Caller:
We were having sex. Oh, Charlie, breathe!
Dispatch:
What's your name and address, ma'am?
Caller:
Katrina Barksdale, 480 Casuarina Concourse, Gables Estates.
Dispatch:
Have you tried CPR?
Caller:
My husband's Charles Barksdale. The Charles Barksdale! Jeb Bush has been here for drinks.
Dispatch:
CPR, ma'am?
Caller:
I'll have to untie Charlie.
Dispatch:
Untie him?
Caller:
I've already taken off his mask.
Three
ZINK THE FINK
Pacing the corridor outside Judge Gridley's courtroom, Steve's mind drifted far from the bird-smuggling trial. He wanted to land the Barksdale case before a bigger, faster shark beat him to it. The case could change his life. And, more important, Bobby's.
Just last month, Steve had consulted a doctor specializing in central nervous system maladies. No one could pin a name on his nephew's condition, which combined acute developmental disorders with astounding mental feats. The boy could spend an hour sitting cross-legged on the sofa, rocking back and forth, lost in his own world, then suddenly erupt in a fit of crying. Five minutes later, he would recite lengthy passages from The Aeneid.
In Latin.
And then Greek.
The doctor tossed around bewildering phrases like “frontotemporal dementia” and “paradoxical functional facilitation” and “arrested neuronal firing.” One phrase that Steve understood quite clearly was “five thousand dollars a month”-the cost of a private tutor and therapist.
So the more Steve thought about the Barksdale case, the more it took on mythic proportions. Sure, the money and the publicity would be great, but the real quest was for Bobby. The Barksdale case could be his ticket to a better life.
But how to get the client?
Because he did not run with the caviar-and-canape crowd, Steve knew he needed an introduction to the widow. And quickly. Figuring he had five minutes before he had to plant his ass at the defense table in the Pedrosa trial, there was time for one phone call. On the move in the dimly lit corridor, he dialed his office on a cell phone.
“Hola. Stephen Solomon and Associates,” answered Cecilia Santiago, even though there were no associates.
“Cece, you know who Charles Barksdale is?”
“Dead rich white guy. It's on the news.”
“Who do we know who might know his wife, Katrina Barksdale?”
“Her maid?”
Cece wasn't the best secretary, but she worked cheap. A bodybuilder with a temper, she was grateful to Steve for keeping her out of jail a year earlier when she beat up her cheating boyfriend.
“You still go to clubs on the Beach?” Steve asked.
“Paranoia last night, Gangbang the night before.”
“Katrina's supposed to be a big-time partier. You ever run into her?”
“You kidding? They don't let me in the VIP rooms.”
A whiny voice came from behind him in the corridor. “Oh, Mr. Solomon…”
Steve turned, saw a human blob moving toward him. “Shit! Call you later.”
Jack Zinkavich lumbered down the corridor. In his early forties, Zinkavich had a huge, shapeless torso and his suit coat bunched at his fleshy hips, as if covering a gun belt with two six-shooters. His skin was oyster gray, and he wore his spit-colored hair in a buzz cut that made his square head resemble a concrete block. Zinkavich worked for the Division of Family Services in Pincher's office and was, if possible, even more humorless than his boss. He ate alone in the cafeteria each day and was known as “Zink the Fink” for constantly welshing in settlement negotiations. In what Steve considered a lousy stroke of luck, Zinkavich represented the state in Bobby's guardianship case.
What Steve had thought would be a slam-dunk case-I'm the uncle; I love Bobby; of course he belongs with me-had turned instantly vicious. At the first hearing, Zinkavich called Steve an “untrained, unfit, undomesticated caregiver” and suggested that Bobby be made a ward of the state. Steve was baffled why a routine proceeding was becoming a balls-to-the-wall street fight.
Zinkavich huffed to a stop. “Is it true you were imprisoned again this morning?”
“‘Imprisoned' is a little strong. More like sent to the blackboard to clean erasers.”
“Won't look good in the guardianship case.” Zinkavich seemed happy as a hangman tying his knots.
“It's got nothing to do with Bobby.”
“It reflects on your fitness as a parent. I'll have to bring it up with the judge.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
“I see a disturbing pattern here,” Zinkavich said. “Your sister's a convicted felon, you're in and out of jail, your father's a disbarred lawyer-”
“He wasn't disbarred. He resigned.”
“Whatever. My point is, your entire family seems spectacularly unfit to care for a special-needs child.”
“That's bullshit, Fink, and you know it.” Steve cursed himself for his own recklessness. With the guardianship hearing coming up, getting thrown in the can today hadn't been smart.
“The state only has Robert's interests at heart,” Zinkavich said.
“The state has no heart.”
“You have a real attitude problem. It's something else I intend to bring up with the judge.”
“If that's it, I gotta go.”
“Not until we schedule a home visit. You haven't allowed Dr. Kranchick her follow-up.”
“She scares Bobby. I don't want her around.”
“You don't have a choice. Either you give the doctor access or I'll have a body warrant issued and we'll seize Robert.”
“The fuck you will.”
Steve felt a wave of heat surge through him and struggled to control his rage. First that cheap shot at his father, now the threat to grab his nephew. The bastard just violated the unwritten rule that you could ridicule your adversary for anything from the cut of his suit to the size of his dick, but Family was off-limits.
Zinkavich smirked. “Maybe a few days in Juvenile Hall will change Robert's mind and yours.”
“You son-of-a-bitch.” Steve's hand flew up, grabbed Zinkavich's tie, twisted it around a fist. “If your storm troopers ever lay a finger on my nephew, I will personally…”
Steve dug the knot into Zinkavich's flabby neck, increasing the pressure until his blowfish cheeks turned red. After a moment of staring into his bulging eyes, Steve released him.
