Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor

Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor Copyright ©
1998 by Paul J. Levine

To Speak for the Dead Copyright © 1990 by
Paul J. Levine

Night Vision Copyright © 1991 by Paul J.
Levine

Reversal Copyright © 2010 by Paul J. Levine
(Originally published as 9 Scorpions Copyright © 1998 by Paul J.
Levine)

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from
Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.

Smashwords Edition: August 2010

Cover design by Aaron Cowan

Ebook design by Rob Siders

AUTHOR’S NOTE

BOOKS BY PAUL LEVINE

SOLOMON & LORD DROP ANCHOR (A SHORT
STORY)

PREVIEW: TO SPEAK FOR THE DEAD

PREVIEW: NIGHT VISION

PREVIEW: REVERSAL

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“
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” (Akashic 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 passenger. I think you’ll like it.

Inside, you’ll also find free excerpts of the
first two Jake Lassiter 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
.

To Speak for
the Dead

Night Vision

False Dawn

Mortal Sin

Slashback

Fool Me Twice

Flesh & Bones

Reversal (formerly 9 Scorpions)

Solomon vs. Lord

The Deep Blue Alibi

Kill All the Lawyers

Trial & Error

Illegal

Lassiter (Fall 2011)

By Paul Levine

“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 fishing.”

“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
Kumquat 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-shirt, Steve looked like a beach bum. Lips glossed
and cheekbones highlighted, wearing a glen plaid suit with an ivory
silk blouse, Victoria looked sexy, smart, and successful.

“C’mon, Steve. What are you really up to?”
Her voice drizzled with suspicion like mango glaze over sautéed
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 cocked her head and pursed her lips
in cross-exam mode. “Which is it, Pinocchio? Fishing 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 fishing 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 fishing,
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 Toraño Chevrolet in Hialeah where he managed to
steal three million dollars before anyone noticed. Teresa Toraño, 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
assets other than his sportfishing 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 button on her
pocket Dictaphone. “Memo to the Toraño file. Make certain our
malpractice premiums are paid.”

“You and your damned Dictaphone,” Steve
complained. “Drives me nuts.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s so…”

“Organized?”

“Anal.”

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 Toraño?

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 fishing
tackle?”

“Ah. Well. Er…” Gasping like a beached
grouper. “You know that store,
 
Only Sexy
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 fucking 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 shirt with epaulets. A Marlins’ cap was
pulled low over his eyes, and his sunglasses hung on a chain.

The boat was a sportfisherman in the
sixty-foot range, all polished teak and gleaming chrome. A fly
bridge, a glass enclosed salon, and a pair of fighting chairs in
the cockpit for serious deep-sea fishing. The name on the stern
read: “
Wet Dream.
”

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

“
Buenos
días
, 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 fishing.”

“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 fishing,” 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 shiners 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 damn boat.