"If I were you, I'd burn this joint down," Luber said, gravel in his voice.
"If you were me, I'd kill myself."
"Nothing like your old man in the old days. Herb always went for mahogany. When he was first elected judge, he spent his own money to panel his office in the Justice Building."
His father's name coming out of Luber's mouth made Steve want to toss the son-of-a-bitch into the Dumpster.
"Herbert T. Solomon," Luber mused. "Now, there was a lawyer."
" 'Was' being the operative word. Just what the hell are you doing here, Luber?"
"C'mon, Stevie. Call me 'Pinky.' Everybody does."
"Wouldn't feel right. But I got some other names that might."
"You got some attitude, kid. As for your old man, he's better off fishing in the Keys. I wouldn't want to be in that rat race downtown now."
"You don't have a choice. They pulled your ticket when they sent you away."
Luber took the Robusto out of his mouth and waved it like a wand. "Eighteen months in Eglin. No big deal. I worked on my tennis game, got my life master's in contract bridge."
"Didn't know you can cheat in bridge."
"Mind if I smoke?" Luber licked the tip of his cigar with a pink tongue. "Might improve the smell in here."
"I mind."
"Aw, hell, Stevie. Your old man's let it go. Why can't you?"
"I'm not my old man."
"I remember when you'd come to the courthouse and play with your baseball cards in the holding cells." Luber's unlit cigar bobbed up and down as he spoke. "I was Chief of Capital Crimes, your old man Chief Criminal Judge."
Suddenly, Steve felt the room get warmer. Pinky Luber's cologne had turned the air sticky sweet. "You were chief of sleaze. Dad was a public servant. I can't fucking believe what you did to him."
"You blame me for your father's tsuris." Giving Steve some Yiddish for old-times' sake.
"You're the momzer who lied under oath." Adding his own Yinglish to the yin and yang of the sparring match.
"Kid, there are things you don't know, and that's all I'm gonna say."
Steve walked to the corner of the room and pulled a Barry Bonds bat from the rack. Gorgeous maple, only twenty-eight ounces, with a thin, whippy handle. Steve took a swing. Wishing he could take batting practice, tee off on Pinky Luber's round, pink head. What did he want, anyway? The bastard still hadn't said.
Pinky was fingering the hatband on his bowler, his look inscrutable. His face was remarkably unlined for a man his age. He appeared much the same as he had twenty years earlier, when he was trying murder cases in front of Judge Solomon. A smooth if ruthless prosecutor, Luber won seventeen capital cases without a loss. Not even a hung jury. Just like the 1972 Miami Dolphins, 17-0, with a sizable number being sentenced to death. About halfway through that Super Bowl run of convictions, the newspapers began calling Luber "the Electrician" and Herbert Solomon "the Frying Judge." In those days, Florida still used the electric chair, affectionately known as Old Sparky in law enforcement circles. The name, Steve knew, was not entirely fantastical, as the condemned would occasionally burst into flame, much to the chagrin of prison authorities.
Then, inexplicably, the Electrician and the Frying Judge parted. Herbert transferred to the Civil Division and Luber, hungry for dollars instead of headlines, left for private practice. He publicly vowed never to "go over to the dark side," as prosecutors called criminal defense. But Luber's foray into plaintiff's work-medical malpractice, auto accidents, products liability-didn't work out. He spent a fortune working up contingency fee cases that he lost at trial. Luber was nearly bankrupt when he returned to the corridors of the Justice Building, a Prince of Darkness working the shadows of the law. He developed a reputation as a fixer, both in court and in City Hall. He turned out to be a master briber and extortionist. A life master, just like his contract bridge, Steve thought.
When the U.S. Attorney's public corruption unit pulled a sting operation, it swept up Luber, some zoning inspectors, and two public works employees in a kickback and bribery scheme. Luber flipped quicker than you could say "minimum mandatory sentence." He signed affidavits implicating several other public officials, including Circuit Judge Herbert T. Solomon.
Steve pleaded with his father to fight the accusations, but the old man caved, quitting the bench and the Bar, even while protesting his innocence. Luber pled guilty to reduced charges, spent his eighteen months at a country club prison in the Florida Panhandle, then came back to Miami. Stripped of his Bar license, he set up shop as a lobbyist. From talk around City Hall, Pinky was making more money than ever, securing lucrative concessions at the airport, rezoning agricultural land for shopping centers, and selling fleets of not-quite-wholesale sedans to the county-all under cover of darkness. It never hurt Pinky's clients in such matters to make substantial, unreported contributions to local public officials. The contributions were always in cash, and usually delivered by Pinky Luber. In Miami politics, the term "lobbyist" was a pleasant euphemism for "bagman."
The sight of Luber, fat and prosperous, stinking of treacly cologne, gave Steve the creepy-crawlies. He took a swing with the Barry Bonds. And then another. Closed his eyes. Visualized a ball on its upward arc leaving the bat, soaring toward the fence, nearing the warning track, then plop, into the outfielder's glove. The outfielder's face appeared: round and pink and chomping a cigar. Damn! The bastard even screwed up Steve's daydreams.
"I was there the day you stole home to beat Florida State," Luber said.
Steve opened his eyes. "Who gives a shit?"
"Won five thousand bucks."
"You bet on college baseball?"
"Stevie, I bet whether the next gal to get on the elevator is a blonde or brunette." He smiled ruefully. "Then I lost ten grand on the College World Series when you got picked off third in the bottom of the ninth."
"Ump blew the call."
"Yeah, a tough break." Luber took a moment to size him up. When he spoke, it was softly and with a touch of sadness. "You were an arrogant little shit. That dancing off third base, that big lead you took in the series. Why the hell do it? You woulda scored on any hit."
"I was trying to draw a bad throw. If the pitcher puts it in the dugout, I score and we tie it up."
"You put the whole team at risk so you could be the hero. Now you're doing the same thing with Herb." Luber rocked forward in the chair and got to his feet. He brushed off his pants, as if he'd just hopped off a particularly dusty horse instead of a relatively clean, secondhand chair. "I gotta get going. Ponies are running at Calder."
Luber had always seemed short, but now, aged and a tad stooped, he was truly pint-size.
Luber started for the door, stopped, and turned. "Getting picked off. There's a lesson in that you never learned. You can't depend on umpires. Same for judges. Same for the whole damn system. That's why it's better to resolve matters informally. Between people."
Steve put the head of the bat on the floor, leaned on the handle. "What are you getting at?"
"That cockamamie suit you filed to get Herb's license back. You drop it, I could give you some help."
"What kind of help?"
Pinky's cheeks crinkled with a chubby smile. "Let's say you had a murder case that's got you stumped."
That caught Steve by surprise. "What do you know about it?"
"C'mon, Stevie. I got friends who say Hal Griffin's been pulling some pretty cute permits down in Monroe County. New docks, hydrofoil service, liquor license for a gulfside terminal. Then a guy from Washington gets whacked on his boat. If I were defending Griffin, I'd be asking myself one mighty big question."
"What's that? Who could you bribe to get the case dropped?"
"The one the ancient Romans asked, wise guy. Cui bono? Who stands to gain?"