Paul Levine - Solomon and Lord Drop Anchor

“No! You had the power as a seventeen-year-old but didn’t know it. All I did was mark the trail for you. You climbed it all by yourself.” He studied her for a moment, and she averted her eyes, her shyness a childhood trait. He smiled. “Anyway, don’t worry. The judge will take one look at you and want to adopt you.”

“Max, he’s your age.”

“Even better… he’ll want to screw you.” He laughed again, his mood softening, maybe pleased she was confiding her fears. She so seldom showed any insecurity.

“Stop worrying,” he said. “You’re going to get the job. You’re going to be the sexiest smartest law clerk in the history of the Supreme Court.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“You’re being interviewed by a man, and deep inside, we’re all alike.”

No, Max, you’re not. You and Tony were not alike. And I doubt you and Sam Truitt share much in common despite the same configuration of x and y chromosomes.

She’d never told Max that she’d become Tony Kingston’s lover after their break-up her first year in law school. As far as Max knew, Tony was just the navy pilot she’d introduced him to, the hometown hero she said would be a great addition to the Atlantica fleet. Well, she was right, wasn’t she?

“It’s different on the Supreme Court,” Lisa said. “You know what they taught us first year in law school?”

“Probably how to overcharge your clients.”

“ Jus est ars boni et aequi. Law is the art of the good and the just.”

“And the meek shall inherit the earth,” Max responded in the sarcastic tone she knew so well. He walked to the window and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “If the law worked so damn well, O.J. would have sucked gas, Klaus von Bulow would have been stuck full of needles, and”-he paused a moment, as if not sure whether to continue-“and your father would have been hung by his testicles.”

She turned around in his arms to face him. “And the victims of Flight six-forty would have hit Atlantica for several hundred million in verdicts,” she added.

“Sort of proves my point, doesn’t it?”

It did, but his cynicism irritated her. If Max were right, then why had she just spent three years studying law and another year clerking for a federal judge? Just to be another manipulator of the system? But even if he were wrong, how could she turn him down? Max had never denied her anything. He had supported her, nurtured her, helped her grow into an adult. In return, she had been his lover for most of the past decade. He’d been understanding when she left him during law school and comforting when she’d come back after Tony’s death. And now, for the first time, he wanted something more, something that collided head-on with everything she had learned the past four years.

“If justice is such a rare commodity,” she said, “maybe I should work for it. Maybe I should help put criminals in jail or defend the wrongfully accused.”

“You’re too smart for that. That’s sucker talk. I don’t see you in the Justice Department or in some public defender’s office with a metal desk and stale coffee.”

“I remember the first time you told me how smart I was,” she said. “It was endearing then. Now, it sounds like an insult.”

“There’s smart,” he said, “like book learning, which can open some doors but otherwise doesn’t mean shit, and then there’s streetsmart, which you can’t buy with a degree. You got both, which knocks my socks off.”

No one had ever expressed admiration for her intelligence before Max came along. Not her teachers, not her mother, not her father. Especially not her father, whose praise was limited to her physical assets.

Max had told her she could be anything she wanted, and she believed him. He gave her confidence and a chance at a new life. Now that she had that life, she didn’t want to risk losing it.

“Do you remember when you told me I was smarter than you?” she asked.

“Sure. It was the night we met.”

Max Wanaker walked into the Tiki Club and sat down on a bar stool in front of the stage. It had a rusty brass go-go pole, chains hanging from the ceiling, a scratchy sound system, and a number of missing bulbs in the multicolored lighting system. In the back was a darkened lap-dancing lounge with black satin couches. The place smelled like a mixture of stale beer and cheap perfume, moist mildew and industrial strength cleaner.

A connoisseur of strip joints, Max preferred the sophisticated atmosphere of Ten’s in Manhattan, where fifty-five exotic dancers stroll onto the stage in full-length sequined gowns, strobe lights blasting, smoke machine billowing. Tonight, he was slumming. Mainly because he had been bored, he told the limo driver to stop when he saw the flashing neon sign, LIVE GIRLS.

As opposed to what? DEAD GIRLS?

The sign, as effective as the Sirens’ songs that lured sailors onto the rocks, brought Max into the club. Now he approached the small stage, scanning the room. The strippers all looked as if they’d been ridden hard-the meaty redhead slouching on stage, out of step with Aerosmith, already down to her ratty gold panties, oversize tits barely bouncing, the two in lingerie at the bar, cadging drinks-all of them with big hair, six-inch nails, and siliconed melon breasts. He had one watery Scotch and was ready to leave when Lisa came on the stage to the music of Billy Joel.

Jesus, she’s just a kid.

She looked like a cheerleader. Small breasts, sleek reddish blonde hair, clear blue eyes, long legs, a full mouth, little makeup other than painted-on whiskers, something he didn’t get until he realized she was wearing a tight leopard skin dress with little leopard ears. She seemed embarrassed, and he was enchanted.

She could dance. She moved smoothly to the music, closing her eyes, which he knew was a no-no. It occurred to Max that he knew more about her business than she did.

You’re supposed to make eye contact, baby. You’re supposed to make every guy in the joint feel like you’ve got the hots just for him.

She was so young and so obviously new at this that Max felt a stirring. Not just to bag her. Hell, he’d bedded down half his company’s secretaries, more than a few strippers, plus his daughter’s fourth-grade teacher. This one was different. She looked like she didn’t belong here.

What’s a nice girl like you…

The old male rescue fantasy took hold even before he talked to her. What he could do for her!

And vice versa.

The leopard dress was off now, and she was holding on to the brass pole, each leg astride it, grinding her hips in time with the music, humping that lucky pole, her firm ass moving rhythmically in time with his pulse. Her eyes wide open now, she looked at Max and seemed to blush.

Now there’s a first.

Then she smiled shyly at him, swung away from the pole, and drifted up to the edge of the stage. He slipped a twenty-dollar bill into her garter where it joined a number of singles. The garter was all she wore, other than the high-heeled shoes. Her strawberry nipples were erect, her mouth set in an innocent, yet seductive smile. She never said a word. She just turned around and bent over, putting her hands on her knees and arching her back. She wiggled her ass clockwise, as if on coasters, stopped and wiggled counterclockwise. With impressive muscle control, her buttocks quivered in time with the music, and he felt the contractions in his own loins.

Later, when her set was done, back in her slinky leopard dress and little leopard ears, Lisa wobbled up to him on six-inch heels and inquired with her whiskered smile and cat eyes if he’d like to buy her a drink.

“What’s your name?” he had asked, “Jellylorum or Mistoffelees,” for he had just taken his wife to see the musical Cats in London.