by Paul Levine
“Ah'm saying it's possible.”
Teresa Toraño had been right. From the Panhandle to the Keys, Zinkavich was covering a helluva lot of ground. And why?
To bury me. All I want is to raise Bobby, and the state unleashes this vengeful fuck on me.
“This much ah know for sure.” Herbert twirled the martini glass by the stem. “Zinkavich wants to squash you like a palmetto bug. He was tossing around words like ‘aggravated assault' and ‘attempted murder.'”
The tightness in Steve's stomach had become a thudding pain. So many questions, so many fears. How much did they have on him? Had Janice led Zinkavich to the guy in the shed? Would there be a knock on his door, cops dragging him away, social workers grabbing Bobby?
“Let me in, son,” Herbert said.
“In where?”
“Your life.” Herbert drained the martini. One long, silvery river of liquid steel, just as he liked it. “Ah'm still your father, and ah want to help.”
So that's what this was all about, Steve thought. Some buried paternal instincts had been unearthed like fossils after a flood. Maybe some guilt, too. Is this what happened to inattentive fathers as they aged? For a moment, Steve felt sorry for his old man. At forty, he'd been one of the leaders of his profession. And at sixty? Widowed, disgraced, living alone. Two grown kids, both alienated in varying degrees.
Were his own troubles a boon to his father, a way to reconnect? The thought angered him. What did his old man expect him to do? Pull up a chair, pour some bourbon, and ask for advice? The lyrics of Warren Zevon's “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” floated into his head: “Dad, get me out of this.”
But that had never been their relationship, and it wasn't going to start now. Too much emotional overload. His father helping now would only stir up old resentments by reminding Steve of his earlier absence.
“I appreciate the gesture, Dad, but it's a little late to start tossing the ball in the backyard.”
“Ah know ah wasn't always there for you. But anybody wants to do you harm, they're gonna have to deal with me.”
Herbert blinked, his eyes watery. From the gin or something deeper, Steve didn't know.
Nine
MINIMUM HUSBAND
STANDARDS
What more could go wrong? Victoria wondered.
In one lousy day, she'd been jailed, fired, shit on . . . and she'd lost her shoes.
Now, two days later, the dry cleaner said it would take a nuclear weapon to purge the bird poop from her Ralph Lauren tweed; she couldn't get her résumés to print out; and that lunatic Solomon was holding her snakeskin Gucci pumps for ransom. Not only that, she was irritated with Bruce.
He could have been more supportive.
He could have said: “You're a terrific lawyer with awesome talents. You'll overcome this.”
But he didn't say that.
Or he could have said: “Pincher's a jerk, and someday you'll go into court and kick his butt. Solomon's, too.”
But he didn't say that, either.
Bruce, her betrothed, had said: “Maybe getting sacked is for the best. Now you can come to BRV with a clear head, make a fresh start.”
BRV being Bigby Resort & Villas. Drafting real estate documents. Deeds and mortgages, liens and affidavits. Yawn, yawn, yawn . . . and yuck.
He just didn't get it, she thought. But how could he? His father bequeathed him thousands of acres and several thriving businesses. Bruce didn't know what it was like to stand alone in the Colosseum, surrounded by lions, armed only with your wits.
She was thinking all this while staring into the open maw of her printer, which had been chewing up copies of her résumé and spitting out confetti. Wearing an old pair of corduroy jeans with one of Bruce's Oxford-cloth blue shirts, she sat at her desk in the spare-bedroom-turned-study of her condo. She closed the lid of the printer and hit the RESET button.
Nothing but a message: Error 31, whatever the hell that meant.
She looked out the window at cars crossing the Rickenbacker Causeway, headed for the beaches of Key Biscayne. Across the bay, she could see a dozen white sails, a boat race forming up. She pictured the people on board, enjoying the breeze, the sunshine, the company. Enjoying life, while she sat here, cursing her computer, mourning her shattered career.
If she went to work for Bruce, wouldn't it all be so much easier? She'd have time to sail and learn French cooking and play tennis at the club . . . like Katrina Barksdale. Maybe she should call Katrina, ask if she'd found a lawyer, offer her services. No, that would be unseemly, like inviting yourself to a party.
