Kill All the Lawyers

by Paul Levine

  Sure, Mom. Right after my bar mitzvah.

  Bobby had told her about Maria and how much he liked her. She seemed interested, especially in Maria's family, the mother being Catholic and the father Jewish.

  "She sounds like a good candidate for Jews for Jesus," his mother had said.

  Now Maria draped a second leg over his other shoulder. She pressed her thighs together, squeezing his ears, knocking his glasses sideways. He could smell her perfume, orange and vanilla, like a Creamsicle. He wanted to lick her face.

  "I'm tired of studying," she whispered.

  All right!

  Time for action. But how?

  If he could turn around and somehow stand up, his crotch would be at her eye level. Ordinarily, no big deal, but right now, he had a world-class boner. What if she didn't want to kiss him? Would she tell everyone at school he was a horn-dog perv?

  A third screen opened in his brain, and Uncle Steve was saying: "Always show respect for girls. Sometimes you even have to show more respect for them than they have for themselves."

  And Mom was saying: "Like Jesus said, if you look at a girl with lust, you've committed a sin. But the cool thing about the Savior, Bobby, is that he's very forgiving. So my motto is to do what feels right at the time. You can always repent later."

  Twelve

  REPORT AND RAPPORT

  Why is Steve so quiet?

  Victoria pondered the question as they drove across the causeway on their way to The Queen's birthday dinner. Of course, Steve wasn't exactly crazy about her mother, who treated him as she did so many people: like hired help.

  The thought of Steve marrying into the family really curdled the cream in The Queen's demitasse.

  "Steve has many qualities, dear, but is he really the one for you?"

  Translation: "I hate him, and you can do better."

  It probably didn't help his cause that Steve would sometimes wear a T-shirt with the logo: "If It's Not One Thing, It's Your Mother."

  Irene Lord considered Steve déclassé. Steve considered Irene Lord a gold digger. Victoria loved them both but, like the lion tamer at the circus, had to occasionally crack the whip to keep them apart.

  Taking The Queen and her new beau, Carl, to dinner—and getting stuck with the check—probably wasn't high on Steve's list of favorite things. But still, Victoria wondered, why did he seem so distant? Okay, so getting humiliated on the radio and arrested for assault might throw a guy off his game. But Steve was used to verbal combat and was no stranger to jail, so what was really bothering him?

  Thinking back over recent events, it seemed as if Steve had been out of sorts for a while. When they'd looked at the condo, he'd been almost hostile to the idea of moving in together. They were supposed to see other properties with Jackie, but did Steve really want to do it? In his typical male fashion, he wasn't talking, so she had no choice but to ask.

  "So what's your plan?" she said as they passed Fisher Island.

  The question seemed to startle him. "Wow, that's something." With one hand on the steering wheel, he playfully shook a finger at her. "You're reading my mind."

  "Good. Tell me about it."

  "I'm not sure I can."

  "Who would you tell if not me?"

  "It's dangerous," he said, "and I don't want you to worry."

  She was lost. "Moving in together is dangerous?"

  "What? Who's talking about moving in together?"

  "We are. Or at least I am. I'm trying to figure out what you're planning. House or condo? Move in together now or maybe wait a bit?"

  "Oh."

  "So what are you talking about?"

  "Kreeger. How I'm gonna nail him."

  Wasn't that just like Steve? Or any man, she decided. Your guy is sitting there, quietly stewing, and you think he's worried about the relationship. Turns out he's wondering if the Dolphins can cover the spread against the Jets. And when men do talk, it's like dispensing the news on CNN. Hurricane in Gulf. Dow Jones up twenty. I-95 gridlocked. Just the facts, ma'am.

  She had studied psychology and linguistics at Princeton, and she knew that men and women communicate differently. It sounded clichéd, but it was true. Women talk about feelings, what academics called "rapport talk." Men dispense information, what's called "report talk." When they talk at all.

  "Both Dad and Bobby asked me about my plan for Kreeger," Steve told her, "so when you asked 'What's your plan?' I just naturally thought—"

  "It's okay, Steve. But maybe you should just let Kreeger go. It didn't work out that great on the radio."

