Solomon vs. Lord (6 page)

“No you're not.”

“I am. Really. But try to look at it as an opportunity.”

“I hate you, you know.”

“I hate you,” Mr. Ruffles said, then hopped from Steve's shoulder to Victoria's. She was too numb to even care.

“What are you going to do now?” Steve asked.

“I don't know.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“You've done quite enough.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Shit!” she screamed.

“Don't say that till you hear me out,” he said.

“Dammit! Your bird.”

Mr. Ruffles flapped his wings and flew away. Eyes filling with tears, Victoria stared at the arm of her tweedy jacket where Mr. Ruffles had just left the molten aftermath of what had been prune Danish.

“They say it's good luck,” Steve said.

GRAND JURY CONSIDERS BARKSDALE DEATH

By Joan Fleischman
Herald
Staff Writer

The Miami-Dade Grand Jury will hear evidence Monday in the strangulation death of construction magnate and philanthropist Charles Barksdale, 60.

County Coroner Wu-Chi Yang reportedly will tell the Grand Jury that Barksdale died from “erotic asphyxia,” death from cutting off the air supply during sex. The issue before the Grand Jury is whether there is probable cause that the death resulted from a homicide, rather than an accident.

Dr. Yang would not comment on these reports, and all proceedings before the Grand Jury are confidential. The sole suspect in the inquiry is Barksdale's widow, Katrina Barksdale, 33, who reportedly was with her husband in the bedroom of their luxurious bayfront home when the incident occurred last Wednesday night. The couple had been married four years.

Barksdale was best known for his waterfront condominium projects and as a sponsor of book fairs and poetry seminars.

Asked for a comment, State Attorney Raymond Pincher said, “We will present the Grand Jury with evidence that Mrs. Barksdale had ample motive, opportunity, and means to commit this heinous crime, and that she did so with premeditation and malice aforethought.”

The State Attorney then added, “Not that I'm prejudging her.”

Eight

THE OLD MAN
AND THE SEA BREEZE

What the hell did his father want?

What was so important that Steve had to fill the mammoth tank of his 1976 Cadillac Eldorado for the drive down Useless 1, the old highway that runs from Maine to Key West?

And why did the old man say to leave his grandson behind? Strange, because Bobby's the one Herbert Solomon enjoyed seeing.

These were the questions plaguing Steve as the old Caddy powered past the mango groves and vegetable farms of South Dade. Not that he had anything better to do. With the bird trial ended and his office empty of clients
—customers,
Cece called them—he had time for a quick trip to the Keys.

Or a long trip.

He felt a stab of pain when he saw the billboard with a drawing of pastel-colored low-rise buildings around a lake ringed by avocado trees.

BIGBY RESORT & VILLAS
Your Forever Getaway

Sounded like Menorah Gardens Cemetery, he thought. He had tried calling Victoria last night, but she wasn't picking up the phone, even though he'd dangled irresistible bait.

“Your Prince Charming here,” he said to her answering machine, “and if you ever want to see your size eight-and-a-half Guccis again, you'll return my call.”

In Victoria's haste to flee the courtroom, bird crud on her sleeve, Nikes on her feet, she had left her shoes behind. The snakeskin pumps, greatly admired by Marvin the Maven, now sat on the cracked white leather of the passenger seat, like a pair of miniature schnauzers.

When the phone rang just before midnight, he hoped it was Cinderella calling back. No luck.

“You stepped in the deep shit this time,” Herbert Solomon had drawled, sounding semi-blitzed, “and ah'm gonna pull you out.”

Steve heard the soft sound of water splashing. “You in the bathtub, Dad?”

“Pirates Cove, flashlight in one hand, shrimp net in the other.”

“Where's the bottle of bourbon?”

“Shrimp are fat and juicy. Ah'll bring you some.”

“You okay to drive home?”

“Drive? Ah'm in the kayak.”

“Great. I'll alert the Coast Guard.”

“Just git on down here tomorrow. It's important.”

“Just what shit did I step in?”

“Not on the phone, son. Don't be such a dimwit.”

They spent a few minutes negotiating a meeting place like two lawyers haggling over an insurance settlement. His father argued that Steve had the benefit of turnpike speeds all the way to Homestead, while he'd be stuck in traffic in the Lower Keys, so they should meet somewhere south of the halfway point. In rebuttal, Steve claimed that he actually worked for a living, while his father sipped hootch from Mason jars, so how about driving farther north? They settled on Tortugas Tavern, an open-air guzzlery just south of Islamorada on Lower Matecumbe Key.

It was cloudless, the Eldo's top was down, the steering wheel was warmed by the sun. Once a fiery red, the Caddy was now a faded dingy orange, but its fuel-injected engine still managed a throaty roar. On the reggae station, Bob Marley was confessing that he'd shot the sheriff, though apparently not the deputy.

The drive gave Steve an uncomfortable ninety minutes to think about his upcoming sparring match. He wasn't in the mood to hear about his own failings for the zillionth time. Long ago, he figured that his father's parenting was divided between the schools of benign neglect and don't-be-such. As in,
Don't be such a wimp;
Don't be such a whiner;
and the classic ego-booster for an adolescent boy:
Don't be such a loser.

