Kill All the Lawyers (7 page)

"Jeez, Dad. Can you focus? I'm telling you this guy's coming after me."

"You mean to do you harm?"

"No, to wish me happy Chanukah. Don't you get it? Kreeger killed two people. I was supposed to defend him, and I double-crossed him. He's out of prison and he's pissed. It's a
Cape Fear
deal."

"Cape Fear, cape schmere. Ah heard him on the radio today. Talking about what a shitty lawyer you were. Some of it was damn funny."

"Glad you enjoyed it."

"He was riding you hard, sure. But it didn't sound mean. More like joshing."

"So what's the message he's sending?"

"The way Ah figure, he's saying he knows what you did. Confirming you were right about him being a killer. Boasting about it. Thinking maybe you would appreciate the artistry of it."

"Why would I appreciate him killing two people?"

"From what you say, he admires men who break the rules. That's you, son."

"But not by killing. Not like him."

"Dr. Bill probably considers you just a step or two up that slippery slope from where he stands."

"And what do you think he wants from me?"

"Take the man at his word. He said he wanted you to come on his show. Maybe he thinks he's Johnny Carson and you're his Ed McMahon. His sidekick. Ah don't believe Kreeger wants to kill you, Stephen. Ah believe he wants to be your pal."

"That's crazy."

"Just listen to the man flap his gums. He's a talker.

But who's he gonna talk to about killing those people? You, son. In his head, you're the only one who understands."

"I don't want to talk to him. I want him off my back."

"Okay, go tell him that. But what if he won't let up?"

"Then I'll bring him down. I don't know how, but I will."

"You best be careful about that."

"You saying I should do nothing, let him smear me?"

"Ah'm saying, you call me if you plan to take him on. That sumbitch ain't a one-mule load."

* * *

Bobby sliced the mangoes, taking care to cut around the pit so it would pop out, the way Uncle Steve had taught him. He could hear the two men talking in the yard. On the farm, when Bobby had been locked in the shed in the dark, his sense of hearing had sharpened. At night, he'd listened to the coyotes until he could tell one from another as they sang their songs. He could hear the horses shuffling in the barn, their rumps smacking the wall. Could almost feel the hot breath of their snorts and whinnies. During the days, he'd heard the trucks, their doors slamming, men cursing. When he was let out to work in the fields, he would listen to the birds chirping and the bees buzzing.

He'd liked it outside, even if the men would sometimes hit him for not working hard enough. The men smelled funny, and their beards were tangled and yucky. The women worked in the vegetable garden, bent over, greasy hair falling in their eyes.

Mom said they were organic farmers, but Bobby saw drums of insecticide and bags of artificial fertilizer. And he knew the leafy green plants were marijuana. On moonless nights, he heard the trucks pull in, heard the men grunting as they hoisted bales, heard them yelling at the moon, whooping after their women, guns blasting empty liquor bottles to smithereens.

Now Bobby listened as Uncle Steve told Grandpop about the psychiatrist named Kreeger. Uncle Steve sounded worried, which was weird. He was always getting into trouble but it never seemed to bother him. But this was different. Was Uncle Steve scared?

Bobby tossed the mango slices into the blender with a sliced banana, a handful of ice, and two scoops of protein powder. He wanted to gain weight so he didn't look like such a weenie, but it wasn't working. Despite the smoothies and ham paninis and all the pistachio ice cream he could eat, his body still was all wires and bones. With the blender whirring, he could no longer hear the men. Were they talking about his mother?

Uncle Steve doesn't understand. He thinks just because Mom messed me up, I don't want to see her. But she's still my mom.

There was something he needed to tell Uncle Steve, but didn't know how. His mother had called him yesterday. She cried on the phone, and he did, too. Said she loved him and was sorry about everything and she had completely changed.

"I'm a new woman, Bobby. I'm clean and sober."

"That's great, Mom."

"I'm never going back to those old ways. I have a new purpose. A guiding light."

"What's that, Mom?"

"I found Jesus. I let Jesus Christ into my heart."

