a new purpose. A guiding light."
"What's that, Mom?"
"I found Jesus. I let Jesus Christ into my heart."
Wait till Grandpop hears, Bobby thought.
But that wasn't what Bobby needed to tell Uncle Steve. What he needed to tell him was the last thing Mom had said.
"I'm coming to get you, Bobby, honey. I'm coming back to be your mother again."
Eight
WAXING NOSTALGIC
Without really intending to, Victoria Lord was staring straight into The Queen's crotch. "Maybe this should wait, Mother."
"Nonsense. It's your duty to relieve my insufferable boredom." Naked from the waist down, Irene Lord lay on her back, her hands under her butt, her legs raised and spread. "Benedita, you will be quick about it, won't you, darling?"
"I will be queek so your lover can be slow," Benedita vowed in a thick Brazilian accent. A young woman with cinnamon skin and flaming red lipstick, Benedita wore pink nylon shorts, a crimson sequined wrestler's singlet, and knee-high suede boots.
They were in a private booth at the Salon Rio in Bal Harbour for The Queen's monthly bikini wax. Already, Victoria regretted coming here, but she was desperate for personal advice.
Should I move in with Steve? Why is the thought of All-Steve, All-the-Time, so terrifying?
Victoria hadn't expressed her fears to him. How could she? Moving in together had been her idea. Of course, if Steve were more attuned to the subtleties of her moods, he would have picked up the vibes. Instead, she had asked: "Are you absolutely sure you're ready for this?"
He quickly said yes, not realizing she had been expressing her own doubts. Typical tone-deaf male.
Now she was in full-blown crisis mode. Could she really work with him all day, then come home to the same house? Was 24/7 simply too much?
Something else, too. After that bombshell today, Steve nuking the ethical rules by turning on his own client, could she even work with him?
Then she wondered if she was overreacting. Or even worse . . .
Am I subconsciously using what Steve did years ago as a reason not to advance our relationship?
She wanted to ask her mother all these questions. After all, The Queen's experiences with men crossed several continents over several decades and were exponentially greater than her own. But her mother, as usual, was engrossed in her own affairs.
"You really must meet Carl," Irene said, peering over her pubic region. "He's a dreamboat and a dead ringer for George Clooney. They could be twins."
"Which would make him how much younger than you, Mother?"
"Actually, I haven't told him my age, but I implied I was too young to remember Neil Armstrong landing on the moon."
"Which means you gave birth to me when you were, what—ten?"
"It's been known to happen, dear."
"Stop moving," Benedita ordered as she dusted Irene's private parts with perfumed puffs of baby powder. Snow falling on pubies.
"Princess, you really should get waxed," Irene said.
"No thank you, Mother."
"I've seen that bush of yours. You could use a weed whacker."
"Mother!"
Benedita hoisted one of Irene's legs over a shoulder.
"I'm just trying to help, dear. Men love those bare, smooth loins. Probably the Lolita fantasy."
"I'm not having this discussion."
"Just trying to help, dear." The Queen studied her daughter a moment, pursing her lips. "And what have you done to your hair? Your other hair."
"No
thing."
"You've tinted it. I can tell."
"I haven't done anything except wash it."
"I liked it better the other way."
"What other way! Dammit, Mother, you're impossible."
"Don't raise your voice. Men can't stand a woman who's shrill."
Victoria sighed. "God, why did I come here?"
"Why, to keep me company, of course."
Victoria blurted it out: "I'm not sure about moving in with Steve."
"Well, I am. It's a terrible idea. Why you ever suggested it is beyond me. A man won't buy the cow if he's getting the crème fraiche for free."
"I thought you didn't want me to marry Steve."
"Oooh," The Queen sighed as Benedita slathered the warm beeswax concoction over her crotch. "I don't, Princess. The man is totally unsuitable for you."
"Why? Because he's not Episcopalian or because he's not rich?"
"Ouch!" A tearing sound and The Queen yelped. "Jesus, Benedita . . ."
Benedita smiled as she examined the glob of hardened wax she'd just yanked from The Queen.
"I'm not a bigot and I'm not that materialistic," Irene said. "But I can't help wondering, dear. If you're going to be with a Jewish man, why couldn't it be one with some wherewithal? Goodness knows, there are enough of them."
"I knew this would be useless."
Another rip. Another "Ouch!"
"I'm just worried that we're too different, Mother."
"Of course you are, dear."
As if it's a given. As if there's no need to discuss it.
"Keep the landing strip narrow, Benedita," Irene instructed as the Brazilian woman plucked stray hairs with tiny tweezers. "It makes the man look bigger."
More concerned about the aesthetics of her private parts than about her only child's happiness.
Victoria decided to try once more. One more stab at drawing her mother away from her own sybaritic pleasures. "Steve did something incomprehensible, and I just can't come to grips with it."
"He cheated on you?"
