The Deep Blue Alibi

'That's what I'm asking you, Dad.'

'How the hell should ah know? You think ah'm filing papers these days?'

The NPR station went to a fund-raising spot, the announcer insisting that civilization would crash and burn if each listener failed to fork over fifty bucks for a coffee mug. Steve reached for the dial, but his father swatted his hand away.

'What's Reginald Jones have to do with you and Pinky Luber?' Steve asked.

Herbert Solomon kept his eyes straight ahead, Steve studying his profile. A craggy-faced jawline, some speckling from the sun, fuzzy tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears.

'Don't know what you're talking about, son.'

'Then why are you still talking to Jones? Five calls the day I deposed Luber.'

'You little pissant! You been snooping.'

'Twenty years ago, when Luber won all those murder trials, Jones was your clerk. What the hell were the three of you up to?'

'Not a damn thing. And if ah were, it'd be none of your business.'

Alternative pleading. The old lawyer trick. I never borrowed your lawn mower. And if I did, it was broken when you lent it to me.

'I'll subpoena Jones, take his depo.'

'Why don't you spread manure in your garden and stay out of mine?'

'Because you owe me answers.'

'Ah owe you shit. It's mah life, not yours.'

'It's the legacy you left me. I'm Steve Solomon, son of the disgraced judge.'

'Live with it. Ah do.'

'Just tell me why you won't let me get your license back. If you're as dirty as Pinky, I want to know it.'

Herbert hit the brakes and swerved into a gas station, squealing to a stop just inches from the pumps. 'Git out!'

'What?'

'You heard me. You can walk home.'

'You nuts? We're ten miles from the Grove.'

'Tough titties. You show me no respect, get the hell out.'

Steve looked around. Six lanes of traffic. A nudie bar and a hubcap store on one side of the street, a strip mall with a palm reader, a video rental store, and a U-Wash-Doggie on the other. Trendy South Beach, it wasn't.

He opened the door, then turned back toward his father. 'I'm gonna find out what you did.'

'What for? What the hell for?'

Steve didn't say it. Couldn't say it aloud. But he thought it just the same.

To prove to you that I can.

SOLOMON'S LAWS

9. The people we've known the longest are often the people we know the least.

Thirty-four

PUBLIC SERVANT

At the wheel of his new car, Steve raced Lexy and Rexy along Ocean Drive. He drove the egg-shaped Smart- larger than an iPod, smaller than an offensive lineman's butt-as the twins Rollerbladed. An unfair race. Lexy and Rexy were ahead by two limo lengths.

It was the morning after Steve had thumbed a ride home, helped by an amiable but odoriferous septic tank truck driver. Now, headed to the office, Steve put the pedal to the metal-or was it plastic? — and the little German car pulled even with the long-legged Rollerbladers.

He got to the Les Mannequins building first, thanks to a Miami Beach bicycle cop, a lifeguard type in cargo shorts and epaulet shirt, who pulled over the twins. The official charge was reckless skating, but the cop obviously wanted to meet the leggy speeders, who wore cutoffs with bikini tops.

Steve wheeled the Smart to a stop, perpendicular to the curb, where it fit into a parking space without sticking out into traffic. The two-seater was on loan from Pepe Fernandez, a client whose primary occupation was stealing cargo containers of frozen shrimp from the Port of Miami. The enterprise lost money because Fernandez seldom could sell the booty before it melted into a disgusting crustacean slime. Lately, Fernandez and two buddies had begun boosting imported cars by physically picking them up from the dock and tossing them into waiting trailer trucks. This naturally limited the size of vehicle they could steal and resulted in their inventory of Smarts, cars that made Mini Coopers look like Mack trucks. Ordinarily, Steve would have felt guilty driving a stolen car, but the Smart got approximately five times the mileage of his old Eldo, so he rationalized his actions as good for the environment.

Moments later, he was at his second-floor office overlooking the Dumpster. He'd been planning on putting a plaque on the door:

SOLOMON AND LORD

ATTORNEYS AT LAW

But he'd never gotten around to it. Now it was too late.

'You got checks to sign,' Cece Santiago announced as Steve came in the door.

Cece was in her customary position, grinding out bench presses in front of the desk she seldom used. Wearing her uniform, Lycra shorts and a muscle tee, with the requisite three studs through one eyebrow.

'What checks?' Steve asked.

'Court reporter. Credit cards. My salary.'

'Didn't I just pay you?'

She eased the bar into the brackets and sat up. 'Two months ago. For services two months before that. You owe me like a gazillion dollars.'

'You get me an appointment with Reginald Jones?'

'No can do. His assistant says he's in conference all day.'

'What about tomorrow?'

'County Commission meeting.'

'Thursday, then?'

'Public hearings on a new courthouse in Sweet-water.'

'He's scared.'

'He's busy.' Cece lay back on the bench and began her stomach crunches.

'They're in it together. My father. Pinky. Reggie.'

'In what, jefe?'

'I don't know. Something bad.'

'Malo? Not your father.'

'I wouldn't have thought so. But I'm starting to think that our parents-the people we've known the longest- are the people we know the least, Cece.'

'When that stinky old car of yours went off the bridge, just how hard did you hit your head?'

'Don't you start with me.'

'You want to lose your papi, too?'

'What do you mean, 'too'?'

'Victoria. Chasing her away. Stupid. Muy stupido, jefe.'

That afternoon, Steve sat in the chief clerk's waiting room, reading a stimulating article, 'Managing Cubicle Space in the 21st Century Office,' in a magazine called Municipal Administrator. The walls