by Paul Levine
Steve told himself to stay calm. The jerk would turn away at the piling with the No Wake sign. The boat would whip a four-foot mini-tsunami toward the beach, everyone on board having a big laugh and a bigger drink.
Okay, so turn now.
"Steve . . ."
"Don't worry. Just some cowboy showing off."
But the boat didn't turn and it didn't slow down. Instead, it muscled toward them, its bowsprit angled toward the sky like a thin patrician nose.
Now Steve was worried.
Five hundred yards away. The boat leapt the small chop, splatted down, leapt again. He could see white water cascading high along the hull, streaming over the deck. The roar grew louder, a throaty baritone, like a dozen Ferraris racing their engines. The son-of-a-bitch must be doing forty knots.
Still it came, its bow seemingly aimed straight at them. In twenty seconds, it would be on them. Windsurfers scattered. Swimmers shrieked and splashed toward shore. On the beach, people in chaise lounges leapt to their feet and backpedaled. A lifeguard tooted his whistle, drowned out by the bellow of the diesels.
Squinting into the glare of the sinking sun, Steve could see there was no one on the fly bridge. A boat without a driver.
"C'mon!" Victoria cried out, starting to swim parallel to the beach.
Steve grabbed her by an ankle and yanked her back. They didn't have the speed or maneuverability. What they had were five seconds.
"Dive!" he ordered.
Wide-eyed, Victoria took a breath.
They dived straight down, kicking hard.
Underwater, Steve heard the props, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the diesel roar. Then, a bizarre sensation, a banging in his chest. Like someone smashing his sternum with a ballpeen hammer. A split-second later, he heard the click-click-click of a bottlenose dolphin, but he knew it was the boat's sonar, bombarding him with invisible waves. Suddenly, the wash of the props tore at him, dragging him up then shoving him down. He tumbled head-over-ass, smacked the sandy bottom with a shoulder, and felt his neck twist at a painful angle. Eyes open, he swung around, desperately looking for Victoria, seeing only the murky swirl of bottom sand. Then a glimpse of her feet headed for the surface. He kicked off the bottom and followed her.
They both broke through the water just as the boat ramped off the sandy incline, going airborne, props churning. Steve heard screams from the beach, saw people scattering as the boat flew over the first row of beach chairs, slashed the palm-frond roof of the tiki-hut bar, and crashed through a canvas-topped cabana. The wooden hull split amidships with the sound of a thousand baseball bats splintering, its two halves separating as tidily as a cleanly cracked walnut.
"Vic! You okay?"
But she was already swimming toward shore.
Victoria ignored Steve's shouts to wait. No, the senior partner would have to catch up on his own. She had seen the lettering on the stern as the big boat lifted out of the water: FORCE MAJEURE IV. She instantly recognized the name, remembered the first Force Majeure, even after all these years.
How could it be?
In a place where most boats were christened with prosaic puns—Queasy Rider, Wet Dream—this craft could be owned by only one man. In the law, a force majeure was something that couldn't be controlled. A superior, irresistible force. Like a powerful yacht ...or its powerful owner.
Steve was still yelling to wait up as she scrambled onto the sand and ran toward the broken boat. The bridge was lying on its side in the sand, the chrome wheel pretzled out of shape. Shards of glass, torn cushions, twisted grab rails, were scattered everywhere. The fighting chair, separated from its base, sat upright in the sand, as if waiting for a missing fisherman.
Half-a-dozen Florida lobsters crawled across the sand, a shattered plastic fish box nearby. Something was impaled on one lobster's antenna. It took a second for the bizarre sight to register.
A hundred-dollar bill. The lobster's spiny antenna was sticking right through Ben Franklin's nose.
Then she saw the other bills. A flutter of greenbacks, blowing across the beach, like seabirds in a squall.
"This one's breathing, but he's messed up bad."
It was the hotel lifeguard, bent over a thin man in cargo shorts and polo shirt. He lay on his side, motionless, his limbs splayed at grotesque angles, a broken doll. The lifeguard turned the man gently onto his back, then gasped. A metal spear protruded from the man's chest.
"Jesus!"
Victoria got a look at the man's face.
