Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

It sounded as if forgiveness was forthcoming, so Steve relaxed a bit.

“So if we're on for the weekend, ah'll gas up the boat,” Herbert said.

“We're on. Thanks, Dad. For everything.”

“You don't know the half of it.”

“What's that mean?”

“Where's mah hundred thousand?”

A Saab convertible with its radio blaring salsa passed the Caddy, and Steve wasn't sure he'd heard his father correctly. “What'd you say, Dad?”

“When Marvin paid me a visit, ah was steamed. Hurt, too. Mah own son wouldn't ask me for help.”

What the hell? He'd heard right, after all. He just couldn't believe it. “It wasn't Teresa's money?”

“Sweet lady, but she was mah courier, that's all. Ah cashed in mah pension. It's what a man does for his son.”

Steve was so astonished he nearly rear-ended an SUV hauling a little runabout on a rickety trailer.

“You still there, son?”

“You gave me all that money without even knowing what it was for?”

“Ah didn't know then. But your sister paid me a visit on her way out of town. Now ah know.”

Steve felt a wave of heat roll over him. So this is what shame feels like.

“Ah was surprised,” Herbert continued.

“I don't know what to say, Dad.”

“It was generous of you, son.”

“Generous?”

“Paying for Janice's drug rehab like that. A damn fancy place, too.”

Drug rehab? Is that what Janice told him the hundred K was for? Or is he just making this easier for me?

“You did the right thing, Stephen. You took care of family. Your sister and your nephew.”

Steve couldn't be sure, but he sensed his father knew the truth. What a strange way for the two of them to come together, enmeshed in a family conspiracy. “We gonna catch some fish this weekend, Dad?”

Herbert laughed. “You bring the beer, I'll bring the bait.”

Steve slowed the Caddy as a giant Hummer pulled in front of him from the adjacent lane. They were five minutes from the office. The radio was tuned to a sports talk station, a caller complaining that the Dolphin Dolls didn't shake their booties the way the Cowboys' cheerleaders did. Bobby was on his second pastelito and had just popped the top on a Jupina pineapple soda. Sugar overload any second.

“Will Victoria still come over to the house?” Bobby said. “You know, after…”

“Doubt it, kiddo. Married women hang out with their husbands, at least for a year or so.”

Bobby seemed dejected. Which made two of them.

After a moment, Bobby said: “I could light a stink bomb in the church.”

There'd been a message on the phone yesterday. Bigby calling to remind him of the rehearsal next Friday. The groom's cheery voice depressed Solomon even more. Why had he agreed to be an usher? He could already hear the comments, could anticipate the torturous death by a thousand compliments.

“Don't they make a lovely couple?”

“She's found herself a real catch.”

“Steve, make a toast to the bride and groom.”

He'd never get through the reception and dinner. By the time they served avocado vichyssoise, he'd feel like someone was scooping out his vital organs with a soup spoon.

“Turn it up!” Bobby yelled, reaching for the radio.

“What?”

“Hammering Hank's sports quiz.”

Their hands both hit the volume at the same time, boosting Hammering Hank Goldberg's bellow into the red zone:

“Next. Bernie in Surfside. Do you know your U of M sports?”

“Yeah, Hank. Shoot.”

“Didja hear about that murder trial, the rich babe from Gables Estates?”

“I seen it on TV.”

“Defense lawyer's a nobody named Steve Solomon. For a lechon asado dinner at La Hacienda, what infamous sporting event was Solomon involved in at U of M?”

“Oh, shit,” Steve said.

“Shh,” Bobby said.

“Uh, was he the guy called for pass interference in the end zone against Ohio State?”

“Wake up, Bernie! How many Jewish cornerbacks you know?”

“Wait a second. Was he that kid got picked off in the College World Series? Last Out Solomon?”

“Bernie wins dinner! You eat pork, Bernie?”

“Gives me gas, but I eat it.”

“Bottom of the ninth, the 'Canes trailing Texas by a run. Two out, Steve Solomon gets picked off third! What a dipstick!”

“At least he won the murder trial, Hank.”

“Wrong, Bernie. This Solomon couldn't find his butt with both hands. The prosecutor solved the case, dismissed the charges. What a loser, that lawyer.”

Steve punched a button, picked up the reggae station where Bob Marley was singing “No Woman, No Cry.”

“I don't know why, kiddo,” Steve said, “but I have a feeling this is gonna be a really bizarre day.”

Steve and Bobby had gotten two steps inside the front door of Les Mannequins when the first wave of infantry attacked.

“Steve, I need you!” Lexy shouted. Her long blond hair, usually ironing-board flat, was poufed up today. She wore hot pink Lycra short shorts with a white shell top.

“Look at me,” she commanded, extending a long, bare arm. Her wrist was wrapped in a leather brace.

“I don't do Rollerblade accidents,” Steve said, without stopping. If he lingered, he'd pick up half-a-dozen freebie clients before he reached the stairs.

“It's a workers' comp claim,” Lexy declared.

“You have a job?” Moving past the front desk now. One stumble, he'd be a wildebeest set upon by lions.

“Part-time. At 1-800-BLOWJOB.”

“You're a phone-sex operator?”

The stairs were in sight. A haven as inviting as Key West to Cuban rafters.

“Easy money,” Lexy said. “All I do is masturbate.”

“Masturbation,” Bobby said. “ANATOMIST RUB.”

“But if you diddle a dozen times a day, five days a week, you end up with carpal tunnel.” Lexy held up the wrist support for show-and-tell.

Steve violated his own rules and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “You really do it? I thought the oohing and aahing was fake.”

“Say, you're not Steve the Stud who calls at three A.M., are you?”

Before Steve could answer, Lexy's twin, Rexy, stepped out of a dressing room in her skyscraper Jimmy Choos. She wore identical short shorts and her hair was piled into an identical pouf. “Steve! They arrested me!”

“Who? Why?”

“DUI, can you believe it? All I had were four or five black Russians. They're like milk shakes, right? Plus they charged me with obstruction of justice.”

“Why?”

“For eating my panties.”

“You were wearing panties?”

“Just a thong. The cloth is supposed to absorb alcohol and screw up the Breathalyzer, but I still blew a point nine. What should I do?”

“Next time, wear boxers.”

Steve started up the stairs and was tugged backwards. Gina had his coattail in one hand and was waving a blue-backed document in the other. “Steve, can you sue a dead guy?”

“If he's got an estate. Why?”

“I was going out with this rich old guy, trying to pull an Anna Nicole Smith.”

“And you killed him?”

“No way. He said if I went to bed with him, he'd name me in his will. So I did it, and now, guess what, he's dead.”

“Congratulations.”

“No. Read it! Paragraph seventeen.”

She thrust the document in front of Steve's eyes, and he read aloud. “‘Finally, I promised Ms. Gina Capretto that I would name her in my will. Hello, Gina.'”

The reception room was empty, unless you counted the Pamela Anderson inflatable doll at the desk. Steve and Bobby walked past her and into the inner office.

“Forty-five… forty-six… Hey, jefe.”

Sweating and red-faced, Cece was doing elevated push-ups, her feet on Steve's chair, her arms on the floor, veins throbbing in her neck. She wore denim cutoffs and a chopped T-shirt. Three toes on each bare foot were encircled by faux diamond rings.