  Her feminine mode of communication. She could have said: "You really got your ass handed to you today, partner." But with a lover, it was best to cloak your criticism in lamb's wool, not lash it with barbed wire.

  "I was just getting warmed up when the cops came in."

  "It seemed like he enjoyed tormenting you. And if he's as dangerous as you say . . ."

  "Exactly. That's why my plan will work."

  Steve swung the car off the causeway and onto Alton Road. They'd be at Joe's in three minutes. There'd be a line of tourists snaking through the bar and into the courtyard. But between Dennis the mâitre d' and Bones the captain, Steve would manage to have his party seated within ninety seconds.

  "I'm almost afraid to ask," Victoria said.

  "Kreeger killed two people, right?"

  "Two you know about."

  "Right. Each one posed a threat. Jim Beshears was gonna blow the whistle on his phony research. Nancy Lamm was gonna report Kreeger's ethical violations. Suppose someone else poses a threat to him now?"

  "What kind of threat?"

  Victoria listened as Steve told her about Herbert trying to track down the charter boat captain who would have seen Kreeger brain Jim Beshears with the gaff.

  As he went over the details, she began analyzing the plan in her logical way. Then she said, "Even if you found the captain, even if he says, 'Yeah, I think Kreeger shoved the guy overboard, then purposely hit him,' a defense lawyer would slice him up. Why'd it take you all these years to come forward? Why doesn't the other witness, the girlfriend, corroborate your story? And all this assumes you can get an indictment, and the chances of that are—"

  "Slim to none."

  "Right. So why do it?"

  "If I tell you, take a deep breath and think it over before unloading on me."

  "So it's got to be illegal."

  "I told Dad to make sure he handed out my card everywhere he went, from Key Largo to Key West. Tell every drinker and fisherman and old salt that Stephen Solomon, Esquire, of Miami Beach, will pay a reward for finding Oscar De la Fuente, missing charter captain. Then I took an ad in the Key West Citizen and posted some notices on websites, saying the same thing."

  It only took her a second. "You don't care if you find the guy! You just want Kreeger to know you're looking for him."

  "You're getting warmer. Keep going."

  "You're going to tell Kreeger you found De la Fuente, whether you do or not. You're going to say you have solid eyewitness evidence against him. You might even come up with a phony affidavit, De la Fuente swearing he heard Kreeger threaten Beshears, then saw Kreeger push him overboard before clobbering him."

  "Hadn't thought of the affidavit. Nice touch."

  "So this is your brilliant plan? To use yourself as bait. To get that psycho to try to kill you."

  He had a grin on his face that managed to be both childish and clueless. Like a boy who catches a viper and shows it to a girl in the misguided belief she will immediately want to start necking. "I can't get him for either of the two murders he's committed, Vic. But I can get him for attempting a third."

  "Has it occurred to you that Kreeger might be better at committing murder than you are at preventing it?"

  "I'll have an advantage Beshears and Lamm didn't have. I'll be sober, and I'll know what's coming."

  This time, she didn't try to cushion her words. "You are utterly irresponsible. Even worse, you don't care abou
t the people who love you."

  "Don't see how you can say that."

  "What about Bobby? What about your father? What about me? If you get hurt or killed, what about us?"

  "Vic, I'm not scared of Kreeger. The guy's a coward who murdered a stoned woman in a hot tub and a drunk on a boat."

  They were the fifth car in line as they pulled up to valet parking in front of the restaurant. Patrons spilled out the doors and clogged the patio. On the outdoor speakers, they heard Dennis the mâitre d' announce:

  "Grossman party. Stuart Grossman. Party of eight."

  "Now, as for that other thing," Steve said.

  "What other thing?"

  "The living-together thing. House versus condo."

  Wait a second, she thought. We're not through discussing your asinine plan. You can't move on to the next subject just because you've done your über-male report-talk.

  "I have this great compromise." Steve sounded proud of himself. "You like condos. Low maintenance. Lock and leave. And I respect that. But I like houses. Privacy. Mango tree in the backyard. So how about a townhouse?"

