Kill All the Lawyers (19 page)

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Not that again."

"We wanted to join your country clubs. We were being pushy. We wanted to attend Princeton. We were being pushy. Damn pushy Jews!"

"Don't raise your voice, Stephen. It's very unbecoming."

"Ah, so I'm loud, too. 'Loud' is another ethnic slur."

"Some of my favorite fiancés were Jewish, so please cease this harangue. It's becoming tedious."

"You never hear about those pushy Episcopalians, do you? Those loud Lutherans? Don't think so. What's next, Irene. How about 'greedy'?"

"You're not greedy. God knows, I wish you cared more about money. Now, would you please calm down and give me some legal advice?"

"Ask Vic. She knows more law than I do."

"I need someone who's more . . ." Irene clucked her tongue as if ticking off words until she found the right one. "
Flexible.
And forgiving. My darling daughter is somewhat . . ."
Cluck-cluck-cluck.

"Rigid?" Steve helped out.

"Exactly. Can I count on your discretion?"

"Lawyer-client privilege trumps boyfriend-girlfriend. Who'd you kill?"

Irene rolled her eyes and reached into a soft leathery purse that seemed to be made of the belly skin of a baby alligator. She pulled out a document, slid it across Steve's desk, whisked invisible dirt from the cracked leather client chair, and sat down. Her hair, the color of corn silk, was swept up in a style that reminded Steve of Princess Grace of Monaco.

"First Dade Bank versus Irene Lord," Steve said, reading aloud. "Mortgage foreclosure?"

"They're after my condo, Stephen. You must help me."

"Says here you're five months behind on payments."

"At the moment, I'm cash strapped. What can I do?"

"What about those old boyfriends with all the money? Call that Australian shipping magnate who said you were his favorite ketch."

"He moved on to a sleeker sloop."

"What about the gold-bullion trader? He's loaded."

"Last year, when I turned fifty, he traded me in for two twenty-five-year-olds."

"C'mon, Irene. Last year you turned fifty-seven."

"So he traded me for three nineteen-year-olds. The point is, I'm with Carl now, and he doesn't have a dime."

It hit him then. Carl Drake. Alleged heir of Sir Francis Drake. Smooth talker with a trim mustache and a gold-buttoned navy blazer. "Is that where your money went, Irene? To Drake?"

"It's for my share of the expenses in the trust. I had to put up my money to stake my claim."

"The son-of-a-bitch. When I grilled him at Joe's, he said you didn't have to put up a cent."

"I know. I know."

"And you kept quiet."

"The way I was brought up, Stephen, a woman does not contradict her man."

"Too bad you didn't pass that along to your daughter." Steve shook his head. "Jeez, Irene. Drake's a con man."

"Expenses came up. It happens, Stephen."

"Oh, come on, Irene. Sir Francis Drake's money hasn't been sitting around for four hundred years waiting for you to claim it. It's a scam. A flim-flam. A con job."

"When it pays off, don't expect an invitation to my yacht."

But she said it with such a lack of conviction that Steve immediately sensed something else. Irene
knew
she'd been swindled. Maybe she even knew it when she was writing the check. And this from a woman who was always the recipient of money and jewelry and designer duds. Which could only mean one thing, and that was scariest of all.

"Irene, please don't tell me you're in love with this guy."

Her eyes, unnaturally wide open thanks to lid surgery, now brimmed with tears. "With all my heart, Stephen. The man fills me with wonder."

"Oh, jeez." Steve stood up. "C'mon, Irene. It's not too early. I'm gonna buy you a drink."

* * *

They sat at a sidewalk table at an Ocean Drive café. A woman lost in the deep and treacherous ocean of love, Irene Lord rejected every logical suggestion Steve made.

No, she wouldn't break up with Carl Drake; no, she wouldn't sue him and freeze his accounts; and no, she certainly wouldn't file charges with the State Attorney.

Steve said he would do what he could to slow down the foreclosure litigation. He'd hit the bank with endless discovery. He'd claim fraud and usury and violations of banking regulations, and anything else he could think of, including the Treaty of Versailles and the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. He'd obfuscate and distort, muddle and confuse. He'd buy time with dilatory tactics, and if all else failed, he'd have Irene enlist in the army and seek protection under the Soldiers and Sailors Civil Relief Act. That was where The Queen seemed to draw the line, but otherwise she seemed to approve his strategy. And with each sip of Tanqueray, she appreciated Steve even more.

