by Paul Levine
"The dress is red and white, Steve. Just which color does it pick up?"
"I don't know. Today, everything looks gorgeous."
She sat on the edge of the bed and gingerly touched his forehead. A bump, purple and blue, rose from beneath the hairline.
"Bobby," he said. "Where's Bobby?"
"At your father's. Sleeping. He's fine."
"I love that kid. I couldn't love him any more if I were his father."
"I know. He knows, too."
"I've been lost and confused, Vic. In a fog. But I see clearly now."
Please don't, she thought. Please don't sing.
Too late. He was already into it: "I can see clearly now . . ."
A nurse had told her that Steve had a Level 2 concussion. But not a word about him being possessed by aliens.
Shortly after the rain had gone, Steve stopped singing and blurted out, "I'm gonna change, Vic."
"Really? How?"
"I'm gonna talk less. I'm gonna listen more. I'm gonna focus on you. I'm gonna be nicer to everybody."
"I think I wandered into the wrong room."
"We need to do more things together. Maybe a cooking class. Or join the opera society. What about the ballet? You love ballet."
"But you hate it."
"Doesn't matter. I want to do things for you."
"What's in that IV, anyway?"
"I dunno, why?"
"I'd like to order a case."
There was a knock at the open door, and Willis Rask walked in. A holstered gun jiggled on the sheriff's hip. "Am I disturbing anything?"
"Not at all, Sheriff," Victoria said.
"Willis," Steve said. "I love you, man."
"That's great, Stevie. I been talking to your doctors."
"I have doctors?"
"Post-traumatic amnesia. It'll come back to you." Rask grinned at them. "They did a brain scan and found nothing."
"Is that good?" Steve asked.
"I think it's the sheriff's little joke," Victoria told him.
"I see you got the flowers." Rask nodded in the direction of the sideboard.
"They're from you?" Steve gave him the goofy grin that looked like it belonged on someone else's face.
"I ordered them, but only on instructions. You see the card?"
Steve rolled onto an elbow, then settled back down hastily. "Vic, you do it."
Victoria picked the card off the plastic spear and read it aloud. " 'Come Monday, it'll be all right. Get well quick, and we'll chase some wahoo.' It's signed, 'Jimmy B.' "
"That's nice of him," Steve said. "Damn nice."
"So you really know Jimmy Buffett?" Victoria said.
"I love him so-o-o-o much," Steve cooed.
With Victoria looking on, Sheriff Rask spent a few minutes trying to take a statement from Steve, who kept interrupting with wild-hare statements about how much he loved the Keys, including all the fishes and the birds and each and every gator, and how Bobby saved his ass, claiming it was a dolphin, and isn't Bobby the greatest kid and old Herbert the best dad in the world, and did Willis know that Victoria was an incredible lover, even better than that double-jointed little gymnast from Auburn he'd met during the college baseball playoffs all those years ago?
Rask took notes, but Steve didn't provide much useful information. He hadn't gotten a license number on the motorcycle. He couldn't identify the rider. Unable to see past the space helmet, Steve couldn't even tell if the bottle thrower was a man or a woman.
"And I got no idea who would want to kill me."
"If he wanted to kill you," Rask pointed out, "he would have used a gun, not a jar of used motor oil. This seems more like a warning."
The sheriff asked if he'd pissed off anyone lately, and Steve mentioned Pinky Luber, but he didn't think the little bowling ball spent much time riding Harleys.
Rask told him that a bunch of leaflets were scattered on the road where the Caddy went off the bridge, and Steve remembered Darth Vader tossing papers from the saddlebag.
"They're all about Oceania," Rask said. " 'Stop the polluters. Stop destroying the reefs.' That sort of thing. They've all got the logo of Keys Alert. You know the group?"
"Delia Bustamante," Steve crooned. "Sweet girl. Owns a restaurant."
"Didn't you used to bake her frijoles?"
"Ancient history," Steve said.
"Once the news broke about Oceania, Delia's been the biggest mouth in the South. She's leading the opposition to the project."
