Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

“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 jalapeno 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.”

“Jesus. I didn't know.”

“Jack goes to a state shelter for a year. A shelter run by Family Services. He bounced around in foster homes for a while, but it was hard as hell to place him. Too old, too angry, and not exactly a cute little teddy bear. But this social worker at Family Services wouldn't give up. You see where I'm heading?”

“I'm not sure.”

“The social worker found Abe and Elaine. Now, what do you suppose Abe Zinkavich did for a living?”

“How should I know?”

“Juvie Court judge up in Lauderdale. That's how the social worker knew him. Abe provided a good education, taught the boy the importance of protecting children. Not that Jack needed much instruction. So the guy you call a drone is anything but. Jack's a crusader, a true believer, a zealot who hates violence. And you're the guy who kidnapped your nephew and nearly killed a man doing it.”

“It was self-defense.”

“So you say. What about choking Zinkavich in the courthouse?”

“I was straightening his tie and got carried away.”

“You called him a Nazi storm trooper, for chrissakes.”