“They trade up, is all.”
Ginger slid a basket of crab fritters toward Steve. “You drag me down here just to bust my balls?”
“Enjoy your lunch first,” Herbert said.
“Enjoy” was not a word that Steve usually associated with his father's company. But he had no choice. Herbert Solomon always had to be in control. He would play his poker hand when he damn well felt like it. Steve vowed to get through the meal peacefully, even if it gave him heartburn.
“You hear anything from Janice?” Herbert asked.
“Not a word.” Steve chose not to mention the dirty green pickup truck. He thought he'd seen it again on South Dixie Highway, but he'd been looking through the rearview mirror, and it was impossible to tell. “Maybe she already left for her magical mystery tour.”
“Little Janice,” Herbert murmured, looking toward the water, where a gull was circling. “Ah remember putting the training wheels on her first bike. What the hell happened?”
“What happened was you didn't pay any attention to her after you put the wheels on.”
“You laying her shit on me?”
Steve dipped a fritter in the creamy lime sauce, popped it into his mouth. The smoky crabmeat had the bite of jalapeno peppers. “Doing drugs. Stealing stuff. Running with punks. It was all to get your attention.”
“And ah suppose you're screwed up because ah didn't come to your T-ball games.”
“I skipped T-ball, went straight to Little League. Those were the games you missed. Plus Sunday school basketball, Beach High track, and U of M baseball. You were late for my confirmation because you were giving a lecture to a lawyers' convention, and you missed high school graduation when you were in trial upstate.”
“Jesus. A junkie daughter and a grumble guts son. Maybe ah should get your DNA, see if you two got the milkman's genes instead of mine.”
“What gets me is that you're so smart about complex stuff and so dumb about simple stuff. Spending time with your kids is good for them. Ignoring them isn't.”
“Aw, don't be such a pantywaist.”
Pantywaist? Now, there's one he hadn't heard in years. “Dammit, just tell me what I'm doing here or I'm getting back in the car and you can pick up the check.”
Herbert ignored him and signaled Ginger for a refill, but she was mixing drinks for a couple of sunburned Yuppies at the end of the bar.
“Dad, I mean it. What'd I do now?”
Steve dipped his spoon into the chowder. His father put a hand on his arm and spoke softly. “The way ah hear it, you split open a man's skull.”
The spoon stopped halfway to Steve's mouth.
“The night you grabbed Bobby,” Herbert continued.
“Who told you that?”
“Jack Zinkavich. He drove all the way to Sugarloaf. Which ah might add is more than mah own son will do.”
“You like the Fink so much, adopt him.”
“Too late. Abe and Elaine Zinkavich already did. Thirty-some years ago.”
“You mean somebody wanted the Fink?”
“Don't be such a shit. It's gonna come back to haunt you.”
“Okay, I apologize to the prick. Tell him the next time he comes for a visit.”
“Didn't ah teach you to always know your opponent? Know what they drink and who they screw, and sure as hell, where they came from. A man's past sticks to him like mud on cleated boots.”
“You oughta know. Now, why did Zinkavich come all the way-”
“What do you know about him, smart-ass?”
Steve guzzled his beer. He'd have to play by his father's rules, answer his questions, take his abuse. “The Fink's a lifer at Family Services. Typical civil service drone.”
“Nothing typical about him. If you'd done your homework, you'd know that. You'd know that as a little kid, he lived in a trailer park out on Tamiami Trail. His father was a mean drunk who abused his mother, took a leather strap to the boy. When Jack was seven or eight, he watched his father slit his mother's throat. She died in his arms.”
“Jesus. I didn't know.”
“Jack goes to a state shelter for a year. A shelter run by Family Services. He bounced around in foster homes for a while, but it was hard as hell to place him. Too old, too angry, and not exactly a cute little teddy bear. But this social worker at Family Services wouldn't give up. You see where I'm heading?”
“I'm not sure.”
“The social worker found Abe and Elaine. Now, what do you suppose Abe Zinkavich did for a living?”
“How should I know?”
“Juvie Court judge up in Lauderdale. That's how the social worker knew him. Abe provided a good education, taught the boy the importance of protecting children. Not that Jack needed much instruction. So the guy you call a drone is anything but. Jack's a crusader, a true believer, a zealot who hates violence. And you're the guy who kidnapped your nephew and nearly killed a man doing it.”
“It was self-defense.”
“So you say. What about choking Zinkavich in the courthouse?”
“I was straightening his tie and got carried away.”
“You called him a Nazi storm trooper, for chrissakes.”
“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?”
