Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

“He sent investigators to the house at night. Scared the shit out of Bobby.”

“And you told him Family Services was run by incompetent fools who should go to prison.”

“Didn't you read about them losing a little girl in the system?”

“So write an op-ed piece, but stop sticking your thumb in Jack's eye.”

“Look, I'm sorry about what happened to him, but he's still an asshole.”

“Ah'm sure he can be a bigger shit than a ton of manure, especially when provoked by the likes of you.”

“Didn't you ever run up against someone who hates you right off the bat?”

“Not as much as you seem to, smart-ass. But you're missing the point. Family Services isn't just Zinkavich's employer. It's his family. It's his home. And you've crapped all over his front stoop. Now he's coming after you with everything he's got.”

“So what's he got?” Steve asked.

“He's looking for the guy you clobbered the night you grabbed Bobby.”

Steve felt his stomach tighten. The shepherd in the shed, the guy who smelled like a wet dog. Steve believed he had lawfully used self-defense when he hit the guy with the staff. The guy had a knife, right? But you can only fight back with reasonably necessary force. Had he? That's what they call a jury question, and Steve didn't want to hear a judge asking if the jury had reached a verdict.

“I assume you told Zinkavich you didn't know anything.”

“Ah told him he could kiss mah kosher butt.”

Steve thought about it a moment. “I don't get it. Why would the Fink think you'd rat me out?”

“Excellent question.” Herbert waved at the bartender, who was working on a tray of colorful drinks. “Ginger, what the hell's that disgusting thing that looks like toilet bowl cleaner?”

“Apple martini, Herb.” She dropped a slice of a Granny Smith into the green drink.

“Apple martini, now there's an oxymoron. Gin plus vermouth equals martini. An olive's okay. Onion's okay. Fruit is not okay.”

“Dad…”

“A martini should taste like liquid steel.”

“Dad, why did Zinkavich-”

“And what's that red one?” Herbert gestured at her tray.

“Sea breeze. Vodka, cranberry juice, and grapefruit juice.” She pointed to the other drinks. “This one's a sex on the beach, and the tall one, that's a Long Island iced tea. Vodka, gin, rum, tequila, cointreau, and Coke.”

Herbert made a face. “That's not a drink, it's a frat party. When the circus is over, can you fix me another martini?”

“Why'd Zinkavich think you'd help him?” Steve persisted.

“He said if ah cooperate, he'd put in a good word in Tallahassee, maybe get me reinstated with the Bar.”

“Lousy deal. Hold out for the governorship.”

“So ah figure ah'm not the only member of our mishpoche that Zinkavich is talking to,” Herbert said.

“Meaning?”

Ginger delivered the martini, and Herbert nodded his thanks. “Think about it. Who gave Janice a get-out-of-jail-free card? And why?”

“You're saying my worthless sister's helping Zinkavich nail me.”

“Ah'm saying it's possible.”

Teresa Torano had been right. From the Panhandle to the Keys, Zinkavich was covering a helluva lot of ground. And why?

To bury me. All I want is to raise Bobby, and the state unleashes this vengeful fuck on me.

“This much ah know for sure.” Herbert twirled the martini glass by the stem. “Zinkavich wants to squash you like a palmetto bug. He was tossing around words like ‘aggravated assault' and ‘attempted murder.'”

The tightness in Steve's stomach had become a thudding pain. So many questions, so many fears. How much did they have on him? Had Janice led Zinkavich to the guy in the shed? Would there be a knock on his door, cops dragging him away, social workers grabbing Bobby?

“Let me in, son,” Herbert said.

“In where?”

“Your life.” Herbert drained the martini. One long, silvery river of liquid steel, just as he liked it. “Ah'm still your father, and ah want to help.”

So that's what this was all about, Steve thought. Some buried paternal instincts had been unearthed like fossils after a flood. Maybe some guilt, too. Is this what happened to inattentive fathers as they aged? For a moment, Steve felt sorry for his old man. At forty, he'd been one of the leaders of his profession. And at sixty? Widowed, disgraced, living alone. Two grown kids, both alienated in varying degrees.

Were his own troubles a boon to his father, a way to reconnect? The thought angered him. What did his old man expect him to do? Pull up a chair, pour some bourbon, and ask for advice? The lyrics of Warren Zevon's “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” floated into his head: “Dad, get me out of this.”

But that had never been their relationship, and it wasn't going to start now. Too much emotional overload. His father helping now would only stir up old resentments by reminding Steve of his earlier absence.

“I appreciate the gesture, Dad, but it's a little late to start tossing the ball in the backyard.”

“Ah know ah wasn't always there for you. But anybody wants to do you harm, they're gonna have to deal with me.”

Herbert blinked, his eyes watery. From the gin or something deeper, Steve didn't know.

What more could go wrong? Victoria wondered.

In one lousy day, she'd been jailed, fired, shit on… and she'd lost her shoes.

Now, two days later, the dry cleaner said it would take a nuclear weapon to purge the bird poop from her Ralph Lauren tweed; she couldn't get her resumes to print out; and that lunatic Solomon was holding her snakeskin Gucci pumps for ransom. Not only that, she was irritated with Bruce.

He could have been more supportive.

He could have said: “You're a terrific lawyer with awesome talents. You'll overcome this.”

But he didn't say that.

Or he could have said: “Pincher's a jerk, and someday you'll go into court and kick his butt. Solomon's, too.”

But he didn't say that, either.

Bruce, her betrothed, had said: “Maybe getting sacked is for the best. Now you can come to BRV with a clear head, make a fresh start.”

BRV being Bigby Resort amp; Villas. Drafting real estate documents. Deeds and mortgages, liens and affidavits. Yawn, yawn, yawn… and yuck.

He just didn't get it, she thought. But how could he? His father bequeathed him thousands of acres and several thriving businesses. Bruce didn't know what it was like to stand alone in the Colosseum, surrounded by lions, armed only with your wits.

She was thinking all this while staring into the open maw of her printer, which had been chewing up copies of her resume and spitting out confetti. Wearing an old pair of corduroy jeans with one of Bruce's Oxford-cloth blue shirts, she sat at her desk in the spare-bedroom-turned-study of her condo. She closed the lid of the printer and hit the RESET button.

Nothing but a message: Error 31, whatever the hell that meant.

She looked out the window at cars crossing the Rickenbacker Causeway, headed for the beaches of Key Biscayne. Across the bay, she could see a dozen white sails, a boat race forming up. She pictured the people on board, enjoying the breeze, the sunshine, the company. Enjoying life, while she sat here, cursing her computer, mourning her shattered career.

If she went to work for Bruce, wouldn't it all be so much easier? She'd have time to sail and learn French cooking and play tennis at the club… like Katrina Barksdale. Maybe she should call Katrina, ask if she'd found a lawyer, offer her services. No, that would be unseemly, like inviting yourself to a party.

Her mind drifted back to the previous evening. Bruce wasn't being mean. He was just trying to cheer her up. First, his personal chef had cooked another of those tasteless vegan meals, some greens sizzling in a wok with tofu the consistency of snot. She longed for filet mignon, rare, pommes frites… and another chance in the courtroom.