  This isn't communication. This is the male of the species setting a brush fire, scorching the earth, and moving on.

  "Steve, the townhouse can wait. We're not done here."

  Now they were second in line for the valet. She didn't have much time. "You didn't even ask my opinion about your crazy plan, which, by the way, I think is suicidal. And now, what? Subject closed? Now we're supposed to talk about a townhouse and a hibiscus hedge?"

  "I was thinking bougainvillea—"

  "I'm serious. I'm really unhappy about this, and you'd better deal with it."

  Steve's eyes widened. Getting hit with a two-by-four will do that. He chewed at his lower lip a moment. Over the loudspeaker, "Berkowitz party, Jeff Berkowitz. Party of six."

  "Okay, Vic. Here it is. There are three people in the world I dearly care about. Three people I love with all my heart. You and Bobby and my crazy father. You're the ones I'd take a bullet for."

  His words startled her. "Is that literally true?"

  He seemed to consider it a moment. "Well, I'd take a bullet for you and Bobby. For my old man, I'd take a punch."

  He seemed sincere, she thought. No man had ever said anything like that to her, that her life was more important to him than his own.

  "There are some concepts I care a helluva lot about, too," he continued. "That vague, shadowy thing we call justice. Seven years ago, I really screwed up. Everything you said the other day was right. I tried to convict my own client, and I was wrong. Now it's come back to haunt me. But I was right about one thing. Bill Kreeger is a killer. When I was at the radio station today, he mentioned Bobby and Dad by name. And he mentioned you, too, Vic."

  She felt a shiver go through her. "Why?"

  "Because he wanted me to know he could get to the three of you."

  "Did he make any threats?"

  "He says I owe him for the six years he spent in prison. He's come back to collect the debt. Six years isn't something I can repay in cash, so I figure he wants to hurt me by going after someone I love. I can't sit back and do nothing. To keep him from coming after one of you, Vic, I need him to come after me."

  What could she say? Sure, he was being reckless, but it was a recklessness born of love and care and obligation. That was another aspect of the male of the species. Man, the protector.

  "I still hate the idea of you doing this," she said. "Will you at least promise to be careful?"

  "Hell, yes. I'll promise that and anything else you want."

  "Deal." She gave Steve a soft smile just as the attendant opened the door. "Promise to be nice to my mother tonight."

  Thirteen

  THE QUEEN AND THE PIRATE

  "You're looking lovely, Irene," Steve said, on his best behavior.

  "Thank you, Stephen," Irene Lord replied with a smile as brittle as an icicle.

  "And your dress." Steve let out a whistle. "What can I say?"

  "I'm not sure, Stephen. What can you say?"

  "Why don't we order?" Victoria interjected. Steve was on his third tequila, and she had no desire to watch him spout ribald limericks, one of his irksome habits when tipsy.

  "Bright, Irene," Steve decided, after a moment. "Your dress is very bright."

  It was an ankle-length number in flowing turquoise silk and chiffon. A trifle dressy for Joe's, Victoria thought.

  "I thought we were going to the club," Irene said, with a tone of disappointment. "Hence, the gown."

  "Hence, the frown," Steve added, draining his Chinaco Blanco.

  "One would never know from your own wardrobe that you paid such close attention to fashion," Irene said. Her smile was permafrosted in place.

  Victoria tried again. "Mr. Drake, are you ready to order?"

  "Call me Carl," the distinguished-looking man said. He was the much-ballyhooed new beau. Forty-five, tops, with shiny dark hair going gray at the temples. Face a little too tan, smile a little too bright. He wore a navy blazer with gold buttons, a blue striped shirt, and a rep tie. His fingernails were manicured and polished to a fine sheen. He had a trim mustache a bit darker than his hair. Victoria thought it might have been dyed, and was trying not to stare at it. He spoke with the faintest of British accents, as Americans sometimes do if they spend time in the U.K. All in all, Drake conveyed the impression of a successful investment banker and a gentleman, an extremely presentable accoutrement for an evening at the opera or country club.

