by Paul Levine
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, "Garcon. 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 decolletage. "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 surveillance, 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 creme brulee, Steve said: "This reminds me of something, Vic. Remember the case of the flaming toupee?"
"Cafe Jacquet in Lauderdale." She turned toward Junior. "Our client's toupee got caught in the duck flambe."
"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 a 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.
"I'm with you on the insurance companies," Junior agreed. "You wouldn't believe the hoops they made us jump through on Oceania."
"I can imagine," Victoria said. "What'd you need, a hundred-million-dollar binder?"
"Three hundred million," Junior said.
Steve let out a low whistle.
Across the table, Lexy and Rexy seemed bored with the adult conversation. They were pinching each other's upper arms, testing for fat content. They would have found more by squeezing chopsticks.
"Which carrier did you end up with?" Steve asked.
Junior stroked his chin, Steve wondering if food particles ever got stuck in the little clefted canyon. "A foreign consortium," Junior said after a moment.
"Lloyd's of London?"
Another pause, another chin stroke. "No, a Bermuda trust, actually."
"We sued a Bermuda group," Victoria said. "What was its name?"
"Pitts Bay Risk Management," Steve answered, eyes on Junior. "They had the reinsurance on a Sarasota condo project that failed to meet the building code."
Steve paused. Expecting Junior to say, "Yeah, that's the one." Or, "No, we're using Hamilton Liability, Limited." Or whatever.
"Now that I think about it, we turned down the Bermuda company," Junior said. "Placed the insurance with a Pacific Rim group."
"Probably Trans-Global out of Singapore," Steve said. Was it his imagination, or did the world's third-deepest free diver have a case of the darting eyes?
"Sounds like it," Junior said. "Yeah. I think that's the one."
Junior signaled the waiter for a refill on his after-dinner brandy-a forty-year-old Montifaud at forty-five bucks a glass-saying something about its masculine, woody taste. Then his cell phone beeped, and he looked relieved, excusing himself from the table to take the call.
A moment later, the waiter delivered the check in an embossed leather folder as thick as a book. He placed the handsome package in front of Steve, who tried to slide it over to Junior's empty place, but Victoria blocked it like a hockey goalie, and skidded it back to Steve with a wicked look. Steve peeked inside at the four-digit number, made a croaking sound as if a chicken bone were caught in his throat, then slapped the folder closed.
"I don't care about your dreamboat stiffing me with the check," Steve groused.
"Sure you do," Victoria fired back. "You'll have to take out a second mortgage."
They stood outside the restaurant on this warm, breezy night. Waiting for the valet service, Junior's silver Hummer having been delivered first. He'd already cheek-kissed Victoria and smacked Steve goodnaturedly on the shoulder, then drove off, turning north on Ponce de Leon Boulevard with two chattering blondes aboard.
It was Steve's idea that Junior give Lexy and Rexy a ride back to their South Beach condo. After all, Junior was staying at the Astor just a flew blocks away. It was all very logical, especially to Victoria. Steve was trying to set him up. The bimbos a deux would report everything to Steve, who was doubtless hoping the pair would make a midnight sandwich out of Junior in their tenth-floor playpen-by-the-sea.
That goofy plan didn't irritate her half as much as Steve's crashing the dinner party. Junior had seemed on the verge of expressing something for her when Steve rode in with the long-legged cavalry.
"What gets me," he grumbled now, "is how evasive Junior was about the insurance company."
"C'mon, Steve. Junior's not a detail person."
"A three-hundred-million-dollar insurance policy isn't a detail. You can't close a construction loan without an insurance binder in place."
"What's the big deal? You heard him. They placed the insurance with Trans-something-or-other."
"Trans-Global."
"Right. Trans-Global from Singapore."
"There's no such company. I made up the name, and he took the bait."
She was stunned. "Why the cheap trick?"
"To see if he was lying. Which he was."
"He was just agreeing with you to change the subject. Who wants to talk about insurance binders at dinner?"
"Lawyers trying to defend a murder trial."
"That's not it." Victoria pointed a finger at him. "You've made it personal. What do you have against Junior?"
"Other than the fact that he'd like to free dive into your-"
"Don't be crude, Steve. Just tell me. What are you doing? What's the insurance company have to do with who murdered Ben Stubbs?"
"It's a piece of the puzzle that doesn't fit. Oceania's the reason Stubbs was killed. If Junior's lying about Oceania's insurance, what else is he lying about?"
Eighteen
I GREASE THE SKIDS, KID
"Please state your name for the record," Steve said.
"Peter Luber." The pudgeball in pinstripes turned toward Sofia Hernandez, the raven-haired court stenographer whose tricolored nails were click-clacking the keys of her machine. "But you can call me Pinky, hon."
Sofia rolled her eyes, but like every good court reporter kept blessedly silent. She was used to men flirting with her, including one Stephen M. Solomon, Esq., with whom-BV, before Victoria-Sofia used to dally.
"Where do you live,
Mr. Luber?" Steve asked.
"Penthouse One-A, Belvedere Condos, Bal Harbour."
"And your office address?"
"Front seat of my Lincoln, boychik."
"You have no office?"
"Least my Town Car don't smell like a garbage dump."
Pinky sniffed and made a face. They were in the Solomon amp; Lord suite, if that's what you could call their second-floor hovel, the air ripe with rotting papaya from the Dumpster below the window. Steve was taking Luber's deposition in the lawsuit to get back Herbert's Bar license.
"Try to keep your answers responsive to the questions," Steve instructed.
Pinky Luber chomped his cold cigar and glared at Steve. Unhappy at being served with a subpoena, unhappy swearing to tell the truth, unhappy giving any deposition, much less one that poked around in his past. "Then let's move this charade along. I gotta get to the track in time for the daily double."
"What's your occupation, Mr. Luber?"
"Consultant."
Luber had tried enough cases himself to know that a smart witness answers as concisely as possible. A sentence is better than a paragraph, one word far better than two.
"Could you be a little more descriptive?" Steve asked.
"No."
Steve got the message. This wouldn't be like pulling teeth. Pulling teeth would be too easy. This would be like passing gallstones.
"Tell me the names of your clients."
Luber shook his head. "Confidential."
Steve was trying to send a message of his own. If he could, he would mess up Luber's business. Lacking a Bar license, Pinky could no longer ply his trade inside the courtroom. But he found life even more lucrative in the chambers of municipal commissions and the myriad agencies of city, county, and state government. If you needed retail space at the seaport-for a rental car company or a gift shop or a pretzel stand-and wanted to avoid pesky complications like competitive bidding, you hired Pinky Luber, influence peddler extraordinaire.