Wait till Grandpop hears,
Bobby thought.

But that wasn't what Bobby needed to tell Uncle Steve. What he needed to tell him was the last thing Mom had said.

"I'm coming to get you, Bobby, honey. I'm coming back to be your mother again."

Eight

WAXING NOSTALGIC

Without really intending to, Victoria Lord was staring straight into The Queen's crotch. "Maybe this should wait, Mother."

"Nonsense. It's your duty to relieve my insufferable boredom." Naked from the waist down, Irene Lord lay on her back, her hands under her butt, her legs raised and spread. "Benedita, you will be quick about it, won't you, darling?"

"I will be
queek
so your lover can be slow," Benedita vowed in a thick Brazilian accent. A young woman with cinnamon skin and flaming red lipstick, Benedita wore pink nylon shorts, a crimson sequined wrestler's singlet, and knee-high suede boots.

They were in a private booth at the Salon Rio in Bal Harbour for The Queen's monthly bikini wax. Already, Victoria regretted coming here, but she was desperate for personal advice.

Should I move in with Steve? Why is the thought of All-Steve, All-the-Time, so terrifying?

Victoria hadn't expressed her fears to him. How could she? Moving in together had been her idea. Of course, if Steve were more attuned to the subtleties of her moods, he would have picked up the vibes. Instead, she had asked:
"Are you absolutely sure you're ready for this?"

He quickly said yes, not realizing she had been expressing her own doubts. Typical tone-deaf male.

Now she was in full-blown crisis mode. Could she really work with him all day, then come home to the same house? Was 24/7 simply too much?

Something else, too. After that bombshell today, Steve nuking the ethical rules by turning on his own client, could she even work with him?

Then she wondered if she was overreacting. Or even worse . . .

Am I subconsciously using what Steve did years ago as a reason not to advance our relationship?

She wanted to ask her mother all these questions. After all, The Queen's experiences with men crossed several continents over several decades and were exponentially greater than her own. But her mother, as usual, was engrossed in her own affairs.

"You really must meet Carl," Irene said, peering over her pubic region. "He's a dreamboat and a dead ringer for George Clooney. They could be twins."

"Which would make him how much younger than you, Mother?"

"Actually, I haven't told him my age, but I implied I was too young to remember Neil Armstrong landing on the moon."

"Which means you gave birth to me when you were, what—ten?"

"It's been known to happen, dear."

"Stop moving," Benedita ordered as she dusted Irene's private parts with perfumed puffs of baby powder. Snow falling on pubies.

"Princess, you really should get waxed," Irene said.

"No thank you, Mother."

"I've seen that bush of yours. You could use a weed whacker."

"Mother!"

Benedita hoisted one of Irene's legs over a shoulder.

"I'm just trying to help, dear. Men love those bare, smooth loins. Probably the Lolita fantasy."

"I'm not having this discussion."

"Just trying to help, dear." The Queen studied her daughter a moment, pursing her lips. "And what have you done to your hair? Your
other
hair."

"Nothing."

"You've tinted it. I can tell."

"I haven't done anything except wash it."

"I liked it better the other way."

"What other way! Dammit, Mother, you're impossible."

"Don't raise your voice. Men can't stand a woman who's shrill."

Victoria sighed. "God, why did I come here?"

"Why, to keep me company, of course."

Victoria blurted it out: "I'm not sure about moving in with Steve."

"Well, I am. It's a terrible idea. Why you ever suggested it is beyond me. A man won't buy the cow if he's getting the crème fraiche for free."

"I thought you didn't want me to marry Steve."

"Oooh," The Queen sighed as Benedita slathered the warm beeswax concoction over her crotch. "I don't, Princess. The man is totally unsuitable for you."

"Why? Because he's not Episcopalian or because he's not rich?"

"Ouch!" A tearing sound and The Queen yelped. "Jesus, Benedita . . ."

Benedita smiled as she examined the glob of hardened wax she'd just yanked from The Queen.

