there was her duty to the State Attorney’s Office and Pincher’s need for federal cooperation.
“I’ll make the offer,” she said. “But I doubt Steve will accept it.”
“Why? He’d be crazy not to.”
“Because he’s having too much fun trying to beat me.”
Twenty
STEVE SOLOMON STREET
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 “José 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
“I’ll make the offer,” she said. “But I doubt Steve will accept it.”
“Why? He’d be crazy not to.”
“Because he’s having too much fun trying to beat me.”
Twenty
STEVE SOLOMON STREET
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 “José 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
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