Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

“You're a godsend, Jackie. I'm starving.”

“I was in the neighborhood. Got the listing on a penthouse at the Santa Maria. Two million five.”

“Great.”

“Plus I'm showing a three-bedroom at Bristol Tower at noon and checking an open house at Espirito Santo at one. Ever notice that the way Bristol Tower tapers at the top, it looks like a forty-story penis?”

“No, but now that you mention it…”

“Circumcised, of course.” Jackie's laugh crackled like kindling on a fire. She looked around the apartment, which was unusually dark for a bayfront condo. “You ever think about updating this place?”

“I can't afford to update my manicure, and if I don't get my resumes out-”

“That's what we need to talk about. I've got some advice for you.”

Uh-oh, Victoria thought. Jackie Tuttle might be her best friend, but sometimes Victoria wondered what the two of them had in common. Jackie was uninhibited and bawdy and laughed loud and often. Victoria had never seen her depressed, not even when her slime of an ex-boyfriend, Carlos, wrecked her BMW convertible on the Don Shula Expressway while getting head from a Hooters girl he'd picked up at an airport bar.

“No problem,” Jackie had told Victoria. “I get a new car from the insurance. The cop who investigated the accident asked me out. And Carlos' reattachment surgery didn't take.”

That was Jackie, making a Prada purse out of a sow's ear.

She was five-foot-ten and had a wild mane of dyed red hair. She owned a collection of immense dangling earrings, some of which reached her shoulders and enough Blahnik, Choos, and Chanel shoes, boots, sandals, stilettos, flats, pumps, and Mary Janes to make Sarah Jessica Parker jealous.

Today she wore a leather mini with a cropped tank top and knee-high Stephanie Kelian boots in a soft, buttery suede. Most women Jackie's size would have shied away from such an outfit. Jackie didn't care. She was happily, gloriously plump, with natural breasts she called her “bazooms,” which jiggled when she laughed and popped out of her top when she water-skied. Just above her left breast was a small tattoo of Cupid, firing an arrow at whoever happened to be in close proximity.

Jackie was a real estate broker, specializing in what she called the “king-of-the-jungle market,” high-end, waterfront condos that appealed to rich, single men. The real estate license allowed her to run a credit check on any potential buyer or potential spouse in about thirty seconds. This was useful, given all the poseurs, phonies, and outright felons masquerading as legitimate candidates for matrimony. She told Victoria she'd never known how many deadbeats leased Porsches until she logged onto the credit databases. Jackie's own credit report would show that she made lots of money and spent even more.

Now, just what crazy advice did Jackie have?

“Don't send out your resume,” Jackie said, slurping her Frappuccino through the straw. “Go out on your own. Open your own shop.”

“And where do I get my clients?”

“Katrina Barksdale, for starters. She likes you.”

“She likes to play tennis with me. We've never even talked about law.”

Jackie tore off a chunk of carrot cake. “Look, if I killed my husband, should I ever be so lucky to have one, I'd hire you in a minute.”

“I'd have to rent an office, print stationery, hire a secretary.. ..”

“Whatev,” Jackie said. “How much do you have in the bank?”

“In round numbers?”

“Yeah.

“Overdrawn.”

“I could lend you some money.”

“You? You have money?”

Jackie licked icing from her upper lip. “If I sell all my Jimmy Choos on eBay.” She laughed, and then, as great friends sometimes do, she seemed to read Victoria's mind. “You could always work for Bruce.”

“I've thought about it.”

“But…?”

“Wouldn't that be cowardly? I get smacked around in court, so I hide in a back office?”

“C'mon, Vic. You don't have to prove anything. You're marrying Mr. Perfect. Let him pay the freight.”

Sure, it would be so easy, Victoria thought. Take the pressure off, slide papers from the in-box to the out-box. What's the most stress she'd face?

“There's a problem, Ms. Lord. That signature from the bank isn't notarized.”

Maybe she should just say yes. Who could blame her?

But she said: “Can't do it.”

“Okay, but if I were marrying a guy like Bruce, I'd never work another day in my life. 'Course, you don't know what it's like in the husband hunt these days.”

“You'll find someone.”

“Easy for you to say. You've bagged your big game. Nothing out there but Peter Pans, commitment phobes, momma's boys, and brats. Sometimes all in the same package.”

“Just take your time,” Victoria said.

“Did I mention guys who don't know they're gay?”

“Is that possible?”

“Or guys who expect blow jobs if they splurge for stone crabs?”

“No way.”

“It's true. Right after the key lime pie.”

“I'm lucky to have Bruce,” Victoria said. “I know that.”

“Lucky? I'm so jealous, my contacts are turning green.”

Relationships were based on good fortune-or bad-Victoria thought. What were the odds she'd be reaching toward a high shelf for Lisa Scottoline's latest courtroom novel just as a tall, blond man walked by? Bruce had plucked Killer Smile from the shelf, insisted on paying for it, and invited her for coffee. Books amp; Books, she now figured, was a better place to meet a guy than a South Beach club.

Jackie was right. Bruce was a prize. Handsome and stable, kind and giving. And literate, even if his reading habits gravitated toward Saving Taxes Through Offshore Trusts.

“I'll bet you don't even have a punch list for Bruce,” Jackie said.

“What do you mean?”

“Change orders. Every guy I meet, I write down all the changes he needs to make to meet Minimum Husband Standards. Say a guy's favorite music is the theme from Monday Night Football.”

“You're making this up.”

“Last Friday. Blind date at the Blue Door. It's gotten so bad I'm gonna stay home and pet the kitty.”

“I give it a week.”

“I mean it, Vic. No more dating. Just me and my…” She made a buzzing sound. “Leetle friend.”

Again, the doorbell rang, and Victoria headed for the foyer. “Maybe that's George Clooney.”

This time, it was a deliveryman bearing gifts: a tropical bouquet, a bottle of Cristal, and a mystery box wrapped in silver foil. Victoria carried the goodies back to the dining table.

“Bruce is the most thoughtful man in the world,” Jackie said.

“True,” Victoria said, fishing the plastic spear out of the flowers and examining the envelope. “But it's not from him.”

“Who, then? Open, open!”

Victoria tore open the envelope, pulled out the card. “The most irritating man in the world.”

“Solomon? That defense lawyer?”

“He's been leaving messages, asking me out to lunch. He says he's going to help me find a job, but what he really wants is for me to get him the Barksdale case.”

“All the more reason to get it for yourself.”

Could she do it? Victoria wondered. Grab the phone and solicit the case? It would be so unlike her…

“So what's in the box?” Jackie demanded.

Victoria removed the foil, opened the box, and pulled out a single Gucci snakeskin pump. “My left shoe,” she said.

“If the right one's under that bad boy's bed, I'm gonna tell Bruce.”

“I left the shoes in court. Solomon won't give me the other one unless I return his calls.”

“Does he have a foot fetish?” Jackie examined the two-and-a-half-inch heel with a critical eye. “And more important, is he cute?”