Solomon versus Lord

Eleven
THE RUDNICK RACK

Steve had just lied. And told the truth.

The bit about Bobby, one hundred percent true. Bobby came first, and there were no games or tricks where his welfare was concerned. But the other stuff: “Good luck. It's all yours.”

Now, that was a big fat fib.

Not that it was his fault, Steve told himself. Like a nervous witness on the stand, Victoria had disclosed too much.

“It's a done deal… She's signing a retainer tomorrow morning.”

Leading Victoria into his home, Steve did not bother to correct her.

“No, Vickie, it ain't a done deal till the thin lady signs.”

Which meant he had until sometime tomorrow morning to steal the case, just like he once stole home against Florida State. He hadn't pranced up and down the baseline, as if he might make take off. He'd scratched his ass, feigned a limp, lulled the pitcher to sleep… then raced for home.

“So where's your new office?” Steve said, as casually as possible.

“Don't have one yet.”

Which meant they were meeting at the Barksdale home, he figured. A restaurant would be too public. Okay, he had half a plan now. He'd get to Gables Estates before Victoria. What he'd say when he got there-well, that would have to come later, because he didn't have a clue.

“Where's my Bobby?” Steve called out as they walked inside.

No answer.

“C'mon, kiddo. I want you to meet someone.”

Still no answer.

Steve wondered how Victoria would react to the boy. Some women tensed up. Others ignored him. A few were frightened, but who could blame them? A romantic evening does not usually end with an eleven-year-old boy crouched at the foot of your bed, barking like a dog.

Victoria took inventory of Steve's living room, decorated in Early Fraternity House. A coffee table made from a surfboard. A poster of quarterback Dan Marino. A sculpture, if that's what you call it when you crush several hundred beer cans and shape them into the torso of a naked woman. Newspapers and magazines littered a black leather sofa that looked like it had been left out in the rain. All in all, the home of an overgrown adolescent, she decided.

Without warning, a flash of movement, and a small thin figure dashed from behind window drapes and dived onto the sofa. The camouflage gear was gone, and the boy wore only undershorts.

“There you are,” Steve said.

Bobby tucked his knees under his chin, scrunched into a corner of the sofa, and rocked back and forth. He was so skinny that his protruding ribs looked like the struts of a sailboat under construction. His long hair needed cutting, and his black glasses were smudged. His feet were bare, and his head was tilted sideways so that one ear nearly touched a shoulder. A sudden pang struck Victoria. The boy seemed mentally disabled. Maybe physically, too.

“Bobby, this is Victoria Lord,” Steve said.

“Hello, Bobby,” Victoria said cheerfully, trying to put the boy at ease. She walked to the sofa and extended a hand, but the boy shrank farther into the cushions.

“Bobby doesn't like to be touched,” Steve said, tightening the towel around his waist. In the light, Victoria noticed he kept in shape. Good pecs and shoulders. She looked away, wishing he'd get dressed.

“Victoria's my friend,” Steve said.

For the sake of the child, she decided not to contradict him.

“She's not going to take you away,” Steve continued in a gentle voice he never employed in court. “You remember what I told you about her?”

“She's a rich bitch-kitty with a wicked tongue,” Bobby said, matter-of-factly.

“Isn't that sweet?” Victoria said, forcing a smile.

“Uncle Steve said something else, too.” The boy's voice grew deeper: “She's pretty and smart and the best rookie lawyer I've ever seen.”

Surprised, Victoria turned to Steve. “You said that?”

“Bobby only speaks the truth. He couldn't tell a lie if he wanted to.”

“What an odd couple you make.”

“And he said you don't have Rudnicks,” the boy added.

“That's enough, Bobby,” Steve said.

“Rudnicks?” She'd never heard the word.

“Sneakers,” Steve said. “Like Reeboks.”

“No they're not,” Bobby said.

Victoria shot Steve a look, but he wouldn't give anything away. “Bobby's a very special kid,” he said, pride in his voice.

“I'm just a spaz who's good at stuff nobody cares about.”

“I'm sure you're much more than that,” Victoria said.

A voice interrupted them. “You coming back to bed, Steve?”

Coming from a hallway was a young woman with long, dark hair. She looked familiar to Victoria, who was distracted, perhaps because the woman wore nothing but gold hoop earrings and a black beaded thong. Her breasts were round and full, her nipples pointed inward, like slightly crossed eyes. Now Victoria had two chests not to stare at.

“Oops,” the woman said, trying to cover her breasts with hands too small for the task.

“Those are Rudnicks,” Bobby said, pointing at the woman's chest.

“Oh, Ms. Lord,” the woman said. “I didn't know…”

Of course. Sofia Hernandez. The court reporter with the peekaboo blouse, the available phone number… and the large boobs.

“Hello, Sofia,” Victoria said, then turned to Steve. “Maybe I should go.”

“Hang on a second.” He was headed down the hallway toward the bedroom.

