by Paul Levine
Was there some mysterious genetic factor at work here? An invisible time bomb, a materialism gene embedded in her family's DNA. Maybe it went all the way back to Sir Francis Drake, plundering Spanish ships for their gold doubloons.
A minivan with Michigan plates swerved into his lane, cutting him off. Steve banged his horn, then sped around the doofus. In five minutes, he'd be at the office, sidestepping anorexic models and dashing for the stairs. He wondered if Victoria was already there. Usually, she arrived before him, and there'd be coffee brewing and fresh lilies in a vase by the time he arrived.
But the past week, she'd been the tardy one. Not only that, she'd been unusually quiet. She hadn't been giving him grief, another bad sign. The other day, he'd worn an old T-shirt, with the logo "Please Forgive Me; I Was Raised by Wolves." No reaction from The Princess. The next day, he wore one reading, "Oh, No! Not Another Learning Experience." Still nothing. This morning, he'd actually put on a suit and tie. The suit was friendly brown, not powerhouse navy or gray. The duds were not for Victoria; he was due in Criminal Court later. The arraignment in the case of State v. Solomon.
But now, all his thoughts were stuck on Victoria. Should he be alarmed at her silence? Where were the sparks? Where was the heat? Sound and fury, he could deal with. Stillness and indifference, he could not. In Steve's experience, when a woman was enmeshed in quiet reflection, best be prepared for oceanic change, a reversal of tidal flows. What was going on? Just what the hell was she thinking?
* * *
Driving her Mini Cooper across the causeway, Victoria spotted Steve just ahead in his Mustang convertible, hair blowing in the wind. Why was the top down on such a chilly day? Why did he have to be such a contrarian? She heard a horn blare, knew it was his, watched as he cut hard to the left and passed a minivan with Michigan plates.
Here they were, Solomon and Lord, headed the same direction but traveling in different lanes. At different speeds. About to take different routes.
Is this some sort of metaphor for our lives?
She would stay on Fifth Street all the way to the beach and swing right on Ocean Drive. One simple turn and the Les Mannequins building would be two blocks away. Steve would sail south on Alton, hang a left on Fourth Street, a right on Meridian, and a left on Third.
Why does he always choose the serpentine path?
Presumably, their destination was the same ...but was it really? She loved Steve, but sometimes she truly wondered why. He could be so aggravating. Ordinarily, his churlishness with her mother wouldn't have bothered her. God knew, Irene brought a lot of it on herself.
And The Queen enjoyed needling Steve as much as he enjoyed returning the favor.
But it was her birthday!
And what about the way he'd treated Carl Drake? Her mother really cared for the guy, and Steve practically called him a crook. As for the booty of Sir Francis Drake, sure, it all sounded a little fanciful. But Drake said he had some confidential paperwork he was going to give The Queen that should resolve any questions. And she wasn't laying out any money. So what was the harm? And maybe it was all real. Some people go to a garage sale and buy a Jackson Pollock for ten bucks.
Just ahead of her, she saw Steve's Mustang swing onto Alton, just as the light turned from yellow to red. Yep, taking his circuitous shortcut. She decided not to go to the office. Instead, she would drive to Lummus Park, walk along the ocean, think for a bit.
Did Steve even understand the problem? Or was he totally unaware of just how precarious their relationship was?
Fifteen
THE CASE OF THE
OVERBOOKED RABBI
"Let me get this straight," Steve said. "The rabbi was late for your wedding."
"Causing us emotional distress," piped up Sheila Minkin.
"And costing us like a thousand bucks in extra liquor charges," added Max Minkin, newly minted groom. "We had to start the reception before the wedding. Do you know how much the Ritz-Carlton charges per bottle?"
Steve didn't know and didn't care. He just wanted to get the basic facts of this farshlugginer case, then head to court for his own arraignment. It wouldn't hurt if his lawyer—Victoria Lord, Esq.—showed up so she could go along, too.
Where the hell is she?
In the past two minutes, Steve had learned that Max was a stockbroker downtown, Sheila a personal shopper for Neiman Marcus in Bal Harbour. Bride and groom were in their early thirties and well dressed. Steve figured the case was worth fifteen minutes of his time, twenty if he liked the couple. So far, he didn't.
