profession as a con man.
“Then what is it?” Steve said. “I already told you I won't sue your parents for being ugly.”
“Not just for being ugly,” Harry said. “For having the chutzpah to procreate.”
“Forget it.”
“Okay, but I got a new one that'll make us both rich. You know that strip club on the Seventy-ninth Street Causeway? The Beav?”
“Don't think I do.”
“That's funny, 'cause two of the girls there recommended you. Not that I'd ever use another lawyer.”
“I appreciate it, Harry. Tell me about the case.”
“Discrimination. We're talking big bucks here.”
“I'm listening and I'm fascinated,” Steve said, telling two lies for the price of one. In reality, he was still thinking about the taste of Victoria's lips. And just why couldn't Kelly McGillis end up with Harrison Ford? And if she had, would he have come to the country or would she have gone to the city? That's the rub. Even if he ever got together with Victoria, who would change to accommodate the other? And wasn't it asinine even to be thinking these thoughts? She was about to be married, and in case he'd forgotten, the engraved invitation was there to remind him.
Harry Sachs buzzed his wheelchair closer to Steve's desk. “I been a regular at The Beav for years, ever since the cops shut down Crotches. I got the membership card, you buy ten lap dances, get one free, just like Frappuccinos at Starbucks. But they remodeled, and now the VIP lounge is up three stairs, and I can't get there.”
“So?”
“Whadaya mean, ‘so'? Equal access to public facilities. I'm talking punitive damages, a class action.”
“What's the class, con artists?”
“The disabled. We got a right to get our rocks off. Life, liberty, and”-Harry grabbed his groin-“the pursuit of happiness.”
“Not exactly what Thomas Jefferson had in mind.”
“Sure it is. Didn't you see the Nick Nolte movie? Anyway, they're violating my rights. Some thanks I get for leaving my blood on foreign soil.”
“Harry, the closest you ever got to Grenada was Club Med.”
“I got the medals!”
“Off the Internet. C'mon, you were never in the Marines, and your wheelchair's a prop for your homeless- veteran scam.”
“Who says?”
“You jog. You Rollerblade. You play volleyball at the topless beach.”
“That's my rehab.”
Steve was ready to roll Harry Sachs out of his office, but instead said: “These lap dances you get-”
“Used to get.”
“You ever kiss the girls?”
“You crazy? I don't even kiss my wife.”
Twenty-six
THE LUST FACTOR
Harry was gone. The office was quiet, except for the steel band across the alley, playing some sort of conga that seemed to use hand grenades instead of tambourines. Victoria was still AWOL. If she didn't show up in five minutes, Steve would…
What? What will you do, smart guy?
Call the police, the hospitals, the Bigster?
Calm down. She's fine. You're just being neurotic.
Then his mood shifted east to west, like squalls in a thunderstorm. He sensed something positive might be in the air. She might be sitting under a palm tree on the beach, writing a Dear Bruce letter.
“I've met someone else. I hope you'll understand. We can always be friends. And by the way, I hate avocados.”
Cheered by that thought, he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, feet propped on his desk, eyes closed. Wearing nothing but his Speedos, he was at the wheel of a sailboat on a turquoise sea. Victoria appeared on deck in one of her herringbone trial suits. Leaning against the mast, her hair tossed by the wind, she peeled off her outfit, piece by piece, revealing a black thong bikini. Speedo Steve approached, placed a hand on her bare, sun- warmed hip. They kissed, long and slow, with acres of bare skin against bare skin, and this time, she did not pull away. He tasted her moist lips, listened to the wind fill the sail, felt the bulge in his Speedos. He could hear Bob Marley and the Wailers singing “Waiting in Vain.”
A moment later, Steve was vaguely aware that he was the one singing: “I don't wanna wait in vain for your love.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Victoria said. Not the bikinied Victoria on the sailboat. The real model, cloaked in a charcoal gray, tweedy pantsuit, carrying her briefcase and a cup of coffee into the office. “Auditioning for American Idol?”
“There you are,” Steve said, trying to recover his dignity.
“Sorry I'm late.”
“No problem.” He checked her body language. Spine straight, jaw set, no eye contact. In trial lawyer's lore, if the jury refuses to look you in the eye, they've ruled against you. Along with most such fables, he told himself, it's right half the time.
He vowed to stick to business, not even mention THE KISS. Let her bring it up. Maybe the initial shock and denial had worn off.
Sooner or later, she's gotta break down, gotta admit it was a pulse-pounding moment.
She moved quickly to her desk. Outside the window, the steel band was banging out a Caribbean tune that should have been called “Carnivale Migraine.”
“We need to see Katrina today,” Steve said, in his most professional tone.
Any second now, she's gonna come over here, jump my bones.
“I was going to work on jury instructions,” she said.
“This is more important. Kiss off the instructions for now.”
Did I really say, “kiss off”?
She didn't seem to notice. He told her Bobby's theory that Katrina bought the dive watch for a man other than her husband, a thick-wristed, scuba-diving guy who, in Steve's opinion, probably did not require latex dildos and leather restraints to become aroused. Listening, she chewed on a pencil. To Steve, at this moment, she was so naturally beautiful and innocently seductive as to be-what's the word he was searching for?-bewitching. In that same instant, he realized that “bewitching” was a word that had never before worked its way into his brain.
Jeez, I'm starting to sound like a perfume commercial.
“So you're going to ask Kat about the watch?” Victoria said.
Steve shook his head. “I don't want her thinking we've lost faith in her. If she really bought the watch for Charles, it'll still be in the house.”
“What are you going to do, ransack the master bedroom?”
“Yep. While you're talking to her downstairs.”
“You're not serious!”
“If the watch isn't there, we'll confront her. If it is there, no harm done.”
“Invading a client's privacy. This one of Solomon's Laws?”
“Then, when we get back, we need to work on our exhibit list.”
“I hope you're leaving off the security video.”