Again Bobby dropped his voice into a perfect impersonation of his uncle's: “Dr. Harold Rudnick is a skilled plastic surgeon, a diplomat in the Academy. His trademark is a full contour of the breast, rotund without being pendulous. If the plaintiff wanted anything but the traditional Rudnick rack, she should have informed the doctor.”

“Word for word from Steve's closing argument,” Sofia told Victoria, her arms folded under her own rotund Rudnicks. “He got me a free boob job just for being the court reporter. You want, I bet Steve could get you a discount.”

What was the polite reply to such an offer? Victoria didn't know.

“I mean, yours got a nice shape,” Sofia continued. “You just need some size.”

I'm on a strange planet in a distant galaxy. How did I get here?

Steve came back into the room, carrying Victoria's missing shoe and wearing sweatpants, thank God. He tossed a man's shirt to Sofia.

“The old Rudnicks were silicone,” Bobby said. “Some funky chunky neurotoxins.”

Victoria wished they would change the subject. Sofia slipped into the shirt but didn't button it. She looked like one of those magazine ads that seemed to suggest: Sex was grand, let's drink some vodka.

“Methyl ethyl ketone,” Bobby continued. “Cyclohexanone, acetone, polyvinyl chloride, xylene, ethyl acetate, benzene-”

“Stop showing off,” Steve said.

“Kid's brilliant,” Sofia said. “Sometimes I wish I was an idiot savant.”

“I'm not an idiot, you twat,” Bobby said.

“Bobby! That's an ugly, ugly word,” Sofia said.

“No it's not,” Bobby said. “‘Twat. Noun, seventeenth century. Slang for vulva, related to thwaite, meaning forest clearing.'”

“You've memorized the dictionary?” Victoria asked.

“Not all of it. Wanna play the name game?”

“I don't know how.”

“Give him a famous name,” Steve said.

“George W. Bush,” Victoria said.

The boy squinted behind his thick lenses and chewed his lip. Then he smiled for the first time, revealing two rows of shiny braces. “HE GREW BOGUS!”

“Good one,” Steve said.

“It's called an angiogram,” Sofia said.

“Anagram,” Bobby corrected.

“How did you do that?” Victoria asked.

“Letters float around in my head, and I catch them. Give me another name.”

“Monica Lewinsky,” Victoria said.

Bobby fidgeted a moment, then said, “INSANE MILKY COW.”

“Wow,” Victoria said.

Steve sat down on the sofa. “Bobby suffered sensory deprivation-”

“When Mom locked me in a dog cage for, like, a year,” Bobby said.

“Oh, God,” Victoria said.

“Bobby's left brain sort of shut down,” Steve said. “Limbic memory, logical and sequential thinking. But his right brain took off. Striatal memory, habit and procedural thinking.”

“I can memorize stuff,” Bobby said.

“We've been reading a lot of medical journals together,” Steve said.

“We're best buds,” Bobby said. “I'm gonna live with Uncle Steve until I'm old enough to hook up with Jenna Jameson.”

“Is she from the neighborhood?” Victoria asked.

“Duh.”

“She's an actress,” Steve said.

“I don't think I've seen her movies,” Victoria said.

“Jennatilia,” Bobby said. “Lip Service. Cum One, Cum All.”

“I should be going,” Victoria said.

“Will you come back?” Bobby asked.

“Now, there's a first.” Steve tousled Bobby's hair and looked at the boy with genuine warmth. Gone was the smart-ass grin, the wiseguy guile. At home, with his nephew, Solomon was a different man, Victoria thought.

On the sofa, the boy swiveled up onto his knees and held up his right hand toward Victoria, fanning out his fingers.

“Son-of-a-gun,” Steve said. “He wants to touch hands.”

Victoria raised her right hand and they touched palms and fingers.

“Like with Mom,” Bobby said. “Except no window.”

“Window?” Victoria asked, bewildered.

“Jail visitors' room,” Steve interpreted. “When Bobby was little and his mom was doing time, they'd touch each side of the glass.”

Victoria didn't want to embarrass Bobby by asking about his mother's incarceration. Behind his glasses, there was a sadness and vulnerability in his eyes.

“Please come back,” Bobby said.

“If it's okay with your uncle,” she said.

“Anytime.”

“So long, Solomon,” Victoria said. “Bobby, you're a wonderful kid. Sofia, nice seeing you and your Rudnicks.”

“You bet,” Sofia said.

Steve walked Victoria to the door. “Good luck on the case. If you need any advice, just call.”

Solomon seemed sincere, Victoria thought, stepping into the humid night, heading for her car. What was that she was feeling, her emotions as tangled as raveled wool? A tinge of disappointment, maybe. She was going to miss the sparks that crackled off their crossed swords. She had the strange sense of something ending without ever having begun.

“Victoria, wait,” Steve called out, hurrying down the flagstone path after her.

For a reason she couldn't fathom, excitement buzzed inside her like a bee against a windowpane. What did he want?

Steve handed her a snakeskin Gucci pump. “You forgot this,” he said, then walked back into his house and closed the door.

3. I will never take a drink until sundown… two o'clock… noon… I'm thirsty.