Solomon versus Lord svl-1

by Paul Levine

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Did you notice the foreign hospitals on Kranchick's CV?” Victoria said.

  “I remember something in Argentina.”

  “Pedro Mallo Hospital in Buenos Aires. Kutvolgyi Uti in Budapest. State University Hospital in Bulgaria.”

  “So she likes to travel.”

  “I ran the hospitals through the databases, too. They all have something in common. Pharmaceutical companies test new drugs in them.”

  “So what's wrong with that?” he asked.

  “Probably nothing. Kranchick's into research and testing, so the foreign venues make sense. It's just that the controls are looser there.”

  “No FDA peeking over your shoulder.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You think something's not kosher at Rockland?”

  “No way to tell. If we had the time and money, we'd hire an expert consultant, really go through their records.”

  “I could get Cadillac Johnson.”

  “You think you can bribe Kranchick with pulled pork sandwiches?”

  “Cadillac's got other talents.”

  “Unless he's an endocrinologist, I don't see how he can help.”

  “Trust me on this. I'm gonna stop by the Sweet Potato Pie on the way home.”

  “What for?”

  “A couple slabs of baby-backs.”

  “I stopped eating meat.”

  “Liar, liar, briefs on fire.”

  “Okay. Half a slab, extra sauce. But tell Bruce and I'll have to hurt you.”

  “Our secret.”

  “So what are you going to ask Cadillac to do?”

  “Got a bad connection here,” he said, even though he could hear her perfectly.

  “We have a deal, remember? Everything by the book.”

  “Losing you,” he said, clicking off. He was working on an idea, and it didn't require an endocrinologist. Just someone with people skills and a measure of courage. The ability to pick a lock might come in handy, too.

  Steve knew that Cadillac had played guitar in places where performers sometimes got knifed instead of paid. He'd sold encyclopedias door-to-door. He'd dealt blackjack in a riverboat casino. He was perfect for the job.

  If Steve's plan worked, he could tell Victoria all about it when they went to court. If it didn't work, he'd take the fall, not her.

  Fifteen minutes later, Steve was sitting in a richly upholstered chair, trying not to spill his Cuban coffee. He was in the office of Bluestein, Dominguez, Greenberg, amp; Vazquez. The late Charles Barksdale's law firm. Perched on the fifty-third floor of a bank building at Flagler Street and Biscayne Boulevard, Steve could see all the way to Bimini.

  Unless a turkey buzzard was in his line of sight.

  Which it was.

  Steve's glance shifted from the red-faced buzzard with the curved beak to the bald lawyer with the half-glasses. The buzzard was balanced on an outside window ledge covered with shit, the lawyer on the corner of a teak desk covered with files.

  “Charlie Barksdale was a real romantic,” said Sam Greenberg, the lawyer.

  “Screech,” said the buzzard.

  “Romantic, how?” Steve said.

  “The sorry son-of-a-bitch really believed in love.”

  Greenberg ran his firm's family law division, a euphemism for cutthroat divorces and killer custody wars. He was in his late forties, pale and overweight, conservatively dressed in banker's gray wool. Steve thought he had the look of someone who billed twenty-five-hundred hours a year at five hundred bucks per hour. A tired but wealthy look.

  “So Charlie loved Katrina?” Steve said.

  “He was nuts about her,” Greenberg said.

  The buzzard kept its beak shut.

  “Plus he liked having a trophy wife,” Greenberg continued. “Gave him self-worth.”

  “His net worth not doing the job?”

  “Some guys need trinkets on their arm. Me, I've been married to the same woman for twenty-two years. She's fatter than I am and a wicked scold, but I wouldn't trade her in. Hell, I couldn't afford to.”

  Steve studied the photo on the credenza. A plump, smiling wife and three kids, one of college age, two younger ones with full sets of gleaming orthodonture.

  Greenberg peered over his half-glasses and lowered his voice. “Hot sex, too.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Not me. Charlie. After he met Katrina, he was a walking hard-on. ‘Nobody ever got my pecker so hard,' blah-blah-blah. I had to bust his chops to make him do the prenup. He said it violated his principles, ruined the romance.”

  “When did he tell you he wanted a divorce?”

  “A few days before he died. He's sitting right in that chair where you are now. Pissing and moaning. ‘The bitch is fucking my boat captain. I'm gonna divorce her ass.' The usual stuff. But really suffering. I'm dictating the petition, and he gets sick, goes to the rest room and barfs. I tell him to come back the next day, all the papers will be ready to sign.”

  “But he never showed up?”

  “Nope.” Greenberg slid off his desk, settled into his high-backed brown leather chair. On the window ledge, the buzzard hopped a step, spread its wings, tucked them in again. Smart birds, the scavengers winter in Miami, feasting on discarded burgers, media noches, and the occasional drug dealer stuffed into a garbage bag. They fly endless circles over the downtown courthouse, roosting on the ledges of the high-rise law firms, providing the source of endless lawyer jokes.

  “I called Charlie when he missed the appointment,” Greenberg said. “He said he wasn't feeling so hot, he'd come in in a couple days. When he didn't, I sent the petition by courier to his office. Instead of signing it, he scribbled some nonsense on the ad damnum clause and sent it back.”

  “What nonsense?”

  “A poem or haiku or something.”

  “Mind if I see it?” There'd been no handwriting on the photocopy of the petition provided by Pincher.

  Greenberg walked to a teak file cabinet. “Charlie fancied himself an artiste, not just a guy who built condos on zero lot lines. When he'd pay my bill, he'd usually write a poem on the check.”

  Outside, the wind rattled the windowpane, and the buzzard hopped off the ledge and soared down Flagler Street. In flight, with its Yao Ming wingspan, the black bird seemed as large as an airplane.

  Greenberg drew a thin file from the drawer and handed it to Steve, who quickly found the original Petition for Dissolution. He turned to the last page, saw the formal legal language: “Wherefore Petitioner Prays that the Court Enter a Final Judgment of Dissolution of Marriage.”

  Scrawled over the printed clause was a handwritten note:

  Hide a few contretemps Defer a competent wish Cement a spit-fed whore

  “What's it mean?” Steve said, thoroughly confused.

  “Beats me. But like I said, Charlie-”

  “Was a real romantic, I know.”

  Steve looked at the poem again. What the hell was it? And why write it on the divorce petition? He wished Victoria were here. Maybe she could figure it out.

  “Did you ask Barksdale about it?” he said.

  “I phoned the next day,” Greenberg said. “But Charlie wasn't taking any calls. He was dead.”

  Sitting in the Barksdale living room, Victoria watched Katrina flip through the glossy photos of her wrestling match with Chet Manko.

  “If I'd known they were taking pictures, I'd have gotten a bikini wax,” Katrina said, making a face.

  Victoria slipped a cassette into a portable tape recorder. “Frankly, we're more concerned about the audiotapes.”

  Sade was singing “Smooth Operator,” but Katrina was still studying the photos. “Jesus, I look all washed out. That sun on the bay is brutal.”

  Victoria refrained from saying that she'd look even worse after a few years at Dade Correctional Institution. “Kat, I really need you to listen to this.”

  Katrina shrugged and tossed her hair over a shoulder. She wore a c
risscross black-and-white halter mini that Victoria had seen at Saks. A Balenciaga design, sixteen hundred fifty dollars. Black ankle-wrap sandals with a hanging brass pendant. Giuseppe Zanotti. Six hundred bucks, at least. After Sade had finished singing about a man with eyes like angels but a heart that's cold, and after Manko had finished soliciting a murder, Katrina shrugged again. “What's the big deal? You heard me. I told Chet to forget it.”

  “Pincher's going to say the tape shows you were considering Manko's offer, and that later you killed your husband without Chet's help.”

  “That's ridiculous.”

  “Did you and Manko talk about killing Charles other times?”

  “Sure. Chet wouldn't let it go. He had a whole plan. Next time we crossed the Gulf Stream, he'd dump Charlie overboard and claim it was an accident.” She shivered. “Just the thought of Charlie being eaten by a shark freaked me out. I told Chet to shut up, never mention it again.”

