"Carl's family came over on the Mayflower. Personally, I never cared for cruises, though the S.S. France had foie gras to die for. Which reminds me. Are we going to the club for my birthday?"
"It's up to Steve, Mother. He's picking up the check."
"If he mentions that chili dog place on the causeway, tell him to forget it."
"Will you be bringing the fantastic golfer?"
"Of course. It will be the perfect time for our announcement."
"What!"
"Don't furrow your brow, dear. Little lines today, deep ditches tomorrow. And don't worry. Carl and I are not getting married." She smiled mischievously. "Yet."
"I had no idea the two of you were so serious."
"Because you don't listen to your mother. All wrapped up in your own problems. My life drifts along, unnoticed and unadorned."
"Hardly, Mother. Don't project your personality onto me."
"Nonsense. You're my only child, Victoria. My entire life."
There was no way to win the argument, Victoria knew.
"As for Carl," Irene continued, "I haven't been drawn to any man this way since your father died. We fit together so perfectly. He has such a-je ne sais quoi-I find almost indescribable."
Something felt out of kilter, Victoria thought. The Queen made men swoon, not the other way around. "So what exactly is the big announcement?"
"Sur-prise," Irene sang out. "You'll have to wait. But I'll say this. I haven't been this happy in years. Just look at me. Am I glowing?"
"Your crotch certainly is, Mother."
Well, that was useful, Victoria thought ruefully as she crossed the Broad Causeway on her way back to the mainland. Indian Creek Country Club was to her left across a narrow channel. She had played tennis there as a child, had consumed gallons of root beer floats in the clubhouse restaurant, had learned to sail in the calm waters of the bay. She hadn't envisioned an adulthood filled with complications, both professional and personal. When her father was still alive, when her mother seemed to care for more than just herself, the future promised rewards that thus far eluded her.
I have to make decisions. About Steve. About me. About life.
Ten minutes later, she was on Biscayne Boulevard, stopped at a police barricade. A parade passed by. A steel band from one of the islands. Marchers carrying signs that either celebrated some holiday or protested conditions in their native land. From five cars back in line, she couldn't tell which.
She decided to go with her gut. Wasn't that what Steve always taught her?
"Throw away the books, Vic. Go with your gut."
Okay, so he'd been talking about jury selection, but didn't the advice apply to mate selection, too?
Her gut told her she loved Steve. But did that mean they should live together? Then there was Bobby to think about. Bobby kept talking about "family," and she was included. The boy'd had so many disappointments. She didn't want to add to them.
So, as the parade passed and the police barricade gave way, Victoria hit the gas. She decided to plunge ahead. Her gut was telling her to move in with Steve, to give the relationship every chance, to see if they would have a je ne sais quoi that would be almost indescribable.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
4. If you're going to all the trouble to make a fool of yourself, be sure to have plenty of witnesses.
Nine
"You gotta look out for numero uno. You gotta do what gives you pleasure, not what others want you to do. Hedonism is good. Selfishness is good. Greed is good. No, I take that back. Greed is great!"
The voice was deep, rhythmic, and spellbinding. Wearing a headset and a beige silk guayabera, Dr. Bill Kreeger crooned into a ceiling-mounted microphone. Steve stood in the control room, looking over the shoulder of the board operator, watching through the window. So far, Kreeger, his mouth close enough to the microphone to kiss the cold metal, hadn't seen him. Steve had come here to deliver the message that would get Kreeger off his back.
"Self-interest is the highest morality," Kreeger prattled on, "and selflessness is the deepest immorality. You can't make another person happy, so don't even try. Give a hundred bucks to a charity at Thanksgiving, they'll hit you for two hundred at Christmas. Bake a tuna casserole for the neighborhood shut-in, next week she'll expect filet mignon. The people you sacrifice for won't appreciate it, so forget them. Wait, you say. That's cruel, Dr. Bill. Wrong!
Don't be a sucker. The moral life is one of self-interest. If everyone pursued his or her own happiness, there wouldn't be a bunch of losers who always need help. And what a beau-ti-ful world it would be."
Putting a tune to it. Then laughing, a deep rumble. Kreeger had gone a little gray around the temples since Steve had seen him last. But he looked remarkably healthy and fit. Wavy hair combed straight back revealed a widow's peak. A firm jawline that never even sagged when he looked down at his notes. No more than five-nine, he had a square, blocky build and seemed to have put meat on his chest and shoulders. Prison weight lifting, maybe.
"After a short break," Kreeger said into the microphone, "my seven tips for living the life of self-fulfillment. Tip number one. The word 'invincible' starts with 'I.' And I'll be right back."
Kreeger hoisted his coffee cup and turned toward the window. He spotted Steve on the other side of the glass and smiled broadly. For an instant, the smile seemed genuine, a look of pleasant surprise at seeing an old friend. Then the corners of his mouth dropped a bit, as if Kreeger just remembered the old friend owed him money. A second after that, the smile turned chilly, a frozen mask.
"To what do I owe this honor?" Kreeger asked, waving Steve into the seat next to him.
"I came here to tell you just one thing: I'm not scared of you."
"Why would you be?"
"If you come after me, I'll land on you like a ton of concrete."
"That's two things, actually. You're not scared and you're a ton of concrete."
"I'm not some stoned woman in a hot tub."
"Not sure I know where you're going with that, Counselor. Are you saying you'd like to be a stoned woman in a hot tub? Some gender confusion issues?"
"What I'm saying, Kreeger, is I can handle myself."
"Interesting choice of words. 'Handle myself.' Did you masturbate excessively as a child? Or do you now?"
"Fuck you, Kreeger."
A mechanical beep came from the speaker mounted on the wall.
"Whoa, Nellie," Kreeger laughed. "Good thing we're on a seven-second delay."
Confused, Steve looked toward the control room. A red light illuminated the words: "On Air."
Oh, shit. Is this going out on the airwaves?
Kreeger leaned close to the microphone. "You're listening to Dr. Bill on WPYG, broadcasting live from South Miami, with our special guest, Steve-the-Shyster Solomon. Phone lines are open from Palm Beach to the Keys, from Marco Island to Bimini."
Steve was halfway out of his seat when Kreeger punched a flashing button on his telephone. "Jerry in Pinecrest, you're on the air."
"Gotta question for the lawyer."
"Shoot, Jerry," Kreeger said. "But don't make it too tough. It took Solomon four times to pass the bar exam."
"Three," Steve corrected him.
"What's the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?" Jerry asked.
"Aw, c'mon," Steve said.
"One is a scum-sucking bottom feeder," Jerry answered. "The other is a fish."