The Deep Blue Alibi

you suffer from vaginal itching, soreness, or burning?'

'With a thick, smelly discharge?' Rexy chimed in.

'You may have a yeast infection!' Lexy proclaimed cheerily, as if congratulating a friend on winning the lottery. 'So, if you don't want a fungus among us. .' In unison, they sang:

'Vag-i-stat your yeast away.

Don't you wait a-nother day.

Buy one tube, get a-nother free,

It won't sting when you pee.'

'They say that on TV?' Junior asked.

'Cable,' Steve explained. 'Spice Channel.'

The waiter approached and said: 'If you're ready to order, may I recommend the barbecued duck?'

'Fuck that,' Lexy said. 'I'm a veterinarian.'

They finished a second bottle of Cristal and an array of hired hands were clearing empty plates, picked clean of yuca-stuffed crispy shrimp, pan-roasted swordfish, catfish in a pecan crust, and a hearts-of-palm salad, the sole sustenance for the twins, who split the dish, wishing to retain their 112 pounds spread over their whooping-crane frames.

Steve spent the meal sizing up the body language of Junior and Victoria, but what could he tell? He had shattered the dynamics of the table with his intrusion. Maybe he should have worn a disguise and sat at the bar. Then he could have done real surveillance, picking up their vibes, unobserved. In the next moment, he wondered if he was losing his mind.

Hey, relax. Vic deeply cares for me. We're just going through a rough patch.

Steve listened to Junior entertain the table with tales of free diving off Cabo San Lucas-descending to four hundred feet but finishing only third in the competition-and catching a record swordfish off the Caicos Islands, but tossing it back, instead of roasting it for fifty people with black bean muneta. Actually, the guy seemed okay. He wasn't playing footsie with Victoria under the table, and so far, he hadn't speared anyone with his butter knife.

Was Victoria right?

Have I screwed up, trying to pin two crimes on Junior? Killing Ben Stubbs and lusting after my lady- the latter being the true capital crime?

As the waiter applied a blowtorch to the top of Junior's creme brulee, Steve said: 'This reminds me of something, Vic. Remember the case of the flaming toupee?'

'Cafe Jacquet in Lauderdale.' She turned toward Junior. 'Our client's toupee got caught in the duck flambe.'

'Wow,' Junior said.

'Only his pride was hurt,' she said. 'His date didn't know he was bald, so Steve sued for his embarrassment.'

'Ten grand plus free desserts for life,' Steve said.

Another server brought out a medley of tropical ice creams. Guava, mango, papaya. Steve launched into a recitation of restaurant legal cases, including a libelous review that referred to one dish as 'veal a la bubonic plague,' a collapsing chair that injured a four-hundredpound diner, and a careless sushi chef who served his own fingertip with the California roll.

Junior laughed, displaying his well-advertised dimples and clefted chin. The discussion turned to the legal system, Steve calling trial lawyers the last hope of the common citizen in fighting megacorporations, incompetent doctors, and insurance companies. This went on a while, Lexy and Rexy sharing their fruit platter for dessert, slicing the skin off the grapes to save calories, Steve ranting that insurance companies were racketeering gangs and their executives were the spawn of Satan who denied coverage to honest policyholders, and when that didn't work, fought dirty against the truly injured, all the while gobbling their expense account beef tenderloin and whining about malingerers and malcontents who file workers' comp claims for having limbs torn off by ten-ton jig grinders.

'I'm with you on the insurance companies,' Junior agreed. 'You wouldn't believe the hoops they made us jump through on Oceania.'

'I can imagine,' Victoria said. 'What'd you need, a hundred-million-dollar binder?'

'Three hundred million,' Junior said.

Steve let out a low whistle.

Across the table, Lexy and Rexy seemed bored with the adult conversation. They were pinching each other's upper arms, testing for fat content. They would have found more by squeezing chopsticks.

'Which carrier did you end up with?' Steve asked.

Junior stroked his chin, Steve wondering if food particles ever got stuck in the little clefted canyon. 'A foreign consortium,' Junior said after a moment.

'Lloyd's of London?'

Another pause, another chin stroke. 'No, a Bermuda trust, actually.'

'We sued a Bermuda group,' Victoria said. 'What was its name?'

'Pitts Bay Risk Management,' Steve answered, eyes on Junior. 'They had the reinsurance on a Sarasota condo project that failed to meet the building code.'

Steve paused. Expecting Junior to say, 'Yeah, that's the one.' Or, 'No, we're using Hamilton Liability, Limited.' Or whatever.

'Now that I think about it, we turned down the Bermuda company,' Junior said. 'Placed the insurance with a Pacific Rim group.'

'Probably Trans-Global out of Singapore,' Steve said. Was it his imagination, or did the world's third-deepest free diver have a case of the darting eyes?

'Sounds like it,' Junior said. 'Yeah. I think that's the one.'

Junior signaled the waiter for a refill on his after-dinner brandy-a forty-year-old Montifaud at forty-five bucks a glass-saying something about its masculine, woody taste. Then his cell phone beeped, and he looked relieved, excusing himself from the table to take the call.

A moment later, the waiter delivered the check in an embossed leather folder as thick as a book. He placed the handsome package in front of Steve, who tried to slide it over to Junior's empty place, but Victoria blocked it like a hockey goalie, and skidded it back to Steve with a wicked look. Steve peeked inside at the four-digit number, made a croaking sound as if a chicken bone were caught in his throat, then slapped the folder closed.

'I don't care about your dreamboat stiffing me with the check,' Steve groused.

'Sure you do,' Victoria fired back. 'You'll have to take out a second mortgage.'

They stood outside the restaurant on this warm, breezy night. Waiting for the valet service, Junior's silver Hummer having been delivered first. He'd already cheek-kissed Victoria and smacked Steve goodnaturedly on the shoulder, then drove off, turning north on Ponce de Leon Boulevard with two chattering blondes aboard.

It was Steve's idea that Junior give Lexy and Rexy a ride back to their South Beach condo. After all, Junior was staying at the Astor just a flew blocks away. It was all very logical, especially to Victoria. Steve was trying to set him up. The bimbos a deux would report everything to Steve, who was doubtless hoping the pair would make a midnight sandwich out of Junior in their tenth-floor playpen-by-the-sea.

That goofy plan didn't irritate her half as much as Steve's crashing the dinner party. Junior had seemed on the verge of expressing something for her when Steve rode in with the long-legged cavalry.

'What gets me,' he grumbled now, 'is how evasive Junior was about the insurance company.'

'C'mon, Steve. Junior's not a detail person.'

'A three-hundred-million-dollar insurance policy isn't a detail. You can't close a construction loan without an insurance binder in place.'

'What's the big deal? You heard him. They placed the insurance with Trans-something-or-other.'

'Trans-Global.'

'Right. Trans-Global from Singapore.'

'There's no such company. I made up the name, and he took the bait.'

She was stunned. 'Why the cheap trick?'

'To see if he was lying. Which he was.'

'He was just agreeing with you to change the subject. Who wants to talk about insurance binders at dinner?'