  "Might I propose a toast?" Drake inquired.

  "By all means, Carl," Irene said. "Perhaps after another drink, I won't hear all the racket." She motioned in the direction of the hungry hordes.

  "Loosen up, Irene. We're at Joe's. Center of the culinary universe." Steve leapt to the defense of his favorite restaurant.

  "A fish house," she sniffed. "Filled with sweaty tourists." Again, she waved a dismissive arm toward a table of ten. Sunburned faces, aloha shirts still creased from the packaging. "What's going on there, an orthodontists' convention?"

  "Is that an ethnic remark, Irene?" Steve fired back.

  "What?"

  "Orthodontist equals Jew? That it, Irene? Does that table of Israelites offend you?"

  "Oh, for God's sake."

  Not this again, Victoria thought. For a nonpracticing Jew, Steve could be extremely prickly about ethnic cracks, real and imagined.

  The Queen leveled her gaze at Steve. "I have no idea if those loud men with the mustard sauce on their faces are Jewish. I have no idea if most orthodontists are Jewish." She flashed an exaggerated, toothy smile. "I have never required the services of an orthodontist, thank you very much."

  True, Victoria thought. But much later, there had been staggeringly expensive periodontal work, and her mother's flawless smile now reflected two rows of glimmering white veneers.

  "A toast?" Drake tried again. He hoisted his gin and tonic, forcing the rest of them to join in. "To the lovely Irene, a shimmering diamond in a world of rhinestones, a shooting star in a galaxy of burned-out asteroids, a woman of poise and purpose—"

  "My nephew Bobby swims with a porpoise," Steve said.

  "I beg your pardon?" Drake appeared puzzled.

  "You said Irene had a porpoise."

  "Purpose. I said she's a woman of poise and purpose."

  "Stephen, I'm beginning to wish they hadn't let you out of jail so quickly," Irene said.

  "Jail?" Drake echoed. He had the startled look of a man who unexpectedly wakens to find himself in the monkey cage at the zoo.

  "Stephen spends more time behind bars than his clients. Don't you, dear?"

  "To a lawyer, that's a compliment," Steve said. "Thank you, Irene."

  Drake shot looks around the table. "Perhaps I should finish my toast . . ."

  Twirling a diamond earing between thumb and forefinger, Irene cocked her head coquettishly. "Please do, Carl. I love a man who's good with words. Which reminds me. Stephen, I heard you on the radi
o today. So surprising that a trial lawyer of your experience would become so flustered."

  "Mother, can we just call a truce?" Victoria decided to intervene before the party of the first part attacked the party of the second part with a jagged crab claw. Steve had already violated his promise to be nice, and her mother wasn't doing much better. "On your birthday, can't we all just get along?"

  "Yes, darling. Let's enjoy ourselves at Stephen's favorite, noisy restaurant." She glanced toward the diners who might have been Jewish orthodontists or Protestant stockbrokers, but who were undeniably loud. An overweight man in canary yellow Bermuda shorts was tossing stone-crab claws across the table, where they clanged into a metal bowl. His friends applauded each score.

  "If it were up to me," The Queen continued, "we would have gone to the club."

  "If it were up to you," Steve counterpunched, "your club wouldn't accept my tribe as members."

  "Oh, that's rubbish," Irene said. "My accountant is Jewish. My furrier is Jewish. All my doctors are Jewish."

  "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

  "It's true. Do you think I'd go to some medico clinica in Little Havana?"

  Desperately, Drake clinked his water glass with a spoon and cleared his throat. "A toast to Irene. May this birthday be better than all the ones that came before."

  "All of them?" Steve prodded. "How will she even remember?"

  "To Irene!" Drake repeated, then took a hard pull on his gin and tonic.

  "Happy birthday, Mother." Victoria sipped at her margarita and glared at Steve, conveying a simple message: Behave!

  "L'chaim." Steve drained his tequila, then recited: "There once was a girl named Irene—"

  "Steve!" Victoria warned.

  "Who lived on distilled kerosene. But she started absorbin' a new hydrocarbon. And since then has never benzene."