Trial and Error

Twenty

Steve parked his Mustang near the drawbridge on the Miami River, an inky and stinky body of water that wound its way through the middle of the city to the Bay. He never used the Justice Building parking lot, where his car had a fifty-fifty chance of being broken into, what with all the presumably innocent defendants in the vicinity.

Now Steve had a three-block walk to court, where Judge Gridley would hear discovery motions. He was running late for the hearing, but no matter. It was Thursday, and Judge Gridley always called his bookie right after lunch to run through the weekend’s college football games. The two o’clock calendar wouldn’t start until two-thirty at the earliest.

Victoria, of course, would already be there. Planning, prepping, rehearsing. Steve liked to wing it, both because he was better when he was spontaneous, and because he was criminally lazy.

He could hear the hum of tires over the 12th Avenue drawbridge. A few blocks south, the avenue had been renamed “Ronald W. Reagan Avenue” because the former President once ate lunch at a Cuban restaurant there. A number of Miami streets had been renamed by the city and county padres. You could get lost if you didn’t know that Southwest Eighth Street, already called “Calle Ocho” by everyone in Little Havana, had been rechristened “Pedro Luis Boitel Avenue,” after an anti-Castro dissident. Another few blocks of the same street were now called “Celia Cruz Way,” after the singer, and yet a third stretch was named “Carlos Arboleya Boulevard,” after a local banker.

War heros and artists, Steve could understand. But a banker?

Only thing he could figure, local politicians solicit wads of cash from the financial community. Which could explain Abel Holtz Boulevard, named for a banker who went to prison for perjury.

Steve’s favorite thoroughfare, however, was Southwest 16th Street, which the County Commission renamed “Jose Canseco Street,” after the famed steroidjuiced slugger and tattletale. Steve would have been even happier if Canseco had hired him for one of his domestic violence cases, but that was not to be.

Walking along the river, Steve watched a crane hoist a white Chevy Suburban onto the deck of a rust-eaten freighter. The SUV joined half a dozen others. Recent vintage, bound for the islands. A growing business in Miami, grand theft (specific) auto. Say you’re in the Dominican Republic and you want a white Chevy Suburban with coffee leather seats, a navigation system, and low mileage. Place your order, and someone in Miami will steal it for you.

Having wasted as much time as he could, and feeling the heat of the afternoon sun, Steve trekked toward the Justice Building. Behind him, he heard a fishing boat bleating its whistle at the drawbridge operator.

He walked along 13th Avenue, which had yet to be renamed Steve Solomon Street, but hey, he had his hopes. Three hundred yards from the front steps of the Justice Building, a black Lincoln pulled to the curb. The driver’s tinted window unzipped, and a guy said, “You Steve Solomon?”

“Not if you’re a process server.”

“I can help you on the Nash case. Hop in.”

The driver leaned out the window and showed the smile of someone who doesn’t smile much. A pink face, as if he’d just shaved. Short blond hair turning gray. Gold’s Gym wife-beater tee, massive biceps and delts, as if he’d been sharing trainers with Barry Bonds.

“Nah. My momma told me never to get into cars with strangers on steroids.”

The back door flew open, and a guy leapt out. Much smaller than the driver. Jeans. Scuffed cowboy boots and a black T-shirt. Short hair, broken nose. Looked like a fighter, a middleweight maybe. He gestured toward the door. “We just need a minute of your time, Mr. Solomon.”

I could run. No way Cowboy Boots can catch me. But it seems unmanly.

“Call my secretary, Cece, for an appointment. She’ll forget to tell me, but drop by the office tomorrow, anytime you want.”

“Cut the crap and get in, Solomon.” Cowboy Boots was trying to sound tough. He was also succeeding.

“Are you nuts? Look around. Justice Building. County Jail. Sheriff’s Department. A thousand cops within spitting distance. All I have to do is yell-”

Steve never saw the punch. A short right, square in the gut. Steve gasped. His knees buckled. He would have hit the ground, but Cowboy Boots grabbed him neatly by the collar of his suit jacket and shoved him into the backseat, piling in after him. Steve was still wheezing to catch his breath when the car pulled out. No shrieking tires, no crazy turns. Just a smooth acceleration past the Justice Building, where Steve’s presence was expected, if not entirely desired.