They were sitting in the interior office of Solomon & Lord on this chilly day. A northwest wind had definitely replaced the soft Caribbean breezes, and the windows rattled in their panes. Across the alley, on the balcony of an apartment occupied by a Trinidad steel band, wind chimes banged against one another, loud as cymbals. Still, that was preferable to half a dozen bare-chested men with dreadlocks beating sticks against metal pans. In the reception room, Cece Santiago did her bench presses, her grunts interspersed with the clang of the bar dropping into its brackets.
"Three hours late," Sheila Minkin was saying. "Rabbi Finsterman showed up three hours late, and he smelled of liquor."
"He got our names wrong during the ceremony," Max Minkin tossed in. "That's got to be worth something, right?"
Steve tried to pay attention. It was a shit case, no doubt about it. But sometimes you can write a demand letter....
"My clients have suffered grievously as a result of your negligence."
And the guy coughs up five grand to make you go away. One-third of which was $1666.67. Not a bad day's pay, even if he had to listen to the newly wedded Minkins piss and moan, kvetch and noodge.
"First the rabbi said traffic was blocked getting over the Rickenbacker because of the tennis tournament. Then he said a Purim festival in Aventura ran late. But I did a little sleuthing."
Sheila Minkin paused, as if waiting for applause. "The big k'nocker triple-booked. He had another wedding at the Diplomat in Hallandale and a third at the Church of the Little Flower in the Gables."
"A Catholic church?"
"A mixed marriage," Sheila explained. "Finsterman's reform."
"A thousand bucks in extra booze," Max Minkin repeated. "My uncle Sol got so shikker he pinched Aunt Sadie instead of a bridesmaid."
"I have to tell you," Steve said, "this isn't a big-money case. Not much in hard damages."
Working his clients. Preparing them for pin money. And hoping to get them out of his office as quickly as possible.
Just where the hell is Victoria, anyway?
"What about my emotional distress?" Sheila insisted. "I broke out in hives when the band played 'Hava Nagila.'"
"A lot of brides experience tension and stress." Steve played devil's advocate, the devil being the opposing lawyer.
"There's more. Tell him, Max."
Her husband reddened but didn't say a word.
"Okay, I'll tell him. Max couldn't get it up that night. A six-hundred-dollar suite at the Ritz-Carlton, and he couldn't get it up. A groom, on his wedding night! There's a name for that in the law, right?"
Buyer's remorse, Steve thought, but what he said was: "Lost consortium."
"Right. We didn't consort for two days. That's hard damages, right?"
Or soft damages, as the case may be.
"It's a cognizable claim," Steve said, trying to sound like a lawyer. "I just don't want you to think we're talking big money here."
The door opened, and Victoria walked in. Cheeks pink. Her fair complexion showing the effects of the wind. Meaning she hadn't just gotten out of her car.
She'd been walking. Alone. As she did when troubled. Not a good sign. He needed Victoria on so many different levels, and here she was, going all introspective on him.
"Sorry to interrupt," Victoria said softly. "Steve, don't you have to go to court?"
"We do."
"Do you need me? It's all worked out, right?"
True, the h
earing would take all of five minutes. The state had agreed to lower the charges to a misdemeanor; Steve would plead nolo contendere and take an anger management course. Adjudication would be withheld, and when Steve got his certificate saying he was gentle as a pussy cat, all records would be expunged. In a strict legal sense, he didn't really need Victoria to stand alongside him in court, but he wanted her there. Saying that was something else. He wasn't going to beg.
"Nah. You don't have to go, Vic. Why don't you finish up here?"
He introduced her to Max and Sheila Minkin and described the facts, which he termed "a shocking case of rabbinical malpractice."
"Shocking," Victoria agreed, with just a smidgen of sarcasm. She turned to the lovebirds and said, "I'm sure we'll be able to achieve a fair and just result for you."
"Fuck that," Sheila Minkin said. "I want you to put that rabbi's nuts in a vise and make him squeal."
