"What?"
"You heard me. You can walk home."
"You nuts? We're ten miles from the Grove."
"Tough titties. You show me no respect, get the hell out."
Steve looked around. Six lanes of traffic. A nudie bar and a hubcap store on one side of the street, a strip mall with a palm reader, a video rental store, and a U-Wash-Doggie on the other. Trendy South Beach, it wasn't.
He opened the door, then turned back toward his father. "I'm gonna find out what you did."
"What for? What the hell for?"
Steve didn't say it. Couldn't say it aloud. But he thought it just the same.
To prove to you that I can.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
9. The people we've known the longest are often the people we know the least.
Thirty-four
At the wheel of his new car, Steve raced Lexy and Rexy along Ocean Drive. He drove the egg-shaped Smart- larger than an iPod, smaller than an offensive lineman's butt-as the twins Rollerbladed. An unfair race. Lexy and Rexy were ahead by two limo lengths.
It was the morning after Steve had thumbed a ride home, helped by an amiable but odoriferous septic tank truck driver. Now, headed to the office, Steve put the pedal to the metal-or was it plastic? — and the little German car pulled even with the long-legged Rollerbladers.
He got to the Les Mannequins building first, thanks to a Miami Beach bicycle cop, a lifeguard type in cargo shorts and epaulet shirt, who pulled over the twins. The official charge was reckless skating, but the cop obviously wanted to meet the leggy speeders, who wore cutoffs with bikini tops.
Steve wheeled the Smart to a stop, perpendicular to the curb, where it fit into a parking space without sticking out into traffic. The two-seater was on loan from Pepe Fernandez, a client whose primary occupation was stealing cargo containers of frozen shrimp from the Port of Miami. The enterprise lost money because Fernandez seldom could sell the booty before it melted into a disgusting crustacean slime. Lately, Fernandez and two buddies had begun boosting imported cars by physically picking them up from the dock and tossing them into waiting trailer trucks. This naturally limited the size of vehicle they could steal and resulted in their inventory of Smarts, cars that made Mini Coopers look like Mack trucks. Ordinarily, Steve would have felt guilty driving a stolen car, but the Smart got approximately five times the mileage of his old Eldo, so he rationalized his actions as good for the environment.
Moments later, he was at his second-floor office overlooking the Dumpster. He'd been planning on putting a plaque on the door:
SOLOMON AND LORD
ATTORNEYS AT LAW
But he'd never gotten around to it. Now it was too late.
"You got checks to sign," Cece Santiago announced as Steve came in the door.
Cece was in her customary position, grinding out bench presses in front of the desk she seldom used. Wearing her uniform, Lycra shorts and a muscle tee, with the requisite three studs through one eyebrow.
"What checks?" Steve asked.
"Court reporter. Credit cards. My salary."
"Didn't I just pay you?"
She eased the bar into the brackets and sat up. "Two months ago. For services two months before that. You owe me like a gazillion dollars."
"You get me an appointment with Reginald Jones?"
"No can do. His assistant says he's in conference all day."
"What about tomorrow?"
"County Commission meeting."
"Thursday, then?"
"Public hearings on a new courthouse in Sweet-water."
"He's scared."
"He's busy." Cece lay back on the bench and began her stomach crunches.
"They're in it together. My father. Pinky. Reggie."
"In what, jefe?"
"I don't know. Something bad."
"Malo? Not your father."
"I wouldn't have thought so. But I'm starting to think that our parents-the people we've known the longest-are the people we know the least, Cece."
"When that stinky old car of yours went off the bridge, just how hard did you hit your head?"
"Don't you start with me."
"You want to lose your papi, too?"
"What do you mean, 'too'?"
"Victoria. Chasing her away. Stupid. Muy stupido, jefe."
That afternoon, Steve sat in the chief clerk's waiting room, reading a stimulating article, "Managing Cubicle Space in the 21st Century Office," in a magazine called Municipal Administrator. The walls were covered with plaques from the Rotary and the Kiwanis and photos of a beaming Reginald Jones with numerous politicos, all wearing their pasted-on, ribbon-cutting, power-brokering smiles. Governor Jeb Bush here, Senator Connie Mack there. Local movers-and-shakers, too. Jones was an African-American man who seemed fond of Italian suits and silk jacquard ties, with kerchiefs in his coat pocket that matched his shirts. The word "dapper" came to mind.
Jones had manned the clerk's desk in Judge Solomon's courtroom all those years ago. Pinky Luber had captained the prosecution table, long before he became a fixer and a perjurious witness. Now Herbert Solomon was covertly calling Jones and mad as hell about Steve finding out about it. Just what was going on with these three, the Bermuda Triangle of the courthouse?
Steve had already downed two cups of motor oil from the coffee machine in the corridor. He'd checked his cell phone for messages from Victoria. Nada. He was camped out with no appointment, but he'd been rehearsing what he would say to Reginald Jones, should he ever get the honor of seeing him. Steve might start off with the bluff:
"I know all about you and Pinky and my old man."
Or maybe the good son approach:
"You can trust me, Reggie. I'm just trying to help out my dad."
Or even a threat:
"You wanna talk to me or the Grand Jury?"
But so far, there'd been no chance to talk to anyone. Mr. Jones was in conference, according to the receptionist charged with keeping vagrants, terrorists, and wayward lawyers out of the chief clerk's inner sanctum.
After what seemed like long enough for most statutes of limitations to expire, an attractive woman in a beige business suit appeared and asked Steve to follow her. They were buzzed into a corridor teeming with deputy clerks parked in front of computers, doing whatever it is that runs the local justice system. At the end of the corridor, the woman dropped him off at a corner conference room with an easterly view. Walking in, Steve could see Biscayne Bay, with Fisher Island and Miami Beach in the background. He could also see two turkey buzzards. One buzzard was perched on the railing outside the window, one was inside, sitting at the conference table. The one inside had a round pink face, a shiny pink head, and a diamond pinky ring.
"Pinky, what the hell you doing here?"
"Same thing I've done for years," Luber said. "Helping my friends."
Outside the window, the buzzard flapped its wings and took off. Steve took a seat. "Where's Reggie Jones?"
"Forget him. He's got nothing for you. But I do." Pinky leaned across the table. "I got a name. Conchy Conklin."
"Who's he?"
"Conklin was in Alabama Jack's the other night, drinking his ass off, throwing hundred-dollar bills around."
"So what?"
"Did I mention he was bowlegged from riding a red Harley he'd parked outside?"
"Keep talking."
"He's flapping his gums about the easiest ten grand he ever made. Messing up some guy in an old Caddy."