Thank God. It's not him.
"Another one! Over here!" A woman's voice.
Victoria navigated around a thicket of splintered teak decking. A female bartender was crouched in the sand over a thick-bodied man in a white guayabera. Rivulets of blood ran down the man's face from a gash on his forehead. "Don't move," the bartender ordered. "We're gonna get you to the hospital."
The man grunted. He appeared to be in his sixties, with a thick neck and thinning gray hair. His eyes were closed, either from pain or the blood running into his eyes.
Victoria edged closer.
Could it possibly be him?
"You should put a compress over the wound," she said.
The man opened his eyes, and Victoria recognized him at once. "Uncle Grif!"
"Hello, Princess." Grimacing through the pain, Hal Griffin pushed the bartender aside. "Leave me alone, dammit. I need to talk to my lawyer."
SOLOMON'S LAWS
1. If the facts don't fit the law . . . bend the facts.
Two
THE IRRESISTIBLE FORCE
Lower Keys Medical Center wasn't far away, but the streets were jammed. Locals on bicycles, teenagers in flip-flops, cruise-ship passengers scorched from the Caribbean sun. With Victoria sitting shotgun, Steve was at the wheel, stuck in traffic, bogged down behind a Key West taxi, pink as Pepto-Bismol. Steve banged the horn, but the taxi didn't pick up speed. Of course not; its bumper sticker read: "What's Your Hurry? This Ain't the Mainland."
They had taken the ferry from Sunset Key and picked up Steve's rusty orange 1976 Eldorado from its parking spot off Mallory Square. The old Caddy, whose throaty rumble had once sounded dark and velvety, like a pot of brewing coffee, now hacked and belched like a geezer at the Sand & Surf Retirement Home.
"So who's the other guy on the boat?" Steve asked.
"All I know, Uncle Grif was bringing someone to dinner. He didn't say who."
Steve honked at a bearded jaywalker with tattooed snakes crawling up his bare back. "And just now, on the beach, he didn't tell you?"
"It didn't seem to be the time for introductions." Trying to shut him up. She knew Steve well enough to read his mind. He was already thinking there was profitable legal business scattered in that boat wreckage.
Sure, Steve, but it's gonna be my business, not yours.
"And how the hell did that guy get a spear in his chest?" Not letting up. He was like a fifty-ton Mud Cat dredging the harbor, a force majeure in his own right.
"I don't know any more than you do, Steve."
"Three possibilities," he persisted. "One: accident. Griffin's showing the guy the speargun and it fires. Then we've got a civil case to defend."
"We," she thought, her heart sinking. God, hadn't he been listening?
"Two: They fought over something. The guy clobbers Griffin, who shoots him with the spear. Then, we've got aggravated battery, maybe murder if the guy dies. Self-defense a possibility if Griffin feared for his life."
Try poaching Uncle Grif's legal work, you'll be in fear for your life, sweetheart.
"Three: a boat malfunction. The steering goes out, we sue the manufacturer or repair yard or parts supplier for damages. That doesn't explain the spear, but—"
"Let's just see how Uncle Grif is doing," she interrupted icily, "and not worry about business."
"Sure thing, but we could be looking at big bucks here."
"We" again. When you're already upset with your boyfriend, his everyday aggravating habits seem
even worse. There's a multiplier effect, like the bank compounding interest. Here he was, once again not listening to her, once again not picking up the nuances of her voice, the rhythms of her mood.
Dammit, Solomon. You can read the flutter of a witness' eyelashes. Why can't you hear me unless I scream?
They passed the marina at Garrison Bight, ancient houseboats slouched cockeyed in the water, unrehabilitated hippies sprawled on front porches, drinking the night away. Two tourists on motor scooters hogged the middle of the road, and Steve banged the horn again. He hung a left at College Road onto Stock Island, headed past the pungent garbage dump and landfill, and pulled between two rows of royal palms into the hospital parking lot. A helicopter descended noisily, heading for the concrete pad near the Emergency Room entrance. But if there was any emergency, it was journalistic, not medical. The chopper was from Channel 4 in Miami.
Great. Just great. Steve never met a camera he didn't love.