Sixteen
DISORDER IN THE COURT
Harry Carraway, a young Miami Beach cop, was riding his Segway down Ocean Drive, looking like a complete dork in his safari shorts and shades.
"Morning, Steve," he called out, above the hum of the machine.
"Dirty Harry," Steve called back. "Catch any jaywalkers?"
"No, sir. You walk any felons today?"
"Day ain't over yet."
The cop waved, gave the Segway some juice, and buzzed down the street.
The bicycles were bad enough, Steve thought, the Beach cops pedaling up and down Lincoln Road in their tight shirts and canvas shorts, flirting with sunburned coeds. But the sissified Segways were just too much. Cops should be straddling Harleys or driving big ugly Crown Vics.
Steve hopped into the Mustang and headed to the Criminal Justice Building.
Alone.
Victoria had jumped ship. Not that he couldn't handle this himself. But he never would have left her alone if the situation were reversed. Of course, it never would be reversed. Victoria would never have to step into a courtroom to enter a plea to a crime. But that aside, he wondered, what's going on here? Approaching the civic center, listening to "Incommunicado," Jimmy Buffet singing about driving solo on a road with a hole in it, Steve asked himself yet again: Just what the hell is going on?
* * *
"What's cooking, Cadillac?" Steve said as he crossed the courthouse patio.
"Baby backs, oxtail soup, ham croquettes," answered Cadillac Johnson, an elderly black man with a thick chest and a salt-and-pepper Afro.
Steve stopped at the counter of the Sweet Potato Pie, a trailer permanently parked on the patio. Cadillac, former blues musician, former client, current owner emeritus of the Pie—he was officially retired— slid a cup of chicory coffee across the counter to Steve. "You want me to save you a slab of ribs, Counselor?"
"Nah. I've become a vegan."
"Sure. And I've become a Republican." Cadillac poured a cup of coffee for himself. "You hear Dr. Bill on the radio this morning?"
Steve shrugged. "I listen to Mad Dog Mandich talk football and Jimmy B sing about tequila."
"The doc was talking about you."
"I know all about it. Solomon the Shyster. Steve the Snake."
"Not anymore. Today he said you had psychological issues you needed to deal with, but underneath, you were a good person."
"You're kidding."
"If I'm lying, I'm dying."
Five minutes later, Steve walked along the fourth-floor corridor, sidestepping cops and probation officers, court clerks and bail bondsmen, girlfriends and mothers of the presumably innocent hordes who were being led in shackles from the jail tunnel to the holding cells.
"Hey, boychik! Hold your horses!"
Marvin the Maven Mendelsohn toddled up. A small, tidy man around eighty, Marvin had a neatly trimmed mustache and a gleaming bald head. His black eyeglasses were too large for his narrow face, and his powder blue polyester leisure suit must have been all the rage in the 1970s. "What's your hurry, Stevie? They can't start your arraignment without you."
"You still reading the dockets, Marvin?"
The little man shrugged. "State versus Solomon. Assault and battery. In front of that alter kocker Schwartz."
At eight A.M. each day, Marvin the Maven could be found thumbing through the printouts attached to the clipboard outside each courtroom. As unofficial leader of the Courthouse Gang, a group of retirees who preferred trials to television, Marvin chose which cases to observe.
"So where's Ms. Lord?" Marvin asked.
"Don't need her," Steve said.
"What mishegoss! Of course you need her."
"I've got a plea all worked out."
"You gotta know, a man who represents himself has a shmendrick for a client."
"And a shlemiel for a lawyer?"
"Exactly."
As they neared the door to Judge Schwartz's courtroom, Marvin said: "So did you hear Dr. Bill today?"
"Apparently, I'm the only one in town who doesn't listen to the guy."
"He was saying nice things about you. That you have a lovely girlfriend. And in his experience, a man must have some good qualities if a fine, upstanding woman sees something in him."
"He's talking about himself, Marvin."
"I don't get it."
"He's sending a message that the two of us are alike somehow."
