She made a face but didn't say a word.
“Sorry if I don't drive a Porsche like Bigby,” Steve said.
“Don't start.”
“I also don't carry a pager or wear a Phi Beta Kappa key like the Bigster.”
“You don't have a Phi Beta Kappa key,” Bobby piped up.
“Thanks for the support, kiddo,” Steve said.
He fooled with the radio again, picked up what sounded like a bugle playing reveille, and Bobby yelled happily: “Long Shot Kick De Bucket!”
“A classic,” Steve said as the song began.
Victoria listened a moment, something about weeping and wailing and getting in the race, but it made no sense to her.
“Don't you like reggae?” Steve asked.
“I can never understand the patois.”
“I could teach you. It's the language of sugarcane fields, the music of repression and rebellion.”
“You see yourself as a rebel? A lawyer with a machete?”
He shrugged. “I just like the music.”
The light turned green, Steve gunned the engine, and the old Cadillac coughed and sputtered but managed to pull around the bus.
“Now, where was I?” Steve said.
“Sex,” Bobby reminded him.
Victoria said: “Really, is this proper conversation for a young-”
“Bobby's cool with it,” Steve interrupted. “So Katrina's dressed in leather chaps and a laced corset, and she ties Charlie spread-eagle on the bed. He's wearing a collar around his neck with two leather straps fastened to the bedposts. He increases the pressure on his neck by leaning back, decreases by leaning forward. The idea was to cut off his oxygen, increase the power of his orgasm.”
“Asphyxiophilia,” Bobby said. “I read about this guy who wrapped a wire around his willy, tied it to two teaspoons, put one in his butt, another in his mouth, all plugged to an electrical outlet. Guess what happened?”
“He caused the Northeast blackout of 2003,” Steve said.
Bobby made a sound like bacon sizzling in a pan. “Elec-tro-cuted.”
“Barksdale had something in his mouth, too. A latex dick.”
“That's disgusting.” Victoria wrinkled her nose.
“But relevant to our defense. Why?”
“Because he couldn't cry out with that doodad in his mouth,” she answered.
“You mean dildo.”
“Some female jurors might be offended by the word. I thought I'd soften it.”
Soften it? God, did I really say that?
Steve laughed. “We're gonna be in Criminal Court, not on Sesame Street. Do you know how many words there are for ‘penis'?”
“I know twenty-six,” Bobby said. “One for every letter of the alphabet.”
“Cool it, kiddo,” Steve said.
“Anaconda. Beaver Buster. Corn Dog.”
“Not now, Bobby.”
“Dipstick. Earthworm. Frankfurter.”
“Put a lid on it.”
“Gherkin. Hose. Iron Rod. Joystick.”
“I said that's enough,” Steve ordered.
“And to think,” Victoria said, “when I was in school, we only memorized the Gettysburg Address.”
“Don't look at me,” Steve said. “I didn't teach him that stuff.”
“Kosher Pickle,” Bobby said. “You taught me that one.”
“That's part of your ethnic heritage. Look, it's okay if you screw around with us, but if you try that stuff with Dr. Kranchick, she's gonna think I'm a pervert, and you're gonna be bunking at the state hospital.”
“Who's Dr. Kranchick?” Victoria said.
“Doris Kranchick,” Bobby said. “RAKISH CORN DICK.”
“I'm warning you,” Steve said, then turned to Victoria. “Kranchick works for Family Services. She wants to take Bobby from me.”
“Uncle Steve says we'll go to some desert island if the judge rules against us.”
“What about just filing an appeal?” Victoria said.
“C'mon, let's stay focused,” Steve said. “Barksdale is sprawled on the bed. Katrina performs her magic and gets him off. She unties his hands but leaves the collar on. Then she crawls out of bed and walks over to the wet bar.”
“Why didn't she untie him then?”
“She says he was good for a second pop after a time-out. So she's pouring herself a drink at the bar when she hears something back on the bed. Charlie's thrashing around, this gurgling sound coming from his throat. She runs to him, sees the collar digging into his neck. It takes her a while to loosen the straps, and by the time she gets the collar off, he's not breathing. She calls nine-one-one. End of story.”
Victoria processed the information as they headed east on Fifth Street, three blocks from the ocean. They had left downtown Miami behind, its skyscrapers honeycombed with lawyers and bankers in their light winter wools, the streets in cool shadows from the buildings themselves. Everything was brighter here, the colors of the low-rise stucco buildings, the shorts and shirts of the people hauling coolers and lawn chairs to the beach. She was unexpectedly happy to be with the Solomon Boys, working together, a world away from the stifling confines of the Justice Building.
“Accidental strangulation following kinky sex?” she said. “You think the jury will swallow that?”
“I don't know, but I'm gonna rephrase your question for voir dire.”
“You know what I mean. It sounds pretty far-fetched.”
“Just because you and Bruce never try anything exotic-”
“Don't go there,” she said sternly. “You have no idea what Bruce and I do.”
“Give me all the details. I've got thirty seconds.”
“Stop this car!”
“Aw, I'm just joking around.”
“Stop right now!”
He pulled to the curb. A gray tern swooped close, bleating, kerri, kerri, kerri, sounding like a lovelorn suitor.
“What is it with you?” Victoria demanded, but didn't wait for an answer. “We were just starting to get along and you pull that shit. Sorry, Bobby.”
“No problem,” came the voice from the backseat.
“If we're going to work together, you've got to stop doing this.”
“Okay. Okay.”
“You have to control your Inner Jerk.”
“I apologize. Now, let's move on.”
“Not so quick,” Victoria said. “Let's get to the root of this.”
“There's no root.”
“Let's look inside Steve Solomon.”
“There's nothing there,” he shot back.
“Be honest now.” She leveled a gaze at him, detected a hint of fear in his eyes. Now, that was something new, she thought. Maybe he can handle an assertive woman in court, but get inside his personal space, he breaks out in hives. “Be honest, Solomon. Do you have a thing for me?”
“What!”
“Do you drift off to sleep with little fantasies? The two of us in the stacks at the law library?”
“I've never been in the law library.”
“Are you writing my name on your legal pad, drawing hearts around it?”
“You're not my type, Lord.”
“Why not? All brains and no Rudnicks?”
“Exactly. Go marry the Avocado King.”
“Why shoot spitballs at me? What are the feelings you're not expressing?”
“At first I thought you were a royal pain. Rigid, arrogant, self-righteous. But with great legs. Thought I expressed all that pretty clearly.”
“And now?”
“Now that we have to work together, I tolerate you.”
“As long as that's all it is,” she said.
“That's all.”
“Good, then it's mutual,” Victoria said.
Ten minutes later, Steve parked the car in an open lot, and they walked along Ocean Drive past the usual collection of sunburned tourists and skateboarding teens. It was a sunny day, with a steady breeze off the Atlantic. As they headed to his office, Steve tried to figure out what had just happened. Why had he taken those cheap shots? Why couldn't he just say what he felt?
Because you don't tell another man's fiancee that the air sizzles when she walks into the room and fizzles when she leaves.
Now, there was the painful truth. Even though he knew he was lousy at introspection, he dug deeper. Ever since learning Victoria was engaged, he'd been trying to convince himself that he wasn't attracted to her. Now he was going out of his way to piss her off. He felt like the awkward sixth grader, who, unable to talk to the prettiest girl in class, yanks her pigtails instead. And she'd just busted him on it.