Her mind drifted back to the previous evening. Bruce wasn't being mean. He was just trying to cheer her up. First, his personal chef had cooked another of those tasteless vegan meals, some greens sizzling in a wok with tofu the consistency of snot. She longed for filet mignon, rare, pommes frites . . . and another chance in the courtroom.
Over herbal tea and sugar-free rice pudding, Bruce had said: “General counsel and executive vice president of BRV. How does that sound, sweetie?”
Like a sellout, that's how.
Maybe Bruce was trying to tell her something in a roundabout way. Maybe he thought she didn't have the chops to be a trial lawyer. What if he was right? Maybe she'd get shit on in every trial, one way or another. Maybe she should just do what Bruce wanted. Which meant relying on him, being totally dependent, emotionally and financially. And that meant, she realized, violating a promise she had made to herself when she was twelve years old, just after her father died.
I will never depend on any man. I swear I won't.
She remembered the very first to-do list she'd written on her very first note card.
1. Study hard.
2. Stay away from boys.
3. Make lots of money.
Okay, so she'd only gone one for three. She'd pocketed a summa cum laude parchment. As for the boys, a girl's gotta have fun, right? And her net worth, well, that was printed in red ink.
Still, she had her membership card in the Florida Bar. She would rebound from getting fired. She wouldn't be like her mother, who had relied so totally on Victoria's father and had been let down so hard. A man who spent lavishly on his wife and only child. A man who could, on a moment's notice, swoop up the family for an impromptu cruise, his valet racing aboard with their bags while the ship's horn bleated visitors ashore.
Victoria remembered her father as a barrel-chested man with a mane of wavy, silver hair and a joyous, rippling laugh like a stream pouring over boulders. Even now, she could smell the rich leather of his handmade Italian shoes, the tang of his cologne, the worsted wools of his tailored suits, laced with cigar smoke.
“What's Daddy's little girl want for her birthday?” he once asked.
“A horse,” she answered.
Poof. Like magic. A Shetland pony with a silky white mane.
A dollhouse? Poof. The size of a bungalow, it was fit for a princess, the daughter of a king.
Fireworks? Poof. Rockets soaring from the front lawn, turning the neighborhood into a carnival.
Until it all went to hell, to use her mother's expression.
How could it have happened? Lord-Griffin Construction Company was booming. Her father and his partner, Harold Griffin, were building high-rise condos on both coasts of Florida, making tons of money, living in a paté and white wine world. The two couples—Harold and Phyllis Griffin, Nelson and Irene Lord—were best friends. Their two children—Hal, Jr., and Victoria—were inseparable from the time they were toddlers. The future seemed preordained. Private jets, Caribbean villas, a life of privilege and comfort.
“Until your father cracked.”
Another one of her mother's expressions.
There had been a grand jury investigation. A scandal in the Broward County Building and Zoning Department. Allegations of code violations and payoffs, bribery and extortion. Nelson was subpoenaed to testify.
Then, one horrible night, the call to Victoria at boarding school. Her mother's
voice: “Your father's gone.”
Gone where? For how long?
Gone forever.
The fall was twenty-two stories from the roof of a condo under construction in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.
Now, thinking back, Victoria realized how those experiences pushed her toward a man of moderate sensibilities. A clearheaded man, and if he was a tad boring, well, that was the trade-off. We don't get to choose our fathers, but we can learn from them in choosing our husbands, she believed. Of one thing she was certain: Bruce would never bail on her or himself. He was as safe and comfy as a terry-cloth bathrobe. She didn't need fireworks on the lawn, and as for fireworks in the bedroom, that never lasted, anyway, right?
In Bruce, she had a man of solid normalcy. A straight-arrow of a man who adored her. So even if he didn't comprehend how getting fired had crushed her self-confidence and wounded her pride, even if he didn't say precisely the right things, she forgave him.
Victoria banged the palm of her hand against the side of the printer. It didn't say “Ouch,” and the green light still didn't come on. Dammit, she had to get her résumés out. How long could she go without a paycheck? She was afraid to look at the monthly statement from the bank.
