by Paul Levine
He was more troubled about having just lied to his junior partner.
“Okay, so you believe her,” Victoria said. “Shouldn't you be working on the case instead of just reading magazines and daydreaming?”
“Relax, Victoria. I'm working even when it doesn't look like it.”
“What's your plan? Where's your to-do list?”
“It's all right here.” He pointed to his head. “Prep for the bail hearing, interview our client, talk to the boat captain, get discovery from Pincher, and come up with the theme of our case.”
“Where do we start?”
Steve looked at his watch. “Lunch.”
Sixteen
HOOCHIE-COOCHIE MAN
“Anybody hungry?” a deep voice rumbled, as the door to Steve's office opened. An elderly black man in rimless glasses and a rainbow-colored dashiki walked in, carrying three grocery bags. At his side, Bobby lugged a thermos bottle. Cece Santiago brought up the rear, carrying a Styrofoam cooler.
At her desk, Victoria smelled the sweet, spicy aroma of barbecue sauce.
“Cadillac,” Steve said. “Right on time.”
“Baby back ribs, Uncle Steve,” Bobby said. “Your favorite.”
“Plus conch fritters,” the old man said. “Bimini bread, ham croquettes, oxtail soup, and my sweet potato pie.”
“That's it?” Steve said. “What is this, the South Beach diet?” He grabbed the grocery bags. “Victoria, say hello to Cadillac Johnson. Cook, musician, and friend.”
“Hello, Mr. Johnson. I've seen you at the courthouse lunch wagon.”
“The Sweet Potato Pie,” Cadillac said, smiling. “My kids run it now, but the recipes are still mine.” Thick through the chest, he had a round face with chubby cheeks and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.
The smells were tantalizing, and Victoria was famished, but if she ate her share, she'd have to take a siesta. Not only that, almost everything violated her vegan principles. Actually, Bruce's vegan principles, she rationalized, thinking . . . Maybe just one little rib.
“The Pie wouldn't be there at all, 'cept for Steve,” Cadillac told her. “You know about that new zoning ordinance?”
She ran a finger along a baby back rib and sucked off the sauce, tart with vinegar, sweet with brown sugar. “No vendors on public property. How'd you get a variance?”
“Legal quiz, Vic.” Steve passed around open cartons, unleashing a mixture of aromas. “Cadillac's been cooking on the courthouse steps for twenty years and the county tries to evict him. How would you argue the case?”
Here we go again, she thought. Solomon the teacher. Treating me like a schoolgirl. She nibbled at a rib, the meat falling off the bone, melting in her mouth. “I'd go for a declaratory judgment and an injunction under Section 1983. I'd argue estoppel, due process, equal protection.”
“El bicho,” Cece said. “Steve don't know that shit.”
“Federal litigation?” Steve said, spearing a croquette. “That might work, after about ten years of motions and hearings.”
“So what'd you do?” Victoria asked. “Bribe the mayor?”
“And the commissioners,” Steve said.
“You didn't!”
“A dozen pulled pork sandwiches and some sweet potato pie.”
“You're making this up.”
“The law doesn't win cases, Vic. Emotions do. Feelings. The key to every case is finding those emotions and hitting those notes.”
“Do I get continuing education credits for your lecture?”
“You get seconds.”
Without realizing it, Victoria had wolfed down half a slab of ribs. Okay, Bruce didn't have to know. “Mr. Johnson, these are delicious.”
“Thank you, missy,” Cadillac said. “Now try some fritters.” He sliced a crisp, golden ball. Juicy pieces of conch oozed from the thin fried crust.
“Maybe just one.” She dipped the fritter in mango salsa, tasted it, closed her eyes with pleasure.
“Steve's my man,” Cadillac said. “He's a fighter. And the price is right.”
“Lunch?” she asked, taking a second bite.
“Hell, no. He pays for lunch.”
“Guitar lessons.” Steve was slicing the pie with a plastic knife. “Cadillac's a helluva musician. Rhythm and blues, early rock.”
“Played fish fries, juke joints, bars where you could get your throat sliced for looking at somebody cross-eyed,” Cadillac said.