A Monroe County sheriff's car sat angled at the hospital's front entrance. Perched on the hood of the car, like a long-legged ornament, was a white ibis. If she were superstitious, Victoria would have considered it a bad omen. The bird watched them walk into the lobby, Victoria's mind swirling with memories.
Why had Uncle Grif called her after all these years? And why had he not called all these years?
The Lords and the Griffins.
When she was a child and Lord-Griffin Construction Company was booming, the two families were inseparable. Nelson and Irene Lord, Harold and Phyllis Griffin. Dinners, bridge games, vacations. For Victoria, before her world collapsed, it was a time of nannies and cruises, tennis camps and Shetland ponies. Her favorite playmate was Hal, Jr. They'd played doctor when she was four and Junior was six, kissed for real when she was twelve and he was fourteen. Such innocence. Such promise. Until her father leapt off the roof of one of the Lord-Griffin condos. Then came the lawsuits, bankruptcies, Grand Jury investigations. Something about bribery and extortion in the building trades. Hal Griffin took his family to Costa Rica and laid low for several years.
Victoria and her mother lost track of them, but then Uncle Grif turned up in Singapore and Indonesia, building hotels and accumulating a fortune. Over the years, he worked his way back home, developing resorts in the Caribbean. Then, a year ago, there'd been a story in the Miami Herald when he bought Paradise Key, a small, private island in Shark Channel, just off the Gulf side of Islamorada. There was speculation in the business pages about a new Griffin project in Florida, but nothing official. Then, last week, Uncle Grif finally called. He apologized for having been out of her life all these years. Then said he'd been keeping tabs on her.
Keeping tabs. That had sounded mysterious. But it must have been true. Uncle Grif knew all about her honors at Princeton and Yale Law. He knew about her brief stint in the State Attorney's Office, and he'd heard she was in private practice. Now he had some legal work that might interest her.
Her.
Not the senior partner at some deep-carpet firm. Not Alan Dershowitz. Not Steve Solomon. But her.
Victoria Lord, attorney-at-law. Sole practitioner.
Dammit! How could she get Steve to accept that?
Now, there's a guy who really fills a hospital bed, Steve thought, getting a glimpse of Harold Griffin. Burly chest, wide shoulders, thick neck, a white bandage on his forehead, and his right arm in a sling. A still handsome, still rugged man in his mid-sixties, Griffin had pale blue eyes and bushy, sun-bleached eyebrows.
"My God, you're all grown up, Princess," Griffin said as Victoria walked to his bedside.
"How are you feeling, Uncle Grif?"
"Nothing but a separated shoulder, a couple cuts, and a monster headache." He looked toward Steve. "You must be the young man Victoria mentioned."
"Steve Solomon." Wondering just what Victoria had said. "Young man" made him sound like a boyfriend, which he was. But this was business, right? Hadn't Victoria told him about the firm? "I'm Victoria's partner."
"Partner," Griffin repeated. "Used to be, when you said you were someone's partner, everybody knew what you meant. Like Victoria's father and me. Borrowed money together, built condos together, covered each other's ass. These days, it might mean a couple of interior decorators playing house." He barked a laugh and said, "Come to think of it, they're covering each other's ass, too."
"What happened out there, Mr. Griffin?" Steve asked.
"Call me Grif. I was bringing Stubbs down from Paradise Key to discuss the new project. Ben Stubbs from Washington. Environmental Protection Agency. Poor sucker's in the ICU right now. Never saw so much blood in my life, and I was in 'Nam."
"What's the EPA have to do with your project?" Victoria asked.
Griffin motioned her to move closer. "Cop still in the hall?"
"Right outside the door."
"Did he happen to say if he was protecting me or confining me?"
"Didn't say anything, Uncle Grif."
True, Steve thought. The deputy, a gum-chewing, jug-eared, close-shaved kid, had been too busy gaping at Victoria's tanned legs.
"Can't talk to you about Stubbs until we sweep for bugs," Griffin whispered. "I once bid on a shopping center in Singapore. Figured my hotel room might be bugged, so I made all my calls from the bathroom after turning on the shower. But every move I made, a competitor beat me to the punch. Turned out, there was a bug in the toilet-roll dispenser."
