Solomon And Lord Drop Anchor Part 1

Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor.

Paul Levine.

Author's Note.

"Remarkably fresh and original with characters you can't help loving and sparkling dialogue that echoes the Hepburn-Tracy screwball comedies. A hilarious, touching, and entertaining twist on the legal thriller." - Chicago Tribune, review of "Solomon vs. Lord"

Steve Solomon and Victoria Lord, those squabbling Miami lawyers, have been compared to Nick and Nora of "The Thin Man" stories, to David and Maddie of TV's "Moonlighting," and of course, to Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn in "Adam's Rib.

There are four novels in the series. "Solomon vs. Lord" (nominated for the Macavity award and the James Thurber prize), "The Deep Blue Alibi" (nominated for an Edgar Award), "Kill All the Lawyers" (a finalist for the International Thriller Writers award), and "Trial & Error," (not nominated for a darn thing).

All four books are currently available as paperbacks and e-books. There is only one "Solomon & Lord" short story, and here it is. "Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor" originally appeared in the anthology, "Miami Noir" (Akas.h.i.+c 2006). Edited by Les Standiford, it's a great collection of South Florida crime fiction, with stories by James W. Hall, John Dufresne, Carolina Garcia-Aguilera, Vicki Hendricks, the late (and greatly missed) Barbara Parker, and several other outstanding writers.

It's my pleasure to give you - for FREE - the story of Solomon & Lord on a mysterious boat trip with a nefarious pa.s.senger. I think you'll like it.

Inside, you'll also find free excerpts of the first two Jake La.s.siter novels, "To Speak for the Dead" and "Night Vision," and my stand-alone Supreme Court thriller, "Reversal" (originally published as "9 Scorpions"). They're available as e-books for $2.99. All proceeds of "To Speak for the Dead" go to the Four Diamonds Fund for cancer treatment at Hershey (PA) Children's Hospital.

I hope you enjoy all my stories and books! More info at http://www.paul-levine.com.

"What aren't you telling me?" Victoria Lord demanded.

Jeez. Her grand jury tone.

"Nothing to tell," Steve Solomon said. "I'm going deep-sea fis.h.i.+ng."

"You? The guy who got seasick in a paddle boat at Disney World."

"That boat was defective. I'm gonna sue." Steve hauled an Igloo cooler onto the kitchen counter. "You may not know it, but I come from a long line of anglers."

"A long line of liars, you mean."

The partners of Solomon & Lord, Attorneys-at-Law, stood in the kitchen of Steve's bungalow on k.u.mquat Avenue in Coconut Grove. The place was a square stucco pillbox the color of a rotting avocado, but it had withstood hurricanes, termites, and countless keg parties.

Unshaven and hair mussed, wearing cargo shorts and a t-s.h.i.+rt, Steve looked like a beach b.u.m. Lips glossed and cheekbones highlighted, wearing a glen plaid suit with an ivory silk blouse, Victoria looked s.e.xy, smart, and successful.

"C'mon, Steve. What are you really up to?" Her voice drizzled with suspicion like mango glaze over sauteed snapper.

Steve wanted to tell his lover and law partner the truth. Or at least, the partial truth. But he knew how Ms. Propriety would react: "You can't do that. It's unethical."

And if he told her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? "You'll be disbarred! Jailed. Maybe even killed."

No, he'd have to fly solo. Or swim solo, as the case may be.

Steve pulled two six packs of Heineken out of the refrigerator and tossed them into the cooler. "Okay, it's really a business meeting."

Victoria c.o.c.ked her head and pursed her lips in cross-exam mode. "Which is it, Pinocchio? Fis.h.i.+ng or business? Were you lying then or are you lying now?"

For a tall, lanky blonde with a dazzling smile, she could fire accusations the way Dan Marino once threw the football.

"I'm going fis.h.i.+ng with Manuel Cruz."

"What! I thought you were going to sue him."

