The Deep Blue Alibi

Twenty-two

On the Caddy's radio, Roadkill Bill Jabanoski was singing "I Wanna Get Drunk, I Wanna Get Laid, and Monday Morning Seems Like Two Years Away." Even though it was one of Steve's favorite Key West songs, he turned down the volume as he shouted into his cell phone. "What kind of lawyer are you!"

In the passenger seat, Bobby fidgeted, first covering his ears with his hands, then putting a finger to his lips. Unless he was a third base coach signaling a hit-andrun, he wanted Steve to quiet down.

"Don't raise your voice to me," Victoria responded at the other end of the line. Sounding so calm, it aggravated Steve even more. Why couldn't she see past her own family problems?

"The client always comes first, Vic. Not the lawyer's personal needs."

"Then why aren't you here? Why are you wasting your time on your father's case when he told you to dismiss it?"

"You didn't want me there!"

"Since when does that stop you?"

"Don't change the subject. I thought you could handle one simple arraignment without the client firing us."

"Uncle Grif didn't fire us. He just walked out and didn't come back."

"And won't return your calls."

"You're overreacting," Victoria said.

Steve was driving south on the Overseas Highway, headed to Key West and what was left of their case. Victoria had told him about Griffin bribing Stubbs but continuing to deny that he killed the "greedy prick"- an expression they might want to fine-tune before getting to court.

If we get to court.

The relationship between murder client and defense counsel was as delicate as that between two lovers. Had Victoria destroyed it?

"What the hell happened?" Steve demanded. "I'm the one who breaks the china. You're the one who's supposed to get along with people."

"I told you. It all came clear to me about The Queen and Uncle Grif."

"And you couldn't keep quiet about it?" Steve banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "That's ancient history. Who cares if they were playing hide-the-salami when Bette Midler was winning Grammys?"

"Must you be so crude?"

"Haven't I told you nothing's as important as maintaining your client's trust?"

"Aren't you the one who accused Uncle Grif of murder ten minutes after meeting him?"

"I implicated him. I accused his son. Besides, that's just my interviewing technique."

It was nearly ten p.m., Steve had a piercing headache, and the drive had barely begun. A misty rain was falling when they left Miami, so the top was up, the wind whistling through a small tear in the canvas above Bobby's head. They zipped past rows of Australian pines that looked like the log pilings of a wooden fort. A pale slice of moon peeked out from a thin layer of scudding clouds. On either side of the road, the turquoise water had turned an ominous black, the tangled mangrove trees melding into one indistinguishable dark mass, and the marshy hammocks-baked all day by the sun-were discharging a brackish smell into the moist night air.

"Why can't you understand my feelings?" Victoria pressed him. "Uncle Grif and my mother might be responsible for my father's death. How can I have a relationship with either one of them?"

"Exactly what Griffin's wondering. He thinks you wouldn't mind seeing him go to prison. We're dead in the water, Vic. He'll have new counsel by the morning."

"Uncle Grif never said that."

The Caddy rumbled over the Jewfish Creek Bridge. Steve always wondered if he should be offended by the name. The jewfish was a giant grouper-some weighed several hundred pounds-and he had no idea why anyone would ascribe an ethnic heritage to the ugly old creature. Was there such a thing as a Methodist moray? A Baptist barracuda? He didn't think so. He hoped the reason behind the name was positive. Maybe jewfish were the doctors or professors or comedians of undersea life. But he feared the name reflected some negative stereotype, like the big fat loan shark dishing out a hundred clams at usurious rates. Shylocks of the deep.

"You gonna bill him for the time you spent calling him a sleaze?" Steve said into the cell phone.

"You billed The Beav for time spent wrestling a silicone doll."

"In Judge Schwartz's chambers? That was a hearing."

"I'm talking about at home, the night before."

"That was trial prep."

Judge Schwartz's clerk had called that afternoon, saying he was drafting an order dismissing the lawsuit against The Beav, but that His Honor would be hanging on to Tami the Love Doll a bit longer.

"I would have expected a little more empathy from you," Victoria said. "When I told Junior about the two of them, he practically wept."

"You called Mr. Suntan before me!"

"Why are you so insecure about him?"

Steve heard a throaty roar from behind the Caddy. In the rearview mirror, he saw a motorcycle swoop closer, tailgating them. The road was only two lanes with a solid line, but the chopper-a cherry red Harley-shot past him, the rider in black leather with a Darth Vader helmet.

"You should have called me first," Steve told Victoria.

"Junior has an emotional stake in this. He's sharing my pain."

"What Junior wants to share is your bed."

There was silence on the line.

Steve listened to the Caddy's tires whining across the asphalt. The Harley had disappeared into the distance. He was still waiting for Victoria to say: "I'm not interested in Junior. You're the only man for me, even if sometimes you are the world's biggest dummy."

But she didn't say that, not even the "biggest dummy" part. He decided to make a tactical retreat. "Look, I'm sorry-I'm being a real shit."

Still nothing.

"I'll try to be more understanding of what you're going through."

Line static.

"We should talk about the case, Vic, just in case we're not fired."

"I'm tired, Steve. I'm going to sleep."

Avoidance. Steve had never been in therapy or couples counseling or Deepak Chopra seminars, but he intuitively knew that you had to talk through your problems. In his experience, there was a surefire, four-step method for making up:

Talk.

Hug.

Kiss.

Screw.

Occasionally, it was possible to skip a step or two on the way to number four, but women loved to talk as much as they loved to buy shoes, so it was best to start there.

"How 'bout waiting up for me?" he suggested. "It's a beautiful night. Maybe we can walk on the beach, sip some sour mash whiskey."

"I'm really tired."

"It's been a few days and I really miss you."

"Uh-huh."

Okay, he thought, just lay it on the line. "I've got an itch that needs scratching."

"Gross," Bobby said.

"Try calamine lotion," Victoria said, and the phone clicked dead.