  Victoria tried to evaluate her client. Was Katrina telling the truth? Where was the human polygraph when she needed him?

  Her cell phone rang. It was Steve, saying he wouldn't have time to pick up the baby-backs, but he'd stop at the Italian deli on the way back to his place. She said to forget about the food, how'd it go with the divorce lawyer?

  “‘Cement a spit-fed whore,'” he replied.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  He read her the poem, which she scribbled down. No, she didn't have any idea what it meant, either.

  “Charles Barksdale's telling us something,” Steve said. “And we better figure it out before Pincher does.”

  “What's ‘contretemps'?” Katrina asked, after Victoria read her the verse.

  “A mistake, an embarrassing mishap.”

  “Like getting charged with bumping your husband off?”

  “More like spilling the soup on your date. You have no idea what Charles could have meant? ‘Contretemps'? ‘Competent wish'? ‘Spit-fed whore'?”

  “Better not have been talking about me.”

  “Think about it, Kat. Had Charles ever said anything like this?”

  Another shrug, another hair toss. “Charlie was always quoting books, showing off. And writing stuff he called poetry. He never came out and said what he meant.”

  “That's what poetry does.”

  “That's why I never liked it. Me, I just say whatever the hell I'm thinking.”

  Thirty-four

  PROSCIUTTO AND MELON, SALTY AND SWEET

  “You're slicing the prosciutto too thin,” Victoria said.

  “Since when does someone named Lord know anything about prosciutto?” Steve said.

  “And what's your name, Solomonte?”

  They were standing shoulder to shoulder at his kitchen counter. He was carefully constructing bruschetta al prosciutto, and she was supervising.

  “Jews and Italians both know food,” he said. “This is top-grade prosciutto from Parma. It's supposed to be paper-thin, so it melts on your tongue.”

  Victoria watched Steve slice the pink, buttery meat with the care of a surgeon. Outside, the sun had set, and the wind slammed palm fronds against the windows.

  “When I was a kid, my mother served prosciutto and melon appetizers at her dinner parties,” she said.

  “Great combination. The salty and the sweet.”

  Like the two of us, she thought. Then chased the thought away. “How long have you been cooking?”

  He gave her a sharp look. “I know what you're doing.”

  “What?”

  “This nurturing shtick. You're trying to take my mind off Bobby's case.”

  Busted. Does he really know me that well?

  “What we should be doing is prepping Bobby for his testimony,” he said.

  “You sure you want him to testify?”

  “He needs to tell the judge he wants to stay with me.”

  “But it's risky. When Bobby gets nervous, there's no telling what he might say.”

  Steve peeled a garlic clove with his fingers. “Gotta pull rank on you here. Bobby testifies.”

  “I can be more objective than you can.”

  “But I have more at stake, so it's my call. Besides, my gut tells me he'll do fine.”

  “That again?”

  “I keep telling you, listen to your gut.”

  “Mine says I'm starving.” She pointed at the tiny ribbons of white that laced the meat. “Is that fat?”

  Again, he gave her a long look.

  “I'm not nurturing,” she protested. “I'm asking because I watch what I eat.”

  “Just enough fat for flavor.”

  Tempted, she grabbed a tiny sliver of the meat, nibbled at it, and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Mmm, succulent.” She took a larger slice, placed it on her tongue, and purred, “So su-cu-lent.”

  “If you say ‘succulent' one more time, I'm suing you for sexual harassment.”

  She placed a fingertip in her mouth, extracted the last bit of flavor, and said, “Suc-cu-lent. So sue me, Solomon.” She picked up a wafer of garlic, rubbed it across a slice of ciabatta. “You going to heat the bread?”

  “Not heat it, grill it. The panini grill gives it crispness. A good meal is a combination of flavors and textures. Like your mother's prosciutto and melon.”

  “Opposites sometimes fit together well,” she said.

  He gave her a look but didn't pick up the ball and run with it. “I take it you and Bruce don't do much cooking.”

  “I'm lousy in the kitchen, and Bruce is pretty much a yogurt and veggie guy.”