In Key West, Steve thought, the only bugs in hotel bathrooms were likely to have eight legs. He couldn't envision Willis Rask, the sheriff, illegally eavesdropping in a hospital room. Same for State Attorney Richard Waddle, even if his nickname was "Dickwad."
"Can you just tell us what happened on the boat?" Victoria asked.
Griffin used his good arm to wave them even closer. Victoria scooted along one side of the bed, Steve the other. It was starting to look like a sleepover at Never-land Ranch. Griffin continued so softly, it was nearly impossible to hear him. "I don't know how the hell Stubbs got that spear in his chest. And that's the truth."
"You make any stops? Refuel, that sort of thing?" Steve asked. Thinking they needed a third party coming aboard. A mermaid with a speargun would do.
Griffin looked around, as if someone might be listening. When he didn't find anyone, he whispered: "One quick stop. A couple miles west of Black Turtle Key, one of those no-name islands. I keep my lobster pots offshore there. Pulled up a few critters for our dinner."
"I thought we were going to Louie's Backyard," Victoria said.
"You ever have their lobster jambalaya, Princess?"
"Never saw it on the menu."
" 'Course not. They make it just for me. I bring the lobster, they do the rest, from the andouille sausage to the spices."
Speaking louder now, apparently not concerned if eavesdroppers stole his recipe.
"I think I saw our dinner crawling across the beach," Victoria said.
"Lobsters are out of season," Steve reminded them.
"So sue me," Griffin shot back.
What do you make of a guy who brings his own food to the best restaurant in Key West? Probably the same thing you'd say about someone who names his boat Force Majeure. This guy lives large, fills a conference room the way he fills a hospital bed. A man used to getting his own way. So what does he do if things don't go his way?
"All those hundred-dollar bills blowing across the beach," Steve said. "What was that about?"
"Louie's is expensive," Griffin said. "I was gonna pick up the check."
"Uh-huh."
"Seriously, I just keep a lot of cash around."
"How much? On the boat today."
"Maybe a hundred thousand. More or less."
All that cash. One man with a spear in his chest. Another with a bump on his noggin. And a mess of out-of-season lobsters. Where do you look in the law books for this one?
"See anybody on that little island where you stopped?" Steve asked.
Griffin shook his head.
&n
bsp; "You head straight from there to Sunset Key?"
Again, Griffin lowered his voice to a parched whisper. "At thirty-five knots. I'm up on the fly bridge, wind blowing my hair, or what's left of it. I asked Stubbs to keep me company up there, but the lazy bastard stays in the cockpit, getting a tan, drinking a Bud. Few minutes later, I look down, and he's not there. I figure maybe he's inside, sacking out or taking a leak. Little while later, I still don't see him, so I get on the intercom, but there's no answer. I get worried, think maybe he fell overboard. He'd been drinking pretty good and he's clumsy on his feet, especially on a wet deck. So I put her on auto and went down the ladder."
He paused and gnawed his lower lip. Steve didn't have to try a hundred cases to know that what was coming next was either a careful lie or the painful truth. The trick—the damned near impossible trick— was to distinguish the two.
"Soon as I open the door to the salon, I see Stubbs," Griffin said. "On the floor, slumped up against a bulkhead, bleeding like a stuck pig, that spear in his chest. I run out of there, climb back up the ladder. I was gonna call the Coast Guard, head for Marathon."
"Fishermen's Hospital."
"Exactly. But then, boom. The lights go out."
"Meaning what?"
"I don't know. My next memory is being down on the deck, my head split open, drifting in and out.
Maybe someone up on the fly bridge whacked me across the skull as I came up the ladder."
Oh, shit. The phantom strikes. Twice. First in the salon, then on the bridge.
"Next thing I know, I'm on the beach with a stomping headache, and here comes the Princess, looking just like her mother all those years ago." He turned toward Victoria. "How is The Queen, anyway?"
"Before you two catch up on old times," Steve interrupted, "did you tell that story to the police?"
"What do you mean by 'story,' Solomon?"
"Nothing. Just asking if you gave a statement."