Traffic slowed near Key Largo as he passed a collection of trailer parks, bait shops, souvenir stands, and ticky-tack apartment buildings on stilts. South of Plantation Key, the land fell away in spectacular fashion, leaving nothing but the two-lane roadway, slender beaches, and a series of bridges. Zipping past utility poles topped by osprey nests, Steve inhaled the rich, earthy smells of low tide along with the exhaust from a Hummer hauling a power boat. To the left was the turquoise water of the Florida Straits, to the right, the placid Gulf of Mexico, patches of red coral visible just beneath the surface.

Along the bridges, fathers and sons fished from catwalks and brown pelicans dive-bombed the shallows. Rec vehicles were parked in the white sand, kids piling out, splashing through the shallow water, their dogs yapping after them.

Regular families.

Unlike his, Steve thought. His mother deceased, his father in exile, his sister a habitual criminal. And what about him?

Just who the hell was Steve Solomon, anyway?

Pulling into the beachfront parking lot of crushed shells, the Eldo stirred up puffs of limestone dust. Steve spotted his father's old Chrysler Imperial, a kayak tied to a roof rack, rust spots on the hood and trunk where salt water had dripped. In his forced retirement, Herbert had taken to paddling across Florida Bay, exploring the Everglades, and camping on uninhabited islands.

The Tortugas Tavern was not much more than an open tiki hut with a thatched roof and a four-sided bar with mounted stools. The temperature hovered around eighty, and the air smelled of salt mixed with tangy smoke from the open kitchen. As he approached, Steve caught sight of his father, perched on a bar stool, a martini glass in front of him. Tanned the color of a richly brewed tea, Herbert wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt from a Key West oyster stand with the logo “Eat 'Em Raw.” His long, shimmering white hair was combed straight back and curled up at the neck.

The image was jarringly at odds with what Steve remembered of his father, the neatly groomed downtown lawyer, and later the respected judge. Some of Steve's earliest memories were of his father's crinkly seersucker suits, a countrified Southern tradition. When Miami became more sophisticated, so did Herbert. As senior partner of his own law firm, he switched to Saville Row suits and advised younger lawyers to “think Yiddish, dress British.”

Moving closer, Steve heard his father's voice, carried on the easterly breeze. He seemed to be entertaining a fortyish female bartender.

“So ah'm presiding over this sexual harassment case, and this pretty little lady testifies that her boss browbeat her into putting out for him.” Herbert's voice was so musical you could dance to it. “Her lawyer asks her to tell the jury exactly what her boss said, but she cain't 'cause she's just too proper. Ah say, ‘Write it down, missy, and ah'll show it to the jury.' So she writes on a slip of paper—‘Ah want to fuck you so bad'—and ah give it to the jury. Jurors One and Two read it and pass it on, but Juror Three is sound asleep.”

“I think I see this coming,” the lady bartender said.

“Hang on, Ginger. Did ah mention that Juror Two is a cute gal and Juror Three is a middle-aged guy? Anyway, the gal elbows the guy, wakes him up, and hands him the note. He reads it, grins like he's won the lottery, winks at her, and tucks the note into his pocket.”

The bartender laughed. “I knew it!”

“Never happened,” Steve said, slipping onto the adjacent bar stool. A sailboard, dented with shark bites, was mounted on the back wall, and a paddle fan made lazy circles over their heads.

“Hey, son. It's the
emmis.
Every word.”

“A courthouse myth.”

“Dammit, ah was there.” He turned to the bartender. “Ginger, this is mah boy. Stephen, the smart-ass.”

Ginger had a pile of blond hair and wore white shorts with a floral top that was nothing more than a scarf tied behind her back. Her shoulders were slumped and her suntanned midriff was starting to sag. She had the tired look of a woman who'd spent too much time with too many wrong men and took too long to do something about it. “Getcha something, smart-ass?”

“Beer. Whatever's on tap.”

“Something to eat?”

“You have conch chowder?”

“Do gators shit in the swamp?”

“Bowl. A little sherry in it. Basket of crab fritters.”

“You got it.”

She left and the two men appraised each other. Herbert's still-handsome face was lined and flecked with age spots, but his eyes were clear, dark, and bright, the same eyes as his son. His deep tan made his smile seem almost too bright.

“How's Bobby?” Herbert said.

“Making progress. Fewer nightmares, fewer fits.”

“You give him a hug for me, tell him his Pop loves him.”

“Sure thing.” It was easier for his old man to send I-love-you messages by courier than deliver them personally, Steve figured. “He's at the Seaquarium today with Teresa and Marvin. They're crazy about him.”

“Nice people. Used to pass me notes on the bench, tell me who was lying.”

Steve already had taken Bobby to the Seaquarium five times in the last month. It would have been thirty times if the boy had his way. Whatever grabbed Bobby's attention quickly became an obsession, and currently he was fascinated with trained seals. Steve could picture him now, expertly mimicking the seals' mating calls, luring them off their platforms, wreaking havoc with the show.

