Kill All the Lawyers

by Paul Levine

  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.

  "This is Eva Munoz-Goldberg. My husband is Dr. Myron J. Goldberg . . ."

  Doctor. As if I might confuse him with Myron J. Goldberg, garbage collector.

  "Get over here and pick up your sicko nephew before I call the police."

  Oh, shit.

  Steve had grabbed the closest T-shirt—"I'm Not Fluent in Idiot, So Please Speak Clearly"—pulled on a pair of orange Hurricanes shorts, and took off down the street.

  What now, Bobby?

  As he ran, Steve envisioned his nephew being caught in Maria's bedroom. What was it Herbert had called her? A harlot-in-training. But maybe they were doing homework and just fell asleep on Maria's bed. Thinking like a defense lawyer.

  The yard lights were blazing when Steve huffed to a stop. Spots embedded in planters illuminating the sabal palms, floodlights under the eaves of the barrel-tile roof, Malibu lights lining both sides of a flagstone path, and matching lanterns on bronze posts at the front door. All in all, as bright as the Orange Bowl for a Saturday night game.

  Swaying from side to side, Bobby stood with his shoulders hunched and his arms hugging himself. Steve wrapped an arm around the boy and whispered in his ