by Paul Levine
Jackie was right. Bruce was a prize. Handsome and stable, kind and giving. And literate, even if his reading habits gravitated toward Saving Taxes Through Offshore Trusts.
“I'll bet you don't even have a punch list for Bruce,” Jackie said.
“What do you mean?”
“Change orders. Every guy I meet, I write down all the changes he needs to make to meet Minimum Husband Standards. Say a guy's favorite music is the theme from Monday Night Football.”
“You're making this up.”
“Last Friday. Blind date at the Blue Door. It's gotten so bad I'm gonna stay home and pet the kitty.”
“I give it a week.”
“I mean it, Vic. No more dating. Just me and my . . .” She made a buzzing sound. “Leetle friend.”
Again, the doorbell rang, and Victoria headed for the foyer. “Maybe that's George Clooney.”
This time, it was a deliveryman bearing gifts: a tropical bouquet, a bottle of Cristal, and a mystery box wrapped in silver foil. Victoria carried the goodies back to the dining table.
“Bruce is the most thoughtful man in the world,” Jackie said.
“True,” Victoria said, fishing the plastic spear out of the flowers and examining the envelope. “But it's not from him.”
“Who, then? Open, open!”
Victoria tore open the envelope, pulled out the card. “The most irritating man in the world.”
“Solomon? That defense lawyer?”
“He's been leaving messages, asking me out to lunch. He says he's going to help me find a job, but what he really wants is for me to get him the Barksdale case.”
“All the more reason to get it for yourself.”
Could she do it? Victoria wondered. Grab the phone and solicit the case? It would be so unlike her. . . .
“So what's in the box?” Jackie demanded.
Victoria removed the foil, opened the box, and pulled out a single Gucci snakeskin pump. “My left shoe,” she said.
“If the right one's under that bad boy's bed, I'm gonna tell Bruce.”
“I left the shoes in court. Solomon won't give me the other one unless I return his calls.”
“Does he have a foot fetish?” Jackie examined the two-and-a-half-inch heel with a critical eye. “And more important, is he cute?”
“I suppose, if you like that kind of look.”
“What kind?”
“Like a fox. A dangerous, bushy-tailed fox—”
“Ooh.”
“With this look in his eyes, like he's playing some trick on the world.”
“He sounds divine. Maybe you should introduce us.”
“What happened to staying home and petting the kitty?”
“Dead batteries.”
“Believe me, you don't want to get mixed up with Solomon.”
“I'm not talking about forever. I'm talking about a horny Tuesday night.”
“Jac-kie,” Victoria chastised her in a tone reminiscent of The Queen. “You can do a lot better than Steve Solomon.”
“Are you keeping that bad boy for yourself?”
“Are you crazy? I'm marrying Bruce in a month.”
“One last fling with a wholly inappropriate man. It's de rigueur.”
“Says who?”
“Cosmo.” Jackie grabbed the rest of the carrot cake, and with a mouth full of icing said: “Wouldn't you love to see Solomon's face if you got Katrina as a client?”
It was a tantalizing thought, but could she do it? “I've never handled a murder case.”
“C'mon. Go for it.”
Maybe Jackie was right. Maybe she should be more aggressive, not worry about appearances. As Victoria thought about it, a realization dawned. There were no hidden diamonds. At least none buried in the stucco or tucked inside light fixtures.
The only diamonds we'll ever find are the ones we make ourselves.
She should probably plan what to say, scribble notes on index cards, but to hell with it. She'd do it the way Solomon would.
Moving quickly so she couldn't change her mind, Victoria flipped open her cell phone.
“What are you doing?” Jackie asked.
“Winging it,” Victoria said.
Ten
AMBUSH ON KUMQUAT STREET
Victoria hit the brakes, and her aging Ford Taurus swerved into the oncoming lane, barely missing a two-foot-long green iguana wiggling across the asphalt. It made her think of that other lizard, the shoe-stealing Steve Solomon. Except, had he been slithering by, she would have floored it. Squish.
There was Loquat Avenue. Where the hell was Kumquat? The streets were not well lighted, and Victoria was lost after dark somewhere in Coconut Grove. She'd been distracted, practicing what she would say to Solomon if she could ever find his house.
I don't want your champagne. I don't want your flowers. I don't want to see your face or ever hear your name.
Then she corrected herself. She did want to see his face. She wanted to watch him suffer. Lord it over him, as her mother used to quip.
“Katrina Barksdale hired me. So go back to your fender benders and birdshit cases. And give me back my damn shoe.”
It sounded good to her. Strong. Defiant.
But now she was adrift in a neighborhood where hibiscus hedges burst from front yards and crept, untamed and unshorn, to the street, where live oaks eclipsed the moon, erasing shadows and turning everything a poisonous greenish black. The windows on the Taurus were down—the A/C needed freon—and the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine washed over her in the humid night. She was starting to perspire. Why did she wear the white satin blouse and worsted wool slacks?
It was the second outfit she'd tried on. First the white jeans with the sleeveless silver nylon net top, flecked with confetti beads. A little too sexy for an unannounced visit to a man's home after dark. And altogether too frivolous for this mission. She could have covered up with her little silver leather jacket with the snap buttons, but the night was too warm. Not only that, she'd promised Bruce she'd throw out all her leather, as it offended his PETA principles. So far, she hadn't done it, and she wished he would lighten up.
Just as she was thinking about her other broken promise—to stop eating meat—she caught a whiff of someone's backyard barbecue. It smelled like ribs being smoked, the tang of a vinegary sauce in the evening air. God, could she help it if she was a born carnivore? If she joined PETA, she'd change the name to People for Especially Tasty Animals. But when you love someone, you make compromises, right? Giving up meat in return for Bruce—well, that was a no-brainer, wasn't it?
One hand on the steering wheel, she absentmindedly ran a finger over her blouse's twisted cording. The satin braids twirled in a floral pattern, and the sleeves puffed out with elaborate scalloped cuffs. The slacks were nothing fancy, plain black with straight legs. A trick from her mother. “Basic bottoms with a glamorous top. Simple but elegant.”
Now where was she? She'd passed Palmetto Street, Royal Palm, and Poinciana. She figured she'd gone too far. She hung a U-turn and backtracked, and there it was. Kumquat Avenue. Which house was it?
Shit!
She slammed on the brakes and barely missed hitting a pickup truck head-on. An old green pickup with no lights and a bug screen on its front bumper. It must have pulled out from the curb in the darkness. She flashed her lights, but the truck sped away with its lights still off. Asshole.
The bungalow was just as she'd imagined it. Concrete block and stucco. Needing a paint job. Lightbulbs missing on a lantern near the front door. Dead fronds from a sabal palm littering the front yard. Solomon's car, an ancient Cadillac convertible the size of an aircraft carrier, sat in the gravel driveway. She knew it was his from the vanity plate: I-OBJECT. Rust spots sprouted on the fenders like cancerous growths, and the white canvas top was freckled with mildew and patched with duct tape. The overall impression was that the car had been pulled from the bottom of a canal with a mobster stuffed in the trunk.
Carrying Solomon's bribes�
�the bottle of champagne and a wilting bouquet of birds of paradise—she followed a path of chipped flagstone to the front door, avoiding the red berries of a Brazilian pepper tree that could send her blouse to dry-cleaner hell. She stepped around a dead frog, careful not to let her high-heeled sandals touch the gray cadaver being autopsied by a phalanx of carpenter ants. A plant with drooping white flowers overhung the path. Like the entire neighborhood of overgrown vegetation, like Solomon himself, the huge plant needed trimming back. What was it called?
Ouch. She stopped short. A sharp, pointed leaf had snagged her puffy sleeve. She gently extricated herself. Too late. A ragged hole appeared in the blouse, a swirling soutache braid torn loose.
Damn you, Solomon, and damn your shrubbery, too.
Of course, the doorbell didn't work. She pounded on the door, and the name of the plant came to her. Spanish dagger.
Suddenly, a startling sensation. Something cold on the back of her neck. She wheeled around and caught a blast of water in the face.
Shit! Did a sprinkler turn on? Why did every encounter with Solomon turn into a disaster?
“Oppugnatio!”
The yell came with a green-and-brown blur, a figure leaping out of the pepper tree, landing three feet away. A skinny boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, in camouflage gear.
“Capitis damnare!” he bellowed, then raised a red plastic rifle and hit her with a powerful blast of water. She stumbled backward, snagging herself again on a Spanish dagger leaf. She dropped the flowers and Cristal. The bottle shattered and sprayed her sandals and bare toes with champagne. Her attacker dashed past her, flinging open the door and running into the house.
A bare-chested man appeared in the open doorway. “What the hell's going on?” Solomon was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
“Some little monster just—”
“Bobby. My nephew. You scared him.”
“I scared him?” The nephew, she thought. Back in the jail cell, Solomon called him a reverse chick magnet but failed to mention he was a serial killer in training. “If I remember my Latin, I think he just condemned me to death.”
“He must have thought you were a social worker.”
She stuck a finger through the hole in her blouse. Ruined.
“Family Services is checking out my parenting skills,” Steve continued.
“Is there a grade below F?”
“So why are you here? Wait. Don't tell me. You're taking me up on my offer?”
“That what you think?”
“Or you're hitting on me.” He gave her that infuriating grin. “I haven't been to a wet T-shirt contest in years.”
She looked down at her blouse, her breasts and nipples silhouetted by the wet fabric.
Oh, great. The one time I don't wear a bra.
“You're disgusting,” she said.
“Hey, I'm not the one who's aroused. Yet.”
“I'm leaving.”
“C'mon, all in fun. You're bringing me the Barksdale case, right?”
How could any man be so clueless?
“You are so perceptive,” she said.
“I'm sorry about your blouse,” he continued, not sounding a bit sorry. “If you want to come in and take it off . . .”
“In your dreams. Just give me my shoe.” She'd lost the desire to taunt him. Let him learn about her new client, her new life, from the newspaper.
“Come on in,” he said, “and we'll talk about our case.”
“Not our case. My case!”
“I get it. You're playing hardball on fees. Fine, everything's negotiable.”
“You're unbelievable.”
“You'll sit second chair, and I'll give you thirty percent of the fee.”
“I have a counteroffer. I'll sit first chair and take all the fee. You sit on the sofa and watch on Court TV.”
He looked baffled.
To hell with running home. Rub his nose in it first.
“I'm going out on my own. And Katrina Barksdale is my first client.”
“C'mon. She didn't hire you.”
Look at him. He couldn't believe it. “Wanna bet? Kat and I have already talked.”
“What'd you talk about, shopping?”
“It's a done deal. She wants a female lawyer and thinks I'd be perfect. She's signing a retainer tomorrow morning.”
“You tell her you've never tried a capital case?”
“I did what you would have done.” Victorious now, smile as sharp as a razor.
“You lied? Mother Teresa of the courthouse lied?”
“She never asked and I never said.”
“Barksdale's too big. You don't start with this one.”
“Watch me,” she taunted, luxuriating in his pain.
“Do you even know what the pressure's like in a celebrity murder trial? Everyone's watching. The media, big-time lawyers, Oprah.”
He was sputtering now. This might even be worth a torn blouse. “I love seeing you like this, Solomon.”
“The case involves kinky sex. You'll blush during opening statement.”
“Now you're an expert on my sex life?”
“You and Bruce, white bread and mayonnaise. Maybe a slice of avocado on the side.”
“You can't push my buttons. Not anymore.”
“You probably do it watching Lou Dobbs. Amazon's up three bucks, Bruce is up three inches.”
“You don't know the half of it.”
“C'mon, I know guys like Bigby. No reverse cowgirl, no doggie-daddy, straight mish all the way.”
“If you were capable of a human emotion, I'd think you were jealous.”
“You need me, Lord.”
“I need my right shoe. Give it to me, and I'm out of here.”
“I can make you into a great lawyer.”
“My shoe. Now!”
“You've got guts. You've got presence. But you're unmolded clay.”
“And you'd like to mold me? Forget it.”
God, this was fun. It reminded her of something. What? Of course . . .
Bickering and bantering in the holding cells.
That had charged her batteries, too. Squabbling with Solomon was like a competitive tennis match, two hard-hitters going all out.
“All right. I surrender.” Solomon threw up his hands, the towel slipping lower on his hips.
“What?”
“Good luck on the Barksdale case.”
“That's it? No last-ditch effort?”
“It's all yours, Lord. I'll sit in the front row and cheer.”
She was disappointed. Here they were, just getting warmed up, and he defaulted.
“Come on in,” he said. “I'll get your shoe.”
“I'll wait here.”
“It's important. For Bobby. If he thinks you came to take him away, he won't sleep tonight.”
“If this is one of your tricks . . .”
“Not about Bobby,” he said, subdued. “Never about Bobby.”
Eleven
THE RUDNICK RACK
Steve had just lied. And told the truth.
The bit about Bobby, one hundred percent true. Bobby came first, and there were no games or tricks where his welfare was concerned. But the other stuff: “Good luck. It's all yours.”
Now, that was a big fat fib.
Not that it was his fault, Steve told himself. Like a nervous witness on the stand, Victoria had disclosed too much.
“It's a done deal. . . . She's signing a retainer tomorrow morning.”
Leading Victoria into his home, Steve did not bother to correct her.
“No, Vickie, it ain't a done deal till the thin lady signs.”
Which meant he had until sometime tomorrow morning to steal the case, just like he once stole home against Florida State. He hadn't pranced up and down the baseline, as if he might make take off. He'd scratched his ass, feigned a limp, lulled the pitcher to sleep . . . then raced for home.
“So where's your new office?” Steve said, as casually as possib
le.
“Don't have one yet.”
Which meant they were meeting at the Barksdale home, he figured. A restaurant would be too public. Okay, he had half a plan now. He'd get to Gables Estates before Victoria. What he'd say when he got there—well, that would have to come later, because he didn't have a clue.
“Where's my Bobby?” Steve called out as they walked inside.
No answer.
“C'mon, kiddo. I want you to meet someone.”
Still no answer.
Steve wondered how Victoria would react to the boy. Some women tensed up. Others ignored him. A few were frightened, but who could blame them? A romantic evening does not usually end with an eleven-year-old boy crouched at the foot of your bed, barking like a dog.
Victoria took inventory of Steve's living room, decorated in Early Fraternity House. A coffee table made from a surfboard. A poster of quarterback Dan Marino. A sculpture, if that's what you call it when you crush several hundred beer cans and shape them into the torso of a naked woman. Newspapers and magazines littered a black leather sofa that looked like it had been left out in the rain. All in all, the home of an overgrown adolescent, she decided.
Without warning, a flash of movement, and a small thin figure dashed from behind window drapes and dived onto the sofa. The camouflage gear was gone, and the boy wore only undershorts.
“There you are,” Steve said.
Bobby tucked his knees under his chin, scrunched into a corner of the sofa, and rocked back and forth. He was so skinny that his protruding ribs looked like the struts of a sailboat under construction. His long hair needed cutting, and his black glasses were smudged. His feet were bare, and his head was tilted sideways so that one ear nearly touched a shoulder. A sudden pang struck Victoria. The boy seemed mentally disabled. Maybe physically, too.
“Bobby, this is Victoria Lord,” Steve said.