“So what's up, Dad? What's the emergency?”

“In due time, son.” Herbert sipped at his martini, straight up. “You seeing anyone special?”

“You mean a woman?”

“No, a Saint Bernard. Of course a woman.”

“I don't have the time.”

“That it? Or you don't have anything to offer?”

Aw, jeez. Not this again, Steve thought. Ginger delivered his beer and a steaming bowl of chowder. “C'mon, Dad. Just tell me why you hauled me down here.”

“Women want a man of substance,” Herbert declared, not easing up.

“You mean money.”

“Status. Prestige. Money, too.”

“False gods, every one,” Steve said.

“What happened to that TV anchorwoman? Diane something-or-other.”

Steve took a long hit on his beer. “She dumped me for a partner at Morgan Lewis.”

Herbert nodded knowingly. “So now I can ask. Her boobs real?”

“As real as her smile.” Steve remembered the first time Diane came to his house. She took one look around and suggested he sell all his furnishings on eBay.

“And that card shark,” Herbert said. “What happened to her?”

“Sally Panther wasn't a card shark. She dealt Texas Hold 'Em at the Miccosukee casino.” Steve spooned the spicy chowder, thick with conch meat. “She found a high roller, moved to Palm Beach.”

“Uh-huh. See a pattern here?”

“Yeah. The women I meet are shallow.”

“They trade up, is all.”

Ginger slid a basket of crab fritters toward Steve. “You drag me down here just to bust my balls?”

“Enjoy your lunch first,” Herbert said.

“Enjoy” was not a word that Steve usually associated with his father's company. But he had no choice. Herbert Solomon always had to be in control. He would play his poker hand when he damn well felt like it. Steve vowed to get through the meal peacefully, even if it gave him heartburn.

“You hear anything from Janice?” Herbert asked.

“Not a word.” Steve chose not to mention the dirty green pickup truck. He thought he'd seen it again on South Dixie Highway, but he'd been looking through the rearview mirror, and it was impossible to tell. “Maybe she already left for her magical mystery tour.”

“Little Janice,” Herbert murmured, looking toward the water, where a gull was circling. “Ah remember putting the training wheels on her first bike. What the hell happened?”

“What happened was you didn't pay any attention to her after you put the wheels on.”

“You laying her shit on
me
?”

Steve dipped a fritter in the creamy lime sauce, popped it into his mouth. The smoky crabmeat had the bite of jalapeño peppers. “Doing drugs. Stealing stuff. Running with punks. It was all to get your attention.”

“And ah suppose you're screwed up because ah didn't come to your T-ball games.”

“I skipped T-ball, went straight to Little League. Those were the games you missed. Plus Sunday school basketball, Beach High track, and U of M baseball. You were late for my confirmation because you were giving a lecture to a lawyers' convention, and you missed high school graduation when you were in trial upstate.”

“Jesus. A junkie daughter and a grumble guts son. Maybe ah should get your DNA, see if you two got the milkman's genes instead of mine.”

“What gets me is that you're so smart about complex stuff and so dumb about simple stuff. Spending time with your kids is good for them. Ignoring them isn't.”

“Aw, don't be such a pantywaist.”

Pantywaist?
Now, there's one he hadn't heard in years. “Dammit, just tell me what I'm doing here or I'm getting back in the car and you can pick up the check.”

Herbert ignored him and signaled Ginger for a refill, but she was mixing drinks for a couple of sunburned Yuppies at the end of the bar.

“Dad, I mean it. What'd I do now?”

Steve dipped his spoon into the chowder. His father put a hand on his arm and spoke softly. “The way ah hear it, you split open a man's skull.”

The spoon stopped halfway to Steve's mouth.

“The night you grabbed Bobby,” Herbert continued.

“Who told you that?”

“Jack Zinkavich. He drove all the way to Sugarloaf. Which ah might add is more than mah own son will do.”

“You like the Fink so much, adopt him.”

“Too late. Abe and Elaine Zinkavich already did. Thirty-some years ago.”

“You mean somebody wanted the Fink?”

“Don't be such a shit. It's gonna come back to haunt you.”

“Okay, I apologize to the prick. Tell him the next time he comes for a visit.”

“Didn't ah teach you to always know your opponent? Know what they drink and who they screw, and sure as hell, where they came from. A man's past sticks to him like mud on cleated boots.”

“You oughta know. Now, why did Zinkavich come all the way—”

“What do you know about him, smart-ass?”

Steve guzzled his beer. He'd have to play by his father's rules, answer his questions, take his abuse. “The Fink's a lifer at Family Services. Typical civil service drone.”

“Nothing typical about him. If you'd done your homework, you'd know that. You'd know that as a little kid, he lived in a trailer park out on Tamiami Trail. His father was a mean drunk who abused his mother, took a leather strap to the boy. When Jack was seven or eight, he watched his father slit his mother's throat. She died in his arms.”