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problems. There’d be a steady flow of checks. Okay, not a fortune, but state employment would solve the current cash-flow crunch. And when those new clients rolled in with big retainers, her professional life with Steve would be easier, too. No more scraping up leftovers in the bargain basement of the courthouse. No more ads on bus benches:
Solomon & Lord.
Hablamos Español.
    Now Victoria cruised south past Coral Gables and headed toward Kendall. Her destination was Sunniland Park, where Steve had taken Bobby for baseball practice. She felt the buzz that comes with good news and high expectations.
    She’d moved in with Steve six months earlier, not without some doubts and fears. Her mother, Irene Lord, known as The Queen to friends, family, and Neiman-Marcus salesclerks, hadn’t approved of Steve on many grounds. The Queen’s multicount indictment was divided evenly between finances and status. Steve didn’t make enough money. He didn’t belong to the Opera Guild. He had a habit of being thrown in jail for contempt. And you’d have to mug Steve to get him to the Sunday night seafood buffet at the country club.
    At first, her mother tried to persuade Victoria not to live with Steve. Her advice had a quaint feel to it.
“A man won’t buy the cow if he’s getting the crème fraîche for free.”
    The Queen’s attitude changed once Steve helped her when a con man fleeced her out of a bundle.
“If Stephen makes you happy, dear, that’s good enough for me.”
That was as much of an endorsement as The Queen could muster, and it would have to do.
    There’d been the problems of their different professional styles, of course. But living with Steve had been easier than Victoria expected. She had no real complaints, though she wondered why it was necessary for the TV to be tuned to ESPN twenty-four hours a day.
    Steve had been caring and considerate. Bobby was positively loveable. Victoria spent as much time with the boy as possible and had clearly become a welcome substitute for his abusive mother.
    So with the car radio tuned to the all-news station, and the lead story about the shooting at Cetacean Park, Victoria smiled to herself as she pulled into the parking lot of the baseball field.
    Yes, these were good times. And Steve was going to be so proud of her.

SOLOMON’S LAWS
    3. When arguing with a woman who is strong, intelligent, and forthright, consider using trickery, artifice, and deceit.

Eleven
    LOVE THE MAN, HATE THE GRIN
    Steve wanted to punch out the fat guy in the yarmulke but figured that wouldn’t help Bobby make the team.
    “We don’t steal bases,” Yarmulke Guy said.
    “What do you mean, ‘we,’ Rabbi?” Steve replied.
    “I’m not a rabbi, Mr. Solomon, and you know that. Are you ridiculing my spirituality?”
    “Heaven forbid,” Steve said with as much irony as he could muster.
    The Beth Am Bobcats were practicing at Sunniland Park, and Steve was desperately trying to make his point without pissing off Yarmulke Guy, the team’s coach, whose real name was Ira Kreindler.
    “There’s no league rule against stealing bases,” Steve said.
    “I adhere to a Higher Authority.” Kreindler looked skyward, either toward heaven or the overhead rail tracks, Steve couldn’t tell which.
    “
God
doesn’t want my nephew stealing second base?”
    “We’re talking ethics. Robert can advance to second if a subsequent batter earns a hit or if the defense makes an error. But stealing?” Kreindler made a
cluck-cluck
ing sound.
    Kreindler ran a wholesale meat business when he wasn’t fouling up the synagogue’s youth baseball team. His blue-and-white trucks,
Kreindler Means Kosher,
could be seen double-parked in front of glatt delicatessens in North Miami Beach. Around his neck he wore a golden
chai
that must have been chiseled from the mother lode, heavy enough to hunch his shoulders. He had a major-league paunch hanging over his plaid Bermuda shorts, and while he might have been able to slice brisket