"Which is what makes it business. Cruz wants to make an offer before we file suit. I suggested we go fis.h.i.+ng, keep it relaxed. He loved the idea and invited me on his boat."

So far, Steve hadn't told an outright fib and it was almost 8 a.m. Not quite a personal best, but still, he was proud of himself.

For the last five years, Manuel Cruz worked as controller of Torao Chevrolet in Hialeah where he managed to steal three million dollars before anyone noticed. Teresa Torao, a Cuban exilado in her seventies, was nearly bankrupt, and Steve was determined to get her money back, but it wouldn't be easy. All the computer records had been erased, leaving no electronic trail. Cruz had no visible a.s.sets other than his sportfis.h.i.+ng boat. The guy didn't even own a house. And the juiciest piece of evidence - Cruz fled Cuba years ago after embezzling money from a government food program - wasn't even admissible.

"Just you and Cruz, alone at sea." she said. "Sounds dangerous."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"It's not you I'm worried about."

Victoria punched the RECORD b.u.t.ton on her pocket Dictaphone. "Memo to the Torao file. Make certain our malpractice premiums are paid."

"You and your d.a.m.ned Dictaphone," Steve complained. "Drives me nuts."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It's so..."

"Organized?"

"a.n.a.l."

Victoria pulled her Mini-Cooper into the Matheson Hammock marina, swerving to avoid a land-crab, clip-clopping across the asphalt. The sun was already baking the pavement, the air sponge-thick with humidity. Just above a stand of sea lavender trees, a pair of turkey buzzards flew surveillance.

Victoria sneaked a look at Steve as he hauled the cooler out of the car's tiny trunk. Dark, unruly hair, a slight, sly grin as if he were one joke ahead of the rest of the world. The deep brown eyes, usually filled with mischief, were hidden behind dark Ray Bans.

Dammit, why won't he level with me?

Why did he always take the serpentine path instead of the expressway? Why did he always treat laws and rules, cases and precedents as mere suggestions?

Because he has more fun making it up as he goes along.

Steve drove her crazy with his courtroom antics and his high-wire ethics. If he believed in a client, there was nothing he wouldn't do to win. Which was exactly what frightened her now.

Just what would Steve do for Teresa Torao?

They headed toward the dock, the morning sun beating down so ferociously Victoria felt her blouse sticking to her shoulder blades. The only sounds were the groans of boats in their moorings and the caws of gulls overhead. The air smelled of the marshy hammock, salt and iodine and fermenting seaweed. The fronds of thatch palms hung limp in the still air.

"Gimme a kiss. I gotta go," Steve said, as they stepped onto the concrete dock. In front of them were expensive toys, gleaming white in the morning sun. Rows of powerful sportfishermen, large as houses. Dozens of sleek sailing craft, ketches and sloops and schooners.

"Sure, Mr. Romance." She kissed him lightly on the lips. Something seemed off-kilter, but what? And what was that pressing against her through his shorts?

Hadn't last night been enough? Twice before SportsCenter, once after Letterman.

She sneaked a hand into his pocket and came out with a pair of handcuffs. "What's this, the latest in fis.h.i.+ng tackle?"

"Ah. Well. Er..." Gasping like a beached grouper. "You know that store, Only s.e.xy Things?" He grabbed the handcuffs and slipped them back into his pocket. "Thought I'd spice up the bedroom."

"Stick to cinnamon incense. Last chance, lover boy. What's going on?"

"You're f.u.c.king late, hombre!" Manuel Cruz yelled from the fly bridge of a power boat tied up at the dock. He was a muscular man in his late thirties, wearing canvas shorts and a white s.h.i.+rt with epaulets. A Marlins' cap was pulled low over his eyes, and his sungla.s.ses hung on a chain.

The boat was a sportfisherman in the sixty-foot range, all polished teak and gleaming chrome. A fly bridge, a gla.s.s enclosed salon, and a pair of fighting chairs in the c.o.c.kpit for serious deep-sea fis.h.i.+ng. The name on the stern read: "Wet Dream."

