Read Online Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor by Paul Levine - Free Book Online

don’t know,” Cindy said, twirling a finger
through a stiff curl. If a mosquito flew into her hair, it would be
knocked cold. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this case. Your Dr.
Salisbury has a weird look in his eye.”
    “All men look at you that way, Cindy. Try
wearing a bra.”
    “I never thought you noticed.”
    “Hard to miss when the air conditioning turns
this place into a meat locker. Now c’mon Cindy, help me out. We
have anything on Corrigan’s daughter by his first marriage?”
    “Sure, a little.” Cindy was not as ditsy as
she looked. She could turn heads with her hyped-up looks, bouncy
walk, and easy smile, but underneath were brains and street smarts,
an unusual combination.
    “Susan Corrigan,” Cindy said, without
consulting the file. “About thirty, undergrad work at UF, then a
master’s in journalism at Northwestern. Sportswriter at the Herald .”
    “You’re amazing,” I said, meaning it.
    “In many splendored ways unbeknownst to
you.”
    I chose not to wade in those crowded
waters.
    “Wait a second,” I said. “Of course. Susan
Corrigan. I know the by-line, the first woman inside the
Dolphins’ locker room.” I picked up yesterday’s paper, which had
been gathering dust in a wicker basket next to my desk. I found the
story stripped across the top of the sports section under the
headline, “Dolphin Hex? Injuries Vex Offensive Line.”

    BY SUSAN CORRIGAN
    Herald Sports Writer

    On a team where the quarterback is king,
something wicked keeps happening to the palace guard.
    And the palace tackles. And the palace
center.
    “ It’s scary the things that happened to
our offensive line in the last three weeks,” Dolphin Coach Don
Shula said yesterday.
    “ When injuries hit us, they come in
bunches.”

    Sure, Susan Corrigan. Made a name for herself
playing tennis against Martina, sprinting against Flo-Jo, then
writing first-person pieces. I’d read her stuff. Tough and funny.
Today I’d seen half of that.
    “What’s she have to do with Salisbury’s
case?” Cindy asked.
    “Don’t know. But there’s more to the second
Mrs. Corrigan than tears and white gloves, and Susan knows
something.”
    “What’s she look like, an Amazon
warrior?”
    “Hardly. Cute, not beautiful. Long legs,
short dark hair like Dorothy Hamill, wears glasses, wholesome as
the Great Outdoors. No hint of scandal.”
    Cindy laughed. “Doesn’t sound like your
type.”
    “Did I mention foulmouthed?”
    “We’re getting warmer.”
    “Cindy, this is all business.”
    “Isn’t it always?”
    * * *
    Practice was almost over and only a few
players were still on the field. Natural grass warmed by the sun, a
clean earthy smell in the late afternoon Florida air. It had been
one of those days when it’s a crime to be shackled to an office or
courtroom. Winter in the tropics. Clear sky, mid-seventies, a light
breeze from the northeast. On the small college campus where the
Dolphins practice, the clean air and open spaces were a world away
from Miami’s guttersnipes and bottom feeders.
    I spotted Susan Corrigan along the sideline.
She wore gray cotton sweats and running shoes and seemed to be
counting heads, seeing what linemen were still able to walk as they
straggled back to the locker room. A reporter’s notepad was jammed
into the back of her sweatpants and a ballpoint pen jutted like a
torpedo out of her black hair. All business. On the field in front
of her only the quarterbacks and wide receivers were still going
through their paces, a few more passes before the sun set. On an
adjacent practice field, a ballboy shagged kick after kick from a
solitary punter.
    “Susan,” I called from a few yards away.
    She turned with an expectant smile. The sight
of me washed it away. I asked if we could talk. She turned back to
the field. I asked if she was waiting for somebody. She studied the
yard markers. I asked who she liked in the AFC East. She didn’t
give me any tips. I just stood there, looking at her