  “For me, eating's a sensual pleasure. Makes up for the lack of other ones.”

  “Don't pull that on me, Solomon. How's the court reporter with the Rudnicks, anyway?”

  “Sofia? Not seeing her anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “We didn't have a lot to talk about.”

  “Talk? Could it be you're maturing before my eyes?”

  “Nah. Just a temporary phase.”

  “Have you called Jackie yet?”

  He drizzled olive oil on the garlicky ciabatta, put it into the panini grill. “I will. When I get some time.”

  For someone capable of intricate subterfuge in the courtroom, he was a terrible liar in the kitchen.

  A minute later, he removed the ciabatta from the grill, added the prosciutto and a few drops more oil. She took a bite, let the flavors envelop her tongue.

  “Oh, that is so wonderful.”

  At the same time, Victoria felt guilty. She should have been at Bruce's an hour ago. What would he say if he knew she was wolfing down a piece of meat?

  “Animal flesh! You ate animal flesh?”

  Okay, Bruce could be a little dogmatic, she thought. A little controlling, if you got right down to it.

  “Don't fill up on the appetizers,” Steve said. “You're invited for dinner.”

  “Sorry, can't.”

  “Linguine with shrimp and scallops in a puttanesca sauce.”

  “Ooh. With anchovies?”

  “And capers and olives.”

  “Sounds great, but I promised Bruce…”

  “Hey, no problem.”

  But she could see the disappointment in his eyes. “Bruce is so worried about the cold front. Freeze is supposed to hit tomorrow.” Embarrassed now. Like she owed Solomon a reason why she was going to her fiance's house.

  “I understand. No big deal.”

  She used a napkin to wipe all traces of the prosciutto from her lips. She'd pop a couple Tic Tacs before kissing Bruce. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Actually, I'm having a personal crisis. I don't know what to get you for a wedding present.”

  “Ri-ght.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Guacamole, the couple that has everything.”

  “Are you getting passive-aggressive on me?”

  “I was shooting for just aggressive.”

  “I'm worried about you, sandwich man.”

  “It's not about me.” He made a show out of sl
icing fresh figs to decorate the plate of bruschetta. “You shouldn't become a real estate lawyer.”

  “I'll take it under advisement.” Such a baby, she thought. Why didn't he just say it: Don't marry Bruce. How did Steve ever score all those runs if he was so afraid of failure? Or was stealing home easier than stealing a heart?

  “Glass of wine before you go?” he said. “There's a nice Chardonnay in the fridge.”

  She opened the refrigerator, spotted a bottle, and read aloud. “‘Arnaud Ente Puligny Montrachet Les Referts.' Golly, Solly. That's good stuff. You surprise me.”

  “I have a client who brings it in from France.”

  “A wine importer. Great client.”

  “More like a longshoreman at the Port of Miami.”

  “So it's stolen?”

  “Technically, lost in transit.”

  She pulled out the bottle and saw something else behind it. An unopened container of coleslaw and a sweet potato pie, both from Cadillac's lunch wagon. She checked the date stamp on the coleslaw container.

  Made today!

  Steve had told her he didn't have time to see Cadillac. Why would he lie? She tried to think like Solomon, wend her way down the serpentine path he walked.

  Because he's planning something illegal.

  She closed the refrigerator, found a corkscrew in a drawer, and went to work on the bottle. “That rule of yours, the one about telling your lawyer the truth…”

  “What about it?”

  “I'm your lawyer. What are you cooking up with the cook?”

  “Cadillac? Nothing.”

  “Not buying it, Solomon.”

  “You're just going to have to trust me on this.”

  “Problem is, I don't. Look, I want to win, but I'd prefer not to be disbarred in the process.”

  “Which is why you're better off not knowing everything.”

  Dammit. Does he really expect me to look the other way?

  “All I'm doing is leveling the playing field,” he continued.

  “With a rake? Or a bulldozer?”

  “C'mon, ease up, Victoria.”

  “You c'mon. You can't hide things from me. I won't put up with it.”

  Just then, Bobby walked into the kitchen. She'd have to grill Solomon later.