"I feel we're bonding here, Stephen."

"Aw, c'mon, Irene. The only bonds you know about are tax-free municipals."

She laughed. "I'm not going to pretend I'm your biggest supporter. Many is the day I've wished Victoria had found a man who was more traditional and less . . ."

"Pushy?"

"Reckless." She smiled at him, her veneers snowy white. "But you do have something going for you."

He waited to see if a zinger was attached to the compliment, like a stinging cell on a jellyfish.

"Victoria loves you. She loves you in a way she's never loved any other man. And that goes a long way with me."

Wow. The Queen had never said anything to him like that before.

"Stephen, this is where you say you love her, too."

"I do, Irene. A lot. More than I ever knew was possible. I fell for Vic when we were on opposite sides of a case, and it just grew from there."

"So. If there's anything I can ever do for you . . ."

It was an offer she'd never made before and might never make again. "To tell you the truth, I could use some advice right now. About Victoria."

"If you're worried, that's a good sign. Some men are so dense they never see it coming."

"It?"

"The three-inch heel of the Prada pumps as they're walking away."

Steve let out a sigh.

"Of course you have problems, Stephen. Every couple does. Nelson Lord was the love of my life, but boy did we fight." She used her fingertips to squeeze the lime into her gin and tonic. "With you and Victoria, it's even more difficult because you're so different."

In the next seventeen minutes, Steve summarized the current state of his relationship with Victoria, admitting that, yes, he had some second thoughts about moving in together, and sure, she'd picked up on it. Now she didn't seem to want to share a Coke with him, much less live under the same roof.

"She needs to know where the two of you are headed," Irene said.

"Why can't she just relax, go with the flow, see where it takes us?"

"Someone as highly organized as my daughter needs certainly in her life. Let's face it. Spontaneity isn't her strong suit and predictability isn't yours."

"I can change."

"How's that, Stephen?"

He thought about it. On the sidewalk, the usual collection of wannabe models sashayed past their table. In the street, teenage boys drove by in their parents' SUVs, gawking at the girls, their CD players blasting unintelligible reggaeton, something with a lot of drums from Tego Calderon.

"I'm gonna tell Vic to choose where we should live," he answered. "I'm gonna go to the ballet with her. I'm even gonna join the Kiwanis."

Irene's laugh was a bit louder than necessary. Three gin and tonics will do that. "If The Princess wanted a man like that, she would have married Bruce."

Meaning Bruce Bigby, Steve knew. Real estate developer. Avocado grower. Chamber of Commerce Man of the Year.

Irene signaled for another drink. But the waiter must have been an out-of-work actor, because he seemed to be posing for a table of teenage girls in shorts and tank tops. "Victoria dropped Bruce for you," Irene continued. "Why do you suppose she did that?"

"Temporary insanity?"

"She loves you the way you are, despite your many peccadillos. So don't you dare try to change. Besides, it wouldn't work. We are who we are. You, me. Victoria. Carl. All of us. Our true natures will come out, no matter what we do to disguise them."

"That's your advice, Irene? Don't change?"

"That's it. Although . . ."

Here it comes,
Steve thought.

"What's the Jewish word for money?" she asked.

"Yiddish word. 'Gelt.' "

Irene smiled at him and did her best impression of a Jewish mother. "Would it hurt you, Stephen, to bring home a little more gelt?"

Twenty-Four

DANCE FOR ME

It was dark, but the moon was three-quarters full—the waning gibbous, Bobby knew—so the yard was illuminated. Myron Goldberg spent a fortune on outdoor lighting, so the house was lit up, too. Bobby heard a whirring sound, followed by a
whoosh.
Below him, sprinkler heads popped out of the lawn like those aliens in
War of the Worlds.
A second later, water shot out, the spray chilling his bare legs. A dozen feet above the ground, Bobby was wedged into the crevice between the trunk and a gnarly limb of a mango tree.