Steve headed into the courtroom, Marvin in tow. Inside, it was "shoot-around time," Steve's term for the chaos of a motion calendar. Lawyers and cops, clerks and clients drifting all over the courtroom, defendants filling the jury box, everyone talking at once. A basketball team's shooting practice, a dozen balls launched toward the rim at the same time. Presiding over the disorder was the Honorable Alvin Elias Schwartz, the only person in the courthouse older than Marvin the Maven.
Judge Schwartz was propped on two pillows, either because his hemorrhoids were flaring up or because, at five foot three, he couldn't see over the bench. Known as King of the Curmudgeons when he was younger, his disposition had gotten even worse with age. He now had the title of "senior judge," meaning he was somewhere between Medicare and the mortuary. No longer permitted to preside over trials because of lousy hearing, a weak bladder, and chronic flatulence, he nonetheless handled bail hearings, motions, and arraignments.
At the moment, Judge Schwartz was peering through his trifocals at a teenager in baggy, low-slung pants. Skinny and round-shouldered, the kid had the vacant, openmouthed look of the terminally stupid. From what Steve could gather, the kid had just pleaded guilty to possession of marijuana and was getting probation.
"You're getting a second chance, you understand that, José?" Judge Schwartz said.
"My name's Freddy, Judge," the kid said. "You know, short for Fernando."
"Hernando? Like the county? I own thirty acres up by Weeki Wachee."
"Fer-nando!" the kid repeated.
"I don't give a flying fandango what your name is, José. You come back here for spitting on the sidewalk, I'm sending you straight to Raiford, where some big bucks are gonna use your candy ass for a piñata. You comprende?"
"Viejo comemierda," the kid muttered.
Either the judge didn't hear him or didn't know he'd just been called a shit-eater, because he started absentmindedly thumbing through his stack of files.
Steve worked his way to the front row of the gallery and took a seat on the aisle. It took a moment to realize he was sitting next to Dr. Bill Kreeger.
"What the hell ...?"
"Good day, Steve."
"What are you doing here?"
"Surely you know that I testify on occasion. I'm considered quite an effective witness."
"Pathological liars usually are."
It couldn't be a coincidence, Steve thought. First, Kreeger popped up at Joe's. Then he started saying nice things about Steve on the air. Now he showed up in court, looking spiffy in a dark suit and burgundy tie. What was the bastard up to?
"And how's the gorgeous Ms. Lord?"
"Fine. How's your nie
ce? Amanda, right?"
"Lovely young thing, isn't she?"
"Woman," Steve said. "Lovely young woman. Only psychopaths see people as things."
"It's only an expression, Solomon. I assure you that no one in the world appreciates Amanda's qualities the way I do. She has an intelligence and understanding far beyond her years."
"What did you say her last name was?"
"I didn't."
"And just how is she your niece?"
"Too many questions, Solomon. Don't you know that curiosity killed the cat burglar?"
"State of Florida versus Stephen Solomon!" the clerk sang out.
Steve popped up and headed through the swinging gate into the well of the courtroom.
"Is the state prepared to proceed?" Judge Schwartz asked.
"The People are ready and holding steady, Your Honor."
The voice came from the back of the courtroom. Bouncing on his toes, a trim African-American man in a double-breasted pin-striped suit strutted toward the bench. Silver cuff links shaped like miniature handcuffs clinked as he walked. The man was in his mid-forties and still looked like he could fight middleweight, as he did in Golden Gloves when growing up in Liberty City.
What the hell? Pincher only showed up for cases that could get him face time on television.
Dumbfounded, Steve whispered to Pincher: "Sugar Ray, what's going on?"
"A special case that time won't erase."
"What the hell's so special about it?" Steve hissed at the prosecutor. "Are you backing out of the plea?"
"Relax, Solomon." Pincher turned his politician smile on the judge. "Your Honor, we've reached an agreement, but nothing vehement."
"You mean a plea deal?"
"Which now I'll reveal."
"Stop that damned bebop and get to the point."
Pincher gave a courteous bow to the judge, as if he'd just been complimented on the cut of his suit. "Your Honor, the state is prepared to dismiss the felony charges, and Mr. Solomon will plead nolo to simple assault with adjudication to be withheld pending completion of anger-management therapy."