“When you gonna teach me the blues with a shuffle feel?”
“Same day people stop calling you ‘Last Out.'”
“Why do they?” Victoria asked.
“Because I'm always the last one out of the library,” Steve said.
“Eso es mentira,” Cece said. “That's a lie.”
“A big fat whopper,” Bobby said.
“Steve made the last out in the College World Series,” Cadillac said.
“Aw, jeez,” Steve said.
“Uncle Steve's a 'Cane,” Bobby said. “Played at U of M.”
“Couldn't hit a lick,” Cadillac said.
Steve winced. “C'mon, guys. I was good at stealing bases.”
“And petty cash, if I know you,” Victoria said.
“Uncle Steve once scored from first on a single,” Bobby said proudly.
“I seem to have a knack for running in circles,” Steve said.
“Instead of slowing down rounding second, he speeds up by balancing the centrifugal and centripetal forces,” Bobby said.
“So you got thrown out stealing?” Victoria guessed. “That it?”
“Worse,” Cadillac said.
“Much worse,” Cece said. “Aw, don't be such a baby. Tell her.”
Steve sighed. “We're in Omaha, championship game against Texas. Two outs, bottom of the ninth, nobody on base, we're down by a run. We get a triple. I come in as a pinch runner, take a lead . . . and get picked off.”
“Oh, dear,” Victoria said, not knowing what else to say.
“The thing is, I was safe. It was a bad call.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Honest. The video proves it. I got in under the tag. My first taste of injustice.”
“Some of us seen a lot worse than that,” Cadillac said.
Ten minutes later, Victoria sampled her sweet potato pie and listened. Cadillac was telling Steve he'd taught T-Bone Walker to cook catfish, and T-Bone taught him to play bottleneck slide guitar. “And I ended up playing guitar a helluva lot better than T-Bone cooked.”
Steve paid rapt attention to the old man, and Victoria wondered just how many people did. Cadillac started telling Muddy Waters stories, and Steve began singing, “I'm your hoochie-coochie man.”
Cadillac laughed and slapped his thigh as Steve mangled the lyrics and the tune, completely unfazed. Looking at her, Steve belted out the stanza about a man who could make pretty women jump and shout, but then he forgot the words and started making up his own. Just like he made up his own laws.
She'd better add Cadillac Johnson to the Steve Solomon Fan Club. The old man showed deep affection for him. Leaving her wondering again if she'd been missing something.
What a complicated man you are, Steve Solomon.
Chisel away that purposely obnoxious exterior, there might be a heart and soul buried inside. As she looked at him now, the dark hair falling across his forehead, his eyes bright with pleasure, she let herself see him not as a lawyer but as a man. A man who could round second without slowing down and score from first on a single. A man who was already a surrogate father and would make a wonderful father to his own children. A man who—dare she even think it?—was hot.
If I weren't engaged . . .
Whoa. Where had that come from? She was about to do the happily-ever-after with Bruce. She was lucky to have found him. She loved so many things about him. His honesty and loyalty and levelheadedness. And Solomon? On good days, he could be a savvy, funny colleague. But on bad days, they still squabbled and yapped at each other like those dogs in Judge Gridl
ey's barn.
Whoops. Strike that thought, Counselor.
Those dogs ended up humping on a bale of straw. Best to banish all thoughts of Steve Solomon and barking dogs and bales of straw.
But seconds later, her mind, which had, well, a mind of its own, wandered again: If I weren't engaged . . .
Focus, she told herself. Don't think of his arms, his legs, his hands, his . . .
Omigod. I saw it!
The memory came back to her now. A lost dream recovered from the foggy mist between sleep and consciousness. When Bruce's alarm clanged her awake this morning, she was pressed, spoonlike, against him, feeling his warmth. But the man in her dream was not Bruce. It was Solomon.
They were walking on a deserted beach, Solomon wearing nothing but a towel, just like Sunday night at his house. In the dream, she tore the towel away, revealing his fully aroused . . .
Iron Rod.
Joystick.
Kosher Pickle.
Oh, God, how could she? It was as if she'd cheated on Bruce. She vowed to control her rebellious psyche. Concentrate, she told herself.