Victoria adjusted the blinds to let more sun into the room. Outside, a breeze from the Gulf riffled the fronds of a towering royal palm. "You think Steve was nearly killed because we're defending Hal Griffin?"
Rask shrugged. "If you get Griffin off, Oceania gets built. If you don't, the project sinks. But those Keys Alert folks aren't ecoterrorists."
"You're sure?"
"Mostly, they're just people who like to wade in the surf without tar sticking to their feet."
"Delia Bustamante was on the Force Majeure just before it left the dock," Victoria said. "What about it, Steve? You still believe she's not capable of violence?"
Steve's answer was a peaceful snore. His eyes were closed and he still had the goofy smile in place.
"You think after the medication wears off we'll get the old Steve back?" Rask asked.
"Not for a while, I hope," Victoria said. "I kind of like the new, improved model."
A few minutes later, Rask said his good-byes—one to Victoria, one to his snoring buddy—and departed.
Victoria sat in the chair next to Steve's bed, thinking through the day's events. She had already decided this was no time to break up with Steve. It was bad form to dump a boyfriend when he's hooked to an IV. Not only that, they had too much work to do. Uncle Grif had called her cell phone as she crossed the Seven Mile Bridge on the way to the hospital. He'd heard about Steve and asked if he could help. A private plane to take him to Miami or to bring specialists to the Keys . . . anything, just name it. And he said he wanted Solomon & Lord to continue with his case. He trusted her and hoped she trusted him.
When she hesitated, Griffin had added: "Your mother and I had a special relationship, Princess. We were dear, close friends. As close as people who aren't lovers can be. We did nothing to be ashamed of. And that's the truth."
Did she believe him? Uncle Grif's relationship with the truth was proving to be more a distant cousin than a blood brother. Still, she apologized for making the accusations, and he shushed her, saying he understood; he knew the stress she'd been under.
Her mother and Uncle Grif. Another issue to table until after the murder trial. Then she would use all her skills to delve into that "special relationship." She would learn exactly what happened and why her father committed suicide. If her original suspicion proved correct, she would surgically remove both of them—Uncle Grif and The Queen—from her life.
Tabled, too, was Steve. Saved, temporarily, by a Level 2 concussion. But when this case was over, she'd reconsider him, too. De novo review, as the courts say. A brand-new look from page one onward. If she needed to use the scalpel on that relationship, too— well, it would be painful but not without an upside. There would be a loss of a connection, but a gain of independence.
But in the midst of a murder trial, it's best not to make any irrevocable decisions.
There was a snort from the bed. "You say something?" Steve asked, blearily.
"Delia Bustamante. Is she capable of violence?"
"Only against pork chops."
"I'm serious, Steve. We've finally got a possible defense. Is there any chance she's behind the attack on you and the murder of Ben Stubbs?"
Steve touched his forehead, sizing up the bump. "Delia's a sweetheart. I mean, she's emotional, but in a good way. She's warm and funny and a great cook, and—"
"Okay, I get it."
Steve leaned back and closed his eyes. Before he could fall asleep again, Victoria asked, "So who the hell was that double-jointed gymnast from
Auburn?"
SOLOMON'S LAWS
7. When meeting an ex-girlfriend you dumped, always assume she's armed.
Twenty-six
BONNIE VOUCHES FOR CLYDE
The doctor was in his mid-thirties, both too young and too suntanned for Steve's taste. The tattoo on the doc's forearm—a windsurfer jumping a wave— did not exactly inspire confidence, either. "The scans are clean. Your reflexes are fine. Now, what's two plus two?"
The doctor seemed to be in a hurry, Steve thought. Maybe the wind was coming up. An old joke came to mind. A priest, a physicist, and a lawyer are all asked: "What's two plus two?" Lowering his voice to a whisper, Steve gave the lawyer's punch line. "How much do you want it to be?"
The doctor forced a smile and scribbled on a clipboard. He was releasing Steve, with instructions to call if he experienced any headaches or dizziness. Along with some pain pills, the doctor gave him a tip: A posse of reporters and photographers were sniffing around the hospital lobby like vultures after roadkill. Wanting a statement, photographs, some link between the bridge attack and the Griffin murder case. Steve thought it over. What would he say?
