The Deep Blue Alibi

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?'

'Already doing that. Looking for who profits if Griffin takes a fall.'

'So let me help you. I know people. I hear things.'

'So whadaya know? Whadaya hear?'

'Oy! I should give it away, you gonif?' Pinky Luber sniggered and waddled toward the door. 'Got another Roman expression for you. Quid pro quo.' He opened the door to the reception room and slipped the bowler onto his head. 'Without some quid, kid, there ain't no quo.'

Fifteen

IN PRAISE OF INANIMATE WOMEN

'Pinky Luber tried to bribe you?' Victoria sounded skeptical.

'I don't know if you'd call it a bribe,' Steve said, 'but he implied he'd help us in Griffin's case if I'd drop Dad's Bar petition.'

Victoria wanted to ask more, but it was awkward, with all the people staring at them. 'This is so embarrassing.'

'What's the problem?' Steve said.

They were hurrying along Flagler Street, a woman in a thong bikini slung over Steve's shoulder. The woman's breasts, full spheroids, overflowed her bikini top. Her hair, a blond avalanche-Farrah Fawcett circa 1976-tickled Steve's neck.

'Everyone's looking at us,' Victoria said.

True. Patrons at the cafe Cubano stands, clerks from the discount camera shops sneaking smokes on the sidewalk, Latin-American tourists rolling luggage carts. . everyone was gaping, pointing, laughing. Probably because the woman in the bikini was a hundred-pound, custom-made, silicone 'love doll,' anatomically correct right down to every digit and orifice.

'We should have parked right across the street from the courthouse,' Victoria said.

'And pay fifteen bucks? No way.'

Steve had parked his old Caddy at a meter around the corner on Miami Avenue. They had three minutes to get to the hearing. Motion for summary judgment in the case of Pullone vs. Adult Enterprises, Ltd., dba The Beav. Long before Steve hooked up with Victoria- professionally and personally-he had represented The Beav, the strip club in Surfside. The cases were usually mundane consumer-fraud actions: selling sparkling cider as champagne for twenty bucks a glass or running multiple credit card charges every time the song changed during a lap dance. There was also the occasional personal-injury suit, including today's case. Clayton Pullone, a middle-aged, married CPA, claimed to have suffered a dislocated hip while wrestling Susie Slamazon, The Beav's famed bikini grappler, in a vat