The driver spoke first. “Like I said, Solomon, we can help you with the Nash case.”

“No. You said, ‘I can help you.’ You never mentioned Oscar de la Hoya here.”

“But first, you gotta help us. You know who we are?”

“No, but I know where you’re going. There’s a cell with your name on it about a block away.”

“That ain’t funny.” Cowboy Boots cuffed Steve on the head with an open palm.

Which is when Steve saw it. Red scar tissue. A chunk out of the man’s arm. Just as Nash had described. But not a bullet wound. Steve had seen a nearly identical divot in another man’s arm. Captain Dan, one of the best fishing guides in Islamorada. It was a shark bite.

“You’re the two guys on the boat,” Steve said. “You were supposed to bring the dolphins aboard. But you cut and ran when the cops showed up.”

The Lincoln passed under the I-95 overpass on 20th Street. “What else did Nash tell you about us?” the driver demanded.

“Nothing. He doesn’t even know your names.”

“You sure about that?”

“He doesn’t know if you’re Mr. Blue and your pal is Mr. Pink,” Steve said.

Cowboy Boots smacked Steve on the head a second time. “What the hell’s that mean?”

“Reservoir Dogs,” the driver explained to his dimmer friend. “The guys pulling the heist in the movie all used colors for their names.”

“So why would I be Mr. Pink?”

“Never mind.” The driver turned to Steve, who felt the beginning of a headache inside one temple. “You know why we’re asking this stuff, right, Solomon?”

“Because you two worked for Sanders. And because you’re afraid Nash can lead the cops straight to you.”

Cowboy Boots snickered. It was better than getting slugged. “He thinks Sanders was our boss.”

It must have been a good joke, because both men laughed.

“Hey, Solomon,” the driver said. “If you gave Nash a penny for his thoughts, you’d get back change.”

More yuks. These two seemed to be quite happy kidnappers. And they didn’t seem terribly upset about Sanders’ death, which added to Steve’s confusion. Just then he remembered something Nash had said in the jail. The night of the break-in, Sanders had asked about the Gulf Stream, worried about the size of the waves. One of these guys had replied, “You do your job, we’ll do ours.”

A command. Not the way you speak to your boss.

These guys didn’t work for Sanders.

Sanders worked for them.

But doing what? And what were they gonna do with the dolphins?

“So what is it you want from me?” Steve asked.

“There are important people who need to know what Sanders told Nash.”

“About what?”

“Where we were planning to go that night, for one thing.”

That stopped Steve. These guys have nothing to do with ALM, he thought. And if Sanders worked for them, he had nothing to do with the movement, either. This isn’t about animal rights. Never was. So what the hell is it about?

“Even if Nash told me, I couldn’t tell you-”

Another open palm ricocheted off the back of Steve’s skull. “Sure you could,” Cowboy Boots said. “Or you’ll be Mr. Brown. As in shit-in-your-pants.”

“But Nash doesn’t know anything. You said it yourself. He needs two hands to find his dick.”

The headache dug deeper into Steve’s skull. Back in college, he’d been beaned by a Tulane pitcher who took offense at batters crowding the plate. The pitch cracked Steve’s batting helmet and left him seeing double. Now he was starting to feel as if he’d been hit by another pitch.

The car pulled to a stop in front of the Justice Building. Steve hadn’t realized it, but they’d driven in a circle.

“He’s telling the truth,” the driver told his pal, before turning to Steve. “Get out.”

The second Steve’s feet hit the pavement, the door swung closed, and the black Lincoln pulled away. Hillsborough County plates.

“S-3-J-1…”

That’s all Steve could pick up before the car turned the corner. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, tucked his shirttail in, and straightened his tie. Then he bounded up the steps two at a time, heading into the Justice Building. He was late for court.