Maria's mango tree. Bobby could smell the peachy aroma of the fruit, still green and hard. A wasp sat on one of the mangoes, antennae wiggling. Could the wasp smell it, too? It annoyed Bobby that he didn't know if wasps had a sense of smell.

Maria. Where are you?

While he waited, Bobby whispered to himself the names of the shrubs and flowers surrounding the Goldberg home. Even their gardener wouldn't know the real name of the honeysuckle with the flowers that looked like purple trumpets.

Lonicera sempervirens!

Then there was the bougainvillea vine with flowers so red, if you crushed them, the liquid would look like wine.

Maria! Where are you?

The wind picked up, rustling leaves. Bobby shivered and felt goose bumps on his legs.

If a goose gets cold, does he say to his mate: "Hey, take a gander at my people bumps"?

It was nearly midnight. Any minute now. The Goldberg house was dark except for the outdoor lighting that cast an eerie glow over the tree and the shrubs.

"When the clock strikes twelve, be there."

That was what Maria had said. As if he would be late. He'd been in the tree for at least an hour, and his butt hurt from the way he was wedged against the trunk.

"Should I throw pebbles against the window?"

"Totally old school, Bobby. At midnight, call but don't say who it is. Just say, 'Dance for me.' "

"What if your parents hear the ring?"

"I'll have the phone on vibrate, and I'll keep it between my thighs."

"Wow."

The conversation had pretty much left him breathless. Now he rehearsed his line several times, trying to lower his voice into a manly baritone, emphasizing the word 'dance' a few times, then the word 'me.'

"Dance for me." Definitely hit the "me."

The hottest hottie in the sixth grade was going to dance for him. She hadn't said "naked," but he had his hopes.

It seemed fair, Bobby thought. He had taught Maria how to divide decimals by whole numbers and how to change fractions into decimals. She had asked him if the quotient becomes larger or smaller as the dividend becomes a greater multiple of ten.

Duh.

He checked the time in the cell phone window. Oh, jeez, 12:03. He speed-dialed her number, listened to the
brrring,
heard her whisper, "What do you want?"

"Dance for me!" His voice cracking, but he got it out.

A light flicked on in the second-story window. Maria's bedroom. Bobby could make out a lamp near the window, probably on Maria's desk. A moment later, the light took on a reddish glow as Maria draped a red cloth over the lampshade. Ooh. This was gonna be good.

She stood in front of the window, her silhouette tinged reddish-black from the lamp, and she started dancing, moving her thin arms overhead in a motion that made Bobby think of someone drowning. If there was music on, he couldn't hear it. She slipped out of her top and turned sideways, her boobies the size of eggs.

Bobby heard his breathing grow deeper, and suddenly he wasn't cold anymore. He shifted his position between the trunk and the limb because of the tightness in his pants. But then new thoughts emerged, intruding thoughts, flowing like a river, breeching the dike his mind had erected.

That cloth over the lampshade. Is it cotton or polyester? What is its flammable rating?

And the lightbulb. He hoped it wasn't a halogen. Those babies throw off 250 degrees Celsius, which he calculated in about three seconds to be 482 degrees Fahrenheit.

Maria slithered out of her shorts, and judging from the angle of her elbow, her hand seemed to be in her crotch, but Bobby couldn't concentrate. He was certain that, any moment, the cloth would burst into flame. The curtains, the bedcovers, the wallpaper— everything would be ablaze. Would Maria even have time to run from the room? Was their A/C hooked up to natural gas? If so, he was sure it was leaking. The house was about to become a fiery inferno, and it was all his fault. In the window, Maria writhed from side to side and swiveled her hips. But in Bobby's mind, all he could see was an orange fireball exploding, tearing the house apart at the beams, incinerating Maria, her mother, and her father.

And that was when he screamed as loud as he could, "Fire! Fire!
Fire!
"

Twenty-Five

MOTHER LODE

Steve ran full speed along Kumquat Avenue, took the bend to the left, then another left on Loquat. The only sounds were his Nikes hitting the pavement and his own breathing.

The phone call had come just after midnight, waking him from a dream that involved stealing home in the College World Series—instead of being picked off third base—and getting carried off the field on his teammates' shoulders.