Men, Victoria thought. Men were so one-dimensional.

"Buenos das, Ms. Lord."

She gave him a nod and a tight smile.

"Let's go, Solomon," Cruz urged. "Fish are hungry."

Steve hoisted the cooler onto the deck. "Toss the lines for us, hon?"

She leveled a gaze at him. "Sure, hon."

Victoria untied the bow line from its cleat and tossed it aboard. She moved quickly to the stern, untied the line, propped a hand on a piling crusted with bird dung, and leapt aboard.

"Vic! Whadaya think you're you doing?"

"Going fis.h.i.+ng."

"Get back on the dock."

She smiled and pointed toward the increasing body of water that separated them from land.

"You're not dressed for fis.h.i.+ng," Steve told her.

"I'm dressed for your bail hearing." She kicked off her velvet-toed pumps and peeled off her panty hose, distracting Steve with her muscular calves, honed on the tennis courts of La Gorce Country Club. "Now, what's with the handcuffs?"

Steve lowered his voice so she could barely hear him above the roaring diesels. "You remember Solomon's Law number one?"

Oh, that. Steve's personal code for rule breaking.

"How could I forget? 'If the law doesn't work...work the law.'"

"In the matter of Manuel Cruz, the law isn't working."

"What's that?" Cruz asked, eying the cooler on the deck.

"Brought beer and bait," Steve said.

"What for? I got a case of La Tropical and a hundred pounds of s.h.i.+ners and wiggles."

All three of them stood on the fly bridge. Twin diesels throbbing, the Wet Dream cruised down Hawk Channel inside the barrier reefs. The water was green felt, smooth as a billiard table, the boat riding on a plane at thirty knots.

Cruz ran a hand over the polished teak steering wheel. "I come to this country with nothing but the clothes on my back and look at me now."

"Very impressive," Steve said, thinking it would be even more impressive if Cruz hadn't stolen the money to buy the d.a.m.n boat.

Cruz winked at Victoria, his smile more of a leer. "You two want to fool around, I got clean sheets in the master stateroom."

"Sounds lovely," Victoria cooed. "Want to fool around, Steve?" Her smile was as sweet as fresh-squeezed guarapo, but Steve caught the sarcastic tone.

"Maybe after we catch something," he said, pointedly.

"Heads and A/C work, faucets don't," Cruz said. "Water tank's fouled."

Steve studied the man, standing legs spread at the wheel, a macho pose. A green tattoo of a scorpion crawled up one ankle. On the other ankle, in a leather sheaf, was a foot-long Marine combat knife. It looked like the weapon Sylvester Stallone used in those "Rambo" movies. Out here, it could be used to cut lines or clean fish.

Or gut a lawyer planning to do him harm.

They had just pa.s.sed Sombrero Light when Cruz said, "So here's my offer, hombre. The Torao b.i.t.c.h gives me a release with a promise never to sue. And vice versa. I won't sue her a.s.s."

"I don't like the way you talk about my client," Steve said.

"Tough s.h.i.+t. I don't like Fidel Castro, but what am I gonna do about it?"

"Your offer stinks like week-old snapper."

"You sue me, what do you get? A piece of paper you can wipe your a.s.s with. I got nothing in my own name, including the boat."

Steve looked right and left to get his bearings. Off to port, in the direction of the reef, he spotted the fins of two sharks heading toward strands of yellow sarga.s.so weed, home to countless fish. Red coral just below the surface cast a rusty glow on the shallow water. To the starboard was the archipelago of the Florida Keys. From here, the island chain was strung out like an emerald necklace. "Let Vic take the wheel a minute," Steve said. "I want you to see something."

Cruz allowed as how even a woman lawyer could keep a boat on 180 degrees, due south, and followed Steve down the ladder to the c.o.c.kpit. Just off the stern, the props dug at the water like a plow digging at a field. Steve opened the cooler, reached underneath the ice and pulled out a two foot-long greenish-blue fish, frozen solid. A horse-eyed jack.