before the party of the first part attacked the party of the second part with a jagged crab claw. Steve had already violated his promise to be nice, and her mother wasn't doing much better. "On your birthday, can't we all just get along?"
"Yes, darling. Let's enjoy ourselves at Stephen's favorite, noisy restaurant." She glanced toward the diners who might have been Jewish orthodontists or Protestant stockbrokers, but who were undeniably loud. An overweight man in canary yellow Bermuda shorts was tossing stone-crab claws across the table, where they clang ed into a metal bowl. His friends applauded each score.
"If it were up to me," The Queen continued, "we would have gone to the club."
"If it were up to you," Steve counterpunched, "your club wouldn't accept my tribe as members."
"Oh, that's rubbish," Irene said. "My accountant is Jewish. My furrier is Jewish. All my doctors are Jewish."
"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."
"It's true. Do you think I'd go to some medico clinica in Little Havana?"
Desperately, Drake clink ed his water glass with a spoon and cleared his throat. "A toast to Irene. May this birthday be better than all the ones that came before."
" All of them?" Steve prodded. "How will she even remember?"
"To Irene!" Drake repeated, then took a hard pull on his gin and tonic.
"Happy birthday, Mother." Victoria sipped at her margarita and glared at Steve, conveying a simple message: Behave!
"L'chaim." Steve drained his tequila, then recited: "There once was a girl named Irene—"
"Steve!" Victoria warned.
"Who lived on distilled kerosene. But she started absorbin' a new hydrocarbon. And since then has never benzene."
Steve chortled at his own joke, a cappella, as nobody joined in. "Bobby made that up for you, Irene."
"How sweet of the child," The Queen replied, her smile now cemented into place.
Steve signaled the waiter for a refill on the drinks, and Victoria felt the beginning of panic. She had hoped to keep the evening civil, at least until the Key lime pie. "Steve, are you sure you want another drink before we eat?"
"C'mon, Vic. You know me. I'm half Irish and half Jewish. I drink to excess, then feel guilty about it."
"Two lies in one sentence," she replied. "You're not half Irish and you never feel guilty about anything."
* * *
Victoria felt like a referee.
In one corner, six feet tall and 180 pounds, the base stealer from the University of Miami and the unaccredited Key West School of Law, the Mouth of the South (Beach, that is), Steve Sue-the-Bastards Solomon.
In the other corner, five feet ten in her Prada heels, 130 pounds (net, after liposuction subtractions and silicone additions), the woman known both for haute couture and her own hauteur, Irene The Queen.
Here was Steve, spouting his dogma for the underdog, railing against the Establishment, materialism, and Republicans. And there was her mother, who once remarked: "Diamonds aren't a girl's best friend, darling. A diversified portfolio, including both growth and value stocks, is much friendlier."
Her mother's economic fortunes hadn't been as bright as the remark indicated. After the suicide of Victoria's father, Irene had been left to fend for herself. She fended fine for a while, attaching herself—like a remora to a shark—to a number of exceedingly wealthy men. There were rides on private jets, tips on stocks, and quite a few diamonds, too. But The Queen never attained the status she both desired and believed herself entitled to. These days, Victoria knew, her mother felt the sand was running out of the glass. Wealthy men cast their nets for younger, perkier fish. Maybe that was why Carl Drake seemed so important to her.
The platters of shelled claws had been removed from the table. The mountains of cole slaw topped with tomato slices had disappeared, the bowls of creamed spinach were empty, and the spears of sweet potato fries had been consumed. Waiting for dessert, The Queen daintily dabbed her lips with a napkin, then
"Yes, darling. Let's enjoy ourselves at Stephen's favorite, noisy restaurant." She glanced toward the diners who might have been Jewish orthodontists or Protestant stockbrokers, but who were undeniably loud. An overweight man in canary yellow Bermuda shorts was tossing stone-crab claws across the table, where they clang ed into a metal bowl. His friends applauded each score.
"If it were up to me," The Queen continued, "we would have gone to the club."
"If it were up to you," Steve counterpunched, "your club wouldn't accept my tribe as members."
"Oh, that's rubbish," Irene said. "My accountant is Jewish. My furrier is Jewish. All my doctors are Jewish."
"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."
"It's true. Do you think I'd go to some medico clinica in Little Havana?"
Desperately, Drake clink ed his water glass with a spoon and cleared his throat. "A toast to Irene. May this birthday be better than all the ones that came before."
" All of them?" Steve prodded. "How will she even remember?"
"To Irene!" Drake repeated, then took a hard pull on his gin and tonic.
"Happy birthday, Mother." Victoria sipped at her margarita and glared at Steve, conveying a simple message: Behave!
"L'chaim." Steve drained his tequila, then recited: "There once was a girl named Irene—"
"Steve!" Victoria warned.
"Who lived on distilled kerosene. But she started absorbin' a new hydrocarbon. And since then has never benzene."
Steve chortled at his own joke, a cappella, as nobody joined in. "Bobby made that up for you, Irene."
"How sweet of the child," The Queen replied, her smile now cemented into place.
Steve signaled the waiter for a refill on the drinks, and Victoria felt the beginning of panic. She had hoped to keep the evening civil, at least until the Key lime pie. "Steve, are you sure you want another drink before we eat?"
"C'mon, Vic. You know me. I'm half Irish and half Jewish. I drink to excess, then feel guilty about it."
"Two lies in one sentence," she replied. "You're not half Irish and you never feel guilty about anything."
* * *
Victoria felt like a referee.
In one corner, six feet tall and 180 pounds, the base stealer from the University of Miami and the unaccredited Key West School of Law, the Mouth of the South (Beach, that is), Steve Sue-the-Bastards Solomon.
In the other corner, five feet ten in her Prada heels, 130 pounds (net, after liposuction subtractions and silicone additions), the woman known both for haute couture and her own hauteur, Irene The Queen.
Here was Steve, spouting his dogma for the underdog, railing against the Establishment, materialism, and Republicans. And there was her mother, who once remarked: "Diamonds aren't a girl's best friend, darling. A diversified portfolio, including both growth and value stocks, is much friendlier."
Her mother's economic fortunes hadn't been as bright as the remark indicated. After the suicide of Victoria's father, Irene had been left to fend for herself. She fended fine for a while, attaching herself—like a remora to a shark—to a number of exceedingly wealthy men. There were rides on private jets, tips on stocks, and quite a few diamonds, too. But The Queen never attained the status she both desired and believed herself entitled to. These days, Victoria knew, her mother felt the sand was running out of the glass. Wealthy men cast their nets for younger, perkier fish. Maybe that was why Carl Drake seemed so important to her.
The platters of shelled claws had been removed from the table. The mountains of cole slaw topped with tomato slices had disappeared, the bowls of creamed spinach were empty, and the spears of sweet potato fries had been consumed. Waiting for dessert, The Queen daintily dabbed her lips with a napkin, then
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