"There are forces out to stop Hal Griffin any way they can, including assaulting his lawyer."
But was that true? He had no idea. For the first time in his professional life, Steve decided to forgo a chance at free publicity—mother's milk to a trial lawyer—and he ducked out the employees' entrance.
Victoria picked him up in the hospital parking lot, threaded her Mini Cooper between two TV trucks, and headed south toward Key West. They were going to pay an unannounced visit on Delia Bustamante.
"Why are we sneaking out like this?" she asked. "You never met a camera you didn't love."
"Anything I say would just be a guess. I don't know enough to make an intelligent statement."
"Usually, that doesn't stop you."
"I'm trying to be more circumspect."
Oh. Just how long would that medication last? Victoria wondered again.
Steve called Bobby on the cell. The boy felt terrific. He was going shrimping with his grandfather. No, he didn't need more rest. He'd slept half the day and was mega-bored. The resilience of kids.
When they reached Key West, Victoria parked on Duval Street. First stop, Fast Buck Freddy's to get Steve some clothes. Within fifteen minutes, his new fashion statement was complete. Black sneakers, green camouflage pants, and a T-shirt with the slogan:
Twenty-four beers in a case.
Twenty-four hours in a day.
Coincidence?
He put on the shirt and paraded around the store, but GQ didn't call to set up a photo shoot. Victoria paid the bill and insisted on carrying his packages, which was fine with Steve. He was playing his concussion for all the sympathy he could get.
They passed through Mallory Square just before sunset. The place was jammed with tourists, plus the usual collection of jugglers, mimes, balloon twisters, and a guy with a sign, I Read for Food. He mildly entertained the crowd by reciting passages from Hemingway's Islands in the Stream.
"How do you feel?" Victoria asked for the tenth time.
"Kind of funky, but nothing a couple margaritas couldn't cure."
"No alcohol. You heard the doctor."
Steve didn't argue. He liked being pampered by Victoria, and he was still in the post-traumatic, post-Demerol glow of goodwill and affection.
They walked along the waterfront to Havana Viejo, Delia Bustamante's restaurant.
On the porch, several patrons hung out at a raw bar, and Liz O'Connor, a local musician, strummed her guitar and sang, "I'll Know It's Time to Go When the ATM Says No."
"How 'bout some key lime garlic oysters before we talk to Delia?" Steve asked Victoria.
"Didn't you hear the doctor say only bland foods?"
"Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say."
She gave him another of those who is this guy? looks, and Steve just smiled and held the door for her as they walked inside. Like a lot of Keys' eateries, Havana Viejo had a nautical theme—all anchors and buoys and sharks' jaws—plus black-and-white photos of pre-Castro Cuba on the walls. The air was fragrant with curry sauce in a conch stew. At a nearby table, under a framed photo of a yacht club in Old Havana, locals in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals devoured swordfish glazed with mango and Scotch peppers. Delia Bustamante, owner and chef, maintained a passionate, sensuous relationship with food. She was, as Steve recalled, pretty damn hot in the bedroom, too.
"You hungry, Vic?" he asked, as they headed for the kitchen.
"You think Delia's gonna cook for you?"
"Why wouldn't she?"
"Didn't you break up with her?"
"I always manage to stay friends. It's part of my charm."
"Really? What's the rest of it?"
They entered the kitchen through swinging doors. Delia stood in front of a gas range, stirring sliced papayas and apples in a saucepan that emitted the aroma of brown sugar and cinnamon, papaya applesauce, the side dish for one of her specialties, spicy barbecued salmon.
"What's cooking, babe?" Steve spread his arms, as if to hug her from twenty paces.
Delia looked up from the range, her black eyebrows arching. She wore spandex yoga pants and a pink tank top with a lace-up front. The laces were undone and the tops of her caramel breasts were slick with perspiration. Her dark hair was pulled straight back, setting off her cheekbones.
"Bastard son-of-a-bitch! Y que carajo tu haces aqui, cabron, hijo de la gran puta, descarado?"
"My mother was no such thing," Steve said.