No problem. I can always find the hidden diamonds.
The thought brought a rueful smile to Victoria's face. It's what her mother always said when money was tight. The “hidden diamonds” reflected The Queen's dreamy personality, Victoria thought. Her apartment—now Victoria's—was on an upper floor of the first high-rise built on Brickell Avenue, overlooking Biscayne Bay. Victoria remembered her mother telling her tales about the apartment's first tenant, long before the building converted to condo and the street turned into a forest of ritzy skyscrapers.
“Murph the Surf lived here,” her mother had said, with a tone of awe.
She explained that Jack Murphy was a surfer, violinist, tennis pro . . . and amateur jewel thief. Victoria listened with wide eyes to the tale of Murph pulling a massive heist—breaking into a New York museum and spiriting away the Star of India, the world's largest sapphire, plus a bunch of diamonds.
“They caught Murph, got back the Star of India and most of the other jewels,” her mother told her. “Most, but not all.” This is where The Queen would lower her voice, as if people in the next apartment were listening through the walls. “He hid the rest of the diamonds right here, right in this building. If things get tough, no problem. I can always find the hidden diamonds.”
From time to time, usually after a bit of sherry, The Queen would chisel holes in the stucco walls, pop open recessed ceilings, and pry the covers off old light fixtures. But the diamonds, if they existed at all, seemed destined to be hidden longer than the treasures of King Tut.
These days, Irene Lord's diamonds came from a succession of wealthy, older suitors. She chose not to marry any of them, content to be escorted to various glam spots around the world. The last time she had called, The Queen was happily ensconced in a fancy spa in Johannesburg, recovering from her latest installments of plastic surgery. She informed Victoria she wouldn't be home for Christmas, something about a side trip to Zurich for injections of sheep hormones.
Victoria believed she had a more practical streak than her mother. At least, that's what she told herself as the TROUBLE light on the printer flashed red.
Damn the printer and damn the legal profession and damn Steve Solomon.
Yep, thoughts of Murph the Surf had morphed into thoughts of Steve the Sleaze. He'd gotten her fired.
No. Strike that. It wasn't Solomon's fault. He had warned her, even while he taunted her for her inability to act spontaneously.
“Sometimes you have to wing it.”
And he'd been right, damn him. If only she had a second chance, she could handle it. She would slough off his stunts with a patient smile and a wry comment. The judge would admire her aplomb. The jury would sympathize, poor girl having to put up with such an obnoxious prick. But there would be no second chance. What was it about Solomon that so provoked her?
The ringing doorbell interrupted her thoughts.
“Who is it?”
“George Clooney!” cried a woman's voice. “Naked and bearing gifts.”
Victoria unlatched the door. “With a three-day beard?”
“Just enough to chafe your inner thighs.” Jacqueline Tuttle laughed and breezed in, carrying a cardboard tray from Starbucks. “Which reminds me, do you have any Monistat in the medicine chest?”
“I don't think so.”
“Damn. Last time I sit in the Jacuzzi for three hours.” Jacqueline placed the tray on the kitchen table. “Frappuccinos, extra whipped cream, carrot cake with double icing.”
“You're a godsend, Jackie. I'm starving.”
“I was in the neighborhood. Got the listing on a penthouse at the Santa Maria. Two million five.”
“Great.”
“Plus I'm showing a three-bedroom at Bristol Tower at noon and checking an open house at Espirito Santo at one. Ever notice that the way Bristol Tower tapers at the top, it looks like a forty-story penis?”
“No, but now that you mention it . . .”
“Circumcised, of course.” Jackie's laugh crackled like kindling on a fire. She looked around the apartment, which was unusually dark for a bayfront condo. “You ever think about updating this place?”
“I can't afford to update my manicure, and if I don't get my résumés out—”
“That's what we need to talk about. I've got some advice for you.”
Uh-oh, Victoria thought. Jackie Tuttle might be her best friend, but sometimes Victoria wondered what the two of them had in common. Jackie was uninhibited and bawdy and laughed loud and often. Victoria had never seen her depressed, not even when her slime of an ex-boyfriend, Carlos, wrecked her BMW convertible on the Don Shula Expressway while getting head from a Hooters girl he'd picked up at an airport bar.
“No problem,” Jackie had told Victoria. “I get a new car from the insurance. The cop who investigated the accident asked me out. And Carlos' reattachment surgery didn't take.”
That was Jackie, making a Prada purse out of a sow's ear.
She was five-foot-ten and had a wild mane of dyed red hair. She owned a collection of immense dangling earrings, some of which reached her shoulders and enough Blahnik, Choos, and Chanel shoes, boots, sandals, stilettos, flats, pumps, and Mary Janes to make Sarah Jessica Parker jealous.
Today she wore a leather mini with a cropped tank top and knee-high Stephanie Kelian boots in a soft, buttery suede. Most women Jackie's size would have shied away from such an outfit. Jackie didn't care. She was happily, gloriously plump, with natural breasts she called her “bazooms,” which jiggled when she laughed and popped out of her top when she water-skied. Just above her left breast was a small tattoo of Cupid, firing an arrow at whoever happened to be in close proximity.
Jackie was a real estate broker, specializing in what she called the “king-of-the-jungle market,” high-end, waterfront condos that appealed to rich, single men. The real estate license allowed her to run a credit check on any potential buyer or potential spouse in about thirty seconds. This was useful, given all the poseurs, phonies, and outright felons masquerading as legitimate candidates for matrimony. She told Victoria she'd never known how many deadbeats leased Porsches until she logged onto the credit databases. Jackie's own credit report would show that she made lots of money and spent even more.
Now, just what crazy advice did Jackie have?
“Don't send out your résumé,” Jackie said, slurping her Frappuccino through the straw. “Go out on your own. Open your own shop.”
“And where do I get my clients?”
“Katrina Barksdale, for starters. She likes you.”
“She likes to play tennis with me. We've never even talked about law.”
Jackie tore off a chunk of carrot cake. “Look, if I killed my husband, should I ever be so lucky to have one, I'd hire you in a minute.”
“I'd ha
ve to rent an office, print stationery, hire a secretary. . . .”
“Whatev,” Jackie said. “How much do you have in the bank?”
“In round numbers?”
“Yeah.
“Overdrawn.”
“I could lend you some money.”
“You? You have money?”
Jackie licked icing from her upper lip. “If I sell all my Jimmy Choos on eBay.” She laughed, and then, as great friends sometimes do, she seemed to read Victoria's mind. “You could always work for Bruce.”
“I've thought about it.”
“But . . . ?”
“Wouldn't that be cowardly? I get smacked around in court, so I hide in a back office?”
“C'mon, Vic. You don't have to prove anything. You're marrying Mr. Perfect. Let him pay the freight.”
Sure, it would be so easy, Victoria thought. Take the pressure off, slide papers from the in-box to the out-box. What's the most stress she'd face?
“There's a problem, Ms. Lord. That signature from the bank isn't notarized.”
Maybe she should just say yes. Who could blame her?
But she said: “Can't do it.”
“Okay, but if I were marrying a guy like Bruce, I'd never work another day in my life. 'Course, you don't know what it's like in the husband hunt these days.”
“You'll find someone.”
“Easy for you to say. You've bagged your big game. Nothing out there but Peter Pans, commitment phobes, momma's boys, and brats. Sometimes all in the same package.”
“Just take your time,” Victoria said.
“Did I mention guys who don't know they're gay?”
“Is that possible?”
“Or guys who expect blow jobs if they splurge for stone crabs?”
“No way.”
“It's true. Right after the key lime pie.”
“I'm lucky to have Bruce,” Victoria said. “I know that.”
“Lucky? I'm so jealous, my contacts are turning green.”
Relationships were based on good fortune—or bad—Victoria thought. What were the odds she'd be reaching toward a high shelf for Lisa Scottoline's latest courtroom novel just as a tall, blond man walked by? Bruce had plucked Killer Smile from the shelf, insisted on paying for it, and invited her for coffee. Books & Books, she now figured, was a better place to meet a guy than a South Beach club.