"I'm not a bigot and I'm not
that
materialistic," Irene said. "But I can't help wondering, dear. If you're going to be with a Jewish man, why couldn't it be one with some wherewithal? Goodness knows, there are enough of them."

"I knew this would be useless."

Another rip. Another
"Ouch!"

"I'm just worried that we're too different, Mother."

"Of course you are, dear."

As if it's a given. As if there's no need to discuss it.

"Keep the landing strip narrow, Benedita," Irene instructed as the Brazilian woman plucked stray hairs with tiny tweezers. "It makes the man look bigger."

More concerned about the aesthetics of her private parts than about her only child's happiness.

Victoria decided to try once more. One more stab at drawing her mother away from her own sybaritic pleasures. "Steve did something incomprehensible, and I just can't come to grips with it."

"He cheated on you?"

"Of course not! It involves a case."

"You know how legal talk bores me, dear."

But still, Victoria told her the story of Steve handing over evidence that helped convict his client. By the time Victoria finished, The Queen was left with a landing strip the width of a popsicle stick. The surrounding skin was flaming pink.

"I don't know, dear. What Stephen did doesn't sound that terrible to me. His client's a murderer who was going to get away with it. At least Stephen took him off the streets for a few years."

"But that's not his job. You don't understand, Mother. It cuts to the essence of the profession. A lawyer who'll do that . . . who knows what else he might do? If Steve represents a corporation, will he give away trade secrets if he decides the company's behaving badly? In a divorce, if his client tells him she's been cheating on her husband, will he tell the judge? Once you break the rules, where does it stop?"

"Did I mention that Carl is a fantastic golfer?"

"What?"

"He wants to take me to Scotland, play all the great courses."

What a breathtaking leap, Victoria thought, her mother vaulting to her own love life without breaking stride.

Of course, she already devoted nearly five minutes to my problems. How much more could I expect?

Victoria decided to surrender. What else could she do? "That's fascinating, Mother."

"Carl's family came over on the
Mayflower.
Personally, I never cared for cruises, though the S.S.
France
had foie gras to die for. Which reminds me. Are we going to the club for my birthday?"

"It's up to Steve, Mother. He's picking up the check."

"If he mentions that chili dog place on the causeway, tell him to forget it."

"Will you be bringing the fantastic golfer?"

"Of course. It will be the perfect time for our announcement."

"What!"

"Don't furrow your brow, dear. Little lines today, deep ditches tomorrow. And don't worry. Carl and I are not getting married." She smiled mischievously. "Yet."

"I had no idea the two of you were so serious."

"Because you don't listen to your mother. All wrapped up in your own problems. My life drifts along, unnoticed and unadorned."

"Hardly, Mother. Don't project your personality onto me."

"Nonsense. You're my only child, Victoria. My entire
life.
"

There was no way to win the argument, Victoria knew.

"As for Carl," Irene continued, "I haven't been drawn to any man this way since your father died. We fit together so perfectly. He has such a—
je ne sais quoi
—I find almost indescribable."

Something felt out of kilter, Victoria thought. The Queen made men swoon, not the other way around. "So what exactly is the big announcement?"

"Sur-prise," Irene sang out. "You'll have to wait. But I'll say this. I haven't been this happy in years. Just look at me. Am I glowing?"

"Your crotch certainly is, Mother."

* * *

Well, that was useful,
Victoria thought ruefully as she crossed the Broad Causeway on her way back to the mainland. Indian Creek Country Club was to her left across a narrow channel. She had played tennis there as a child, had consumed gallons of root beer floats in the clubhouse restaurant, had learned to sail in the calm waters of the bay. She hadn't envisioned an adulthood filled with complications, both professional and personal. When her father was still alive, when her mother seemed to care for more than just herself, the future promised rewards that thus far eluded her.

I have to make decisions. About Steve. About me. About life.

Ten minutes later, she was on Biscayne Boulevard, stopped at a police barricade. A parade passed by. A steel band from one of the islands. Marchers carrying signs that either celebrated some holiday or protested conditions in their native land. From five cars back in line, she couldn't tell which.