"Come mierda!" She threw the spatula at him, missing by two feet, but pieces of sautéed papayas splattered his T-shirt.
"Delia, sweetheart. You gorgeous babe. What's the matter?"
"Bastard!" She scooped up a meat cleaver and hurled it across the kitchen. Steve would have ducked, but the throw was high and wide, like an overanxious catcher tossing the ball into center field when trying to catch a runner stealing second.
The cleaver smacked into a wooden support piling with a thunk and stuck there. Then Steve realized he hadn't been the target. His photograph was tacked to the piling. A shot of him at the restaurant's raw bar, his head thrown back as he tossed down an oyster. Someone had drawn a Salvadore Dali mustache on the photo, so it appeared he had inhaled a mouse into each nostril, stringy tails curling out. A black eye-patch, also the artist's touch, gave him a sinister, piratical look. And now the meat cleaver split his forehead in two.
"If that's the way you feel, I'm gonna pass on the mushroom-dusted snapper," Steve told Delia.
Five minutes later, the three of them sat at a redwood picnic table on the wharf just outside the kitchen door. Victoria tried to calm down Delia with a sister-to-sister chat. Sure, Steve could be incredibly aggravating. Heaven knows, there had been many times she'd longed to brain him. "But he speaks highly of you, Ms. Bustamante, and we're here on court business. So if you could just answer a few questions . . ." But before Victoria could start her interrogation, Delia launched her own.
"That bump on the bastard's head, did you hit him with a frying pan?"
"I've been tempted to, but no."
"Too bad. You sleeping with the puerco?"
"That ain't kosher," Steve said, "calling me a pig."
"We're law partners," Victoria said, "and . . ."
Just how should I put it? Lovers-for-now?
"C'mon, Delia," Steve broke in. "We're here on business. Leave the personal baggage out of it."
Delia loosened the clip that held her hair back and shook her head. Long, dark tresses cascaded over her bare shoulders. She turned to Steve with a look as sharp as the meat cleaver. "Is this tall, cold cerveza better in bed than I am?"
"Ah, Jeez," Steve said. "Why not ask what's better, stone crabs or filet mignon?"
"Because you said I was the best lover you ever had."
"I think I said the 'loudest lover.' "
"You said the best! Tu eres el mejor amente que he tenido
en toda mi vida."
"That was before I met Victoria."
"So she is better!"
"I didn't say that."
You did to me, Victoria thought.
"Lighten up, Delia," Steve continued. "Making love isn't an Olympic contest. No judges give style points. It's physical and chemical and emotional and the feelings come from deep inside."
"What would you know of feelings?" Delia demanded.
"All I'm saying is that in the moment, everyone is the best lover with the one they're with. In that moment, you can't imagine ever being with anyone else. But things change. People move on."
Delia looked at Victoria with sympathy. "Ay, he'll break your heart, too, chica."
"Delia, I didn't break your heart."
She pressed one hand to her ample bosom. "I gave you everything."
"You gave me mango flan. And what's with the theatrics?"
"Steve, why don't you go for a walk and let us girls talk?" Victoria suggested.
"Delia, be honest," Steve blasted ahead. "We just had fun. We never even said we loved each other."
"When I made you bouillabaisse, was that not love?" Delia's eyes glistened.
"You make bouillabaisse for parties of eight."
"Not with sourdough croutons I bake myself."
"Okay," Victoria interposed. "Let's agree on something: Steve's an insensitive jerk."
"No I'm not."
"And look at you now," Delia said, with disgust. "Ass-licking lambioso! Doing Griffin's dirty work. Will you lie to the jury the way you lied to me?"
"I never lied to you," Steve said. "Not once."
"You said you could eat my grilled pork chops forever and ever. Siempre y siempre."
"I could. Your chops are delicious. That shallot glaze, I've never tasted anything like it."
"So why did you leave me?"
"It was a long drive. We drifted apart." He shrugged, as if searching for more. "I started eating sushi."
"Cabrón! Bastard!"
Victoria wanted to steer the conversation out of Delia's kitchen and as far from her bedroom as possible. "Ms. Bustamante, you're a potential witness in a murder case, and we really need to find out what you know."