Sequester Solomon. Expunge him from every brain cell.
Victoria had no doubt she could, through sheer force of will, remove Solomon from her conscious thoughts. But how, she wondered, stricken with guilt, would she ever control her dreams?
Seventeen
STEALING HOME
Three steps off third base, Steve bounced on his toes, knees flexed, arms relaxed. A wet fog had settled over the field, and he could barely see home plate.
“Steal home,” a sweet, seductive voice whispered.
He stayed put. “Who said that?”
The pitcher threw a sizzling fastball that vanished into the mist. “Stee-rike!” an invisible umpire called out.
“Steal home for me,” the seductive voice murmured.
Steve turned and squinted through the fog, and there she was. The third base coach. Victoria Lord, and she was not wearing pants! Nothing but skin between her University of Miami jersey and her high-heeled, cork-soled sandals with orange and green straps.
“You're wild and reckless,” she said. “That's what I love about you.”
“You do?” He was vaguely aware he was dreaming.
Another pitch disappeared into the mist. “Stee-rike two!”
“Please, Steve. Please steal home.” A Siren of the base paths.
Steve shivered. It was growing colder, the moisture soaking through his uniform. The pitcher started his windup, and Steve took off. Through the thickening fog, he saw it all unfold in slow motion.
A soft floating pitch.
The catcher turning to shield the plate. That tub of guts, Zinkavich!
The umpire tearing off his mask. Mr. Judgmental himself. His father! Steve slid headfirst, one hand darting beneath Zinkavich's pudgy legs, just as the mitt came down hard, crashing against his temple with a sound of a bowling ball hitting the pins. Pain flared in his skull.
“Out!” Herbert Solomon yelled. “You'll never be the ballplayer ah was, you pantywaist.”
“Uncle Steve!” Bobby cried out from somewhere.
“The boy's mine!” Zinkavich thundered. “The boy's mine now!”
“Uncle Steve!” Bobby cried again.
The throbbing in his head grew worse, and now Steve felt a great weight pressing down on his chest.
“Uncle Steve!”
He was coming out of the fog.
Back in his bedroom, but something was wrong. Bobby was on top of him, pushing him into the mattress, clutching at him. Crying, trembling, shouting. “Uncle Steve! Somebody's here!”
“Who? Where?” Steve was wide-awake. Heart racing.
“Outside my window. Looking in!”
“A dream, Bobby. Just a dream.”
“No! Someone's here!”
Steve looked at the digital clock on the nightstand: 4:17.
“Don't let them take me,” Bobby said.
“No one's taking you. Ever.”
Steve reached under the bed, grabbed a metal baseball bat, told Bobby to stay there. Wearing only his Jockeys, he padded to the boy's bedroom. Windows closed, bedsheets tangled. He looked out the window. Nothing but the blackness of the yard. He went into the kitchen, took a flashlight from a drawer, and unlocked the door. Walking barefoot into the yard, the flashlight in one hand, the bat in the other, he looked around. Still nothing.
From a neighbor's yard, he heard the clack-clack of a woodpecker hammering a bottlebrush tree. He inhaled the smells of moist earth and jasmine. And something else . . .
Cigarette smoke. Or was it? The smell came and left.
He looked under Bobby's window. No footprints, no cigarette butts.
The poor kid. Bobby couldn't separate reality from his nightmares. But then, Steve wondered, could he?
Two hours later, the sun was just coming up; Bobby was sleeping soundly; and Steve was in the kitchen, slicing a juicy papaya, scooping out the seeds. He left it on the counter with two slices of lime, went into the yard, and checked everything again. No sign of intruders, not even the neighborhood raccoon that turned over garbage cans. Just another nightmare, he thought. If only he could expel the demons from the boy's mind.
Wearing shorts, running shoes, and a Bar Association T-shirt, “Lawyers Do It in Their Briefs,” Steve left by the front door and locked up the house. Slipping his Walkman onto his head, he would jog to Tahiti Beach and be back in time to share breakfast with Bobby.
It was a glorious morning of dazzling blue skies and low humidity, the wind gusting from the northwest, signaling an advancing cold front. Steve had already crossed the bridge at the Gables Waterway and hadn't even broken a sweat. On the Walkman, Bob Marley was telling his little darlin' to stir it up. Different music was playing in Steve's mind, Victoria's words from his dream: “That's what I love about you.”
Now that he thought about it, hadn't she been nicer to him lately? Yesterday, when Cadillac brought lunch, hadn't there been a softer look in her eyes?
So what? She's engaged, fool.
Sure, he could pursue her, but what lay at the end of that road? Heartbreak City. Just what he needed with the Barksdale trial and Bobby's case coming up. He had no time for emotional messiness. Hell, he didn't even have time for a one-night stand.
A solid line of whitecaps broke on the reef offshore. The wind grew stronger; a change in the weather was brewing. Picking up his pace, Steve jogged alongside a county bus that was stopped along Cocoplum Circle, disgorging its cargo of uniformed maids, on their way to the ritzy waterfront homes where they toiled. A Mercedes convertible sat at the berm, a young man and woman in the bucket seats, Natalie Cole crooning “Opposites Attract” on the radio, which made him think of Victoria once again. She'd been staring at him when he was talking to Cadillac. Was there some interest there? Didn't lots of women back out of their engagements?
Dammit. She's here for one case. Then she's gone. Live with it.
The sweat was flowing now, his breaths coming hard and fast, his shoes smacking the asphalt with a rhythmic slapitty-slap. Then he hit the zone, and he was floating. Running effortlessly, feeling strong, able to leap piles of palm fronds in a single bound. His mind drifted back to the early morning and to Bobby. Had someone been at the bedroom window? No way to tell. But he would take precautions. The burglar alarm had been on the fritz for years. He would get it fixed. He would . . .
What the hell!
Pulling out of Mire Flores Avenue, he saw the muddy green pickup truck. Burning rubber, screeching around the corner, headed toward LeJeune Road.
Steve strained to see which way the truck would turn when it reached the intersection. He was running faster than he ever had, faster than he ever thought possible. Thoughts of Bobby, alone in his bed, streaked across his mind. When the truck turned right, Steve was close enough to watch it approach the Circle.
Please, God, let it go halfway around, straight out Sunset, or farther, straight down Old Cutler.
> But it turned right.
And headed across the bridge.
Toward his home.
Eighteen
DORIS FROM INTERCOURSE
When he turned the corner onto Kumquat Avenue, Steve was running out of gas. Drained of adrenaline, feet like slabs of concrete. Winded and scared. Nearing his house, he saw two cars parked in the gravel driveway.
Neither was a muddy green pickup.
One was his old Caddy. The other was a shark-gray, four-door Chrysler with blackwall tires. The bumper sticker read: “Go ahead and Honk. I'm Reloading.”
Steve walked in a circle around the Chrysler, bent forward, sucking air. His fear was subsiding. He thought he knew who owned the car, and one look through the windows confirmed it. A pair of women's spikes—size ten, he guessed—sat on the front seat, along with gloves and rib pads. In the backseat, several lacrosse sticks, various Ace wraps, adhesive tape, and a jar of a high-protein powder.
Yeah, he knew who was inside, and he was not happy about it. Tucking away thoughts of the green pickup, he sidestepped the overhanging Spanish bayonet leaves on the stone path and stormed into his house.
Dr. Doris Kranchick stood in the middle of his living room, hands on her wide, sturdy hips. The doc wore sensible pumps and a drab gray business suit. Her hair was pulled back so severely, it seemed to tighten her scalp. She was bulky without being fat. Her legs were two stout tree trunks descending to thick ankles. She had a broad, bland face that disguised both her limitless tenacity and a deep reservoir of fury. The white-rimmed remnant of a scythe-shaped scar ran across one cheekbone, a memento of a slashing in a college lacrosse game twenty years earlier.
Despite his best efforts, Steve Solomon had failed to make a dent in Dr. Doris Kranchick. When she was first assigned as Family Services' consultant on Bobby's case, Steve had tried the friendly approach, pitching their common background.
