The Deep Blue Alibi

'Lawyers trying to defend a murder trial.'

'That's not it.' Victoria pointed a finger at him. 'You've made it personal. What do you have against Junior?'

'Other than the fact that he'd like to free dive into your-'

'Don't be crude, Steve. Just tell me. What are you doing? What's the insurance company have to do with who murdered Ben Stubbs?'

'It's a piece of the puzzle that doesn't fit. Oceania's the reason Stubbs was killed. If Junior's lying about Oceania's insurance, what else is he lying about?'

Eighteen

I GREASE THE SKIDS, KID

'Please state your name for the record,' Steve said.

'Peter Luber.' The pudgeball in pinstripes turned toward Sofia Hernandez, the raven-haired court stenographer whose tricolored nails were click-clacking the keys of her machine. 'But you can call me Pinky, hon.'

Sofia rolled her eyes, but like every good court reporter kept blessedly silent. She was used to men flirting with her, including one Stephen M. Solomon, Esq., with whom-BV, before Victoria-Sofia used to dally.

'Where do you live, Mr. Luber?' Steve asked.

'Penthouse One-A, Belvedere Condos, Bal Harbour.'

'And your office address?'

'Front seat of my Lincoln, boychik.'

'You have no office?'

'Least my Town Car don't smell like a garbage dump.'

Pinky sniffed and made a face. They were in the Solomon amp; Lord suite, if that's what you could call their second-floor hovel, the air ripe with rotting papaya from the Dumpster below the window. Steve was taking Luber's deposition in the lawsuit to get back Herbert's Bar license.

'Try to keep your answers responsive to the questions,' Steve instructed.

Pinky Luber chomped his cold cigar and glared at Steve. Unhappy at being served with a subpoena, unhappy swearing to tell the truth, unhappy giving any deposition, much less one that poked around in his past. 'Then let's move this charade along. I gotta get to the track in time for the daily double.'

'What's your occupation, Mr. Luber?'

'Consultant.'

Luber had tried enough cases himself to know that a smart witness answers as concisely as possible. A sentence is better than a paragraph, one word far better than two.

'Could you be a little more descriptive?' Steve asked.

'No.'

Steve got the message. This wouldn't be like pulling teeth. Pulling teeth would be too easy. This would be like passing gallstones.

'Tell me the names of your clients.'

Luber shook his head. 'Confidential.'

Steve was trying to send a message of his own. If he could, he would mess up Luber's business. Lacking a Bar license, Pinky could no longer ply his trade inside the courtroom. But he found life even more lucrative in the chambers of municipal commissions and the myriad agencies of city, county, and state government. If you needed retail space at the seaport-for a rental car company or a gift shop or a pretzel stand-and wanted to avoid pesky complications like competitive bidding, you hired Pinky Luber, influence peddler extraordinaire.

'Fact of the matter, Mr. Luber, you're a fixer, right?'

'Already told you. Consultant.'

'You know a lot of people in government?'

'I been around a long time.'

'You're pals with county commissioners? Agency heads? Judges?'

'Yeah. Some of 'em even send me Chanukah cards.'

'You're too modest, Mr. Luber. Let's say I wanted to put up billboards along I-95. Would I come to you for help?'

'If you're smart. Which you ain't.'

'And just what would you do to get me my billboards?'

'I'd introduce you to some people downtown and hope everyone falls in love.'

'So, you're a matchmaker?'

'I grease the skids, kid.'

'You ever grease the skids in Circuit Court?'

'That's old news. I did my time. What's that gotta do with the price of borscht?'

Just then the door opened and Herbert Solomon barged in, his flip-flops smacking the floor with each step.

'Cessante causa cessat et effectus!' Herbert sounded like a Roman senator but looked like a beach bum in paint-splattered denim cutoffs and an aloha shirt festooned with bougainvillea flowers. 'Cease and desist, son.'

'Are you drunk, Dad?' Steve asked.

'Ah'm removing you as counsel.' Herbert turned to Luber and nodded. 'Pinky, you're looking good.'

'You look like Hawaii Five-O,' Luber said.

'You hear me, son?' Herbert said. 'Ah'm firing you and dismissing the case.'

'You can't fire me,' Steve retorted. 'You don't have standing.'

'In mah own damn case, ah sure as hell do.'

'I filed under the private attorney general statute. You're not the real-party-in-interest. The people of Florida are.'

'You slippery bastard,' his father said. 'You think you can get away with that?'

'You did when you sued those phony muffler repair shops.'

'Ah should have known you wouldn't have an original thought.' Herbert turned back to Luber. 'So how the hell are you, Pinky?'

'Jesus, Dad. This is the guy who butt-fucked you.'

'Is 'butt-fucked' hyphenated?' Sofia Hernandez asked, typing away.

'Go off the record, sweetie,' Herbert ordered, and Sofia's hands flew up like a pianist finishing a concerto.

'I say when we go off the record,' Steve protested.

'So, on or off?' Sofia asked.

'Off,' Steve instructed, 'but only because I said so.'

She shrugged and opened her purse, looking for a nail file.

'On the nitro, that's how I am, Herb.' Luber patted his chest. 'Plus Nexium for the acid reflux. And a whole drawerful of pills for arthritis. And you?'

'Feeling good, Pinky. No complaints.'

'Like I was saying to your boy, you're better off out of the rat race. But the big k'nocker don't listen too good.'

Using bastardized Yiddish to brand him a 'big shot,' Steve knew. 'Better a k'nocker than an alter kocker,' he fired back. Calling Luber an 'old fart.'

'Steve's always been a hard case,' Herbert allowed.

'Dad. What are you doing?'

'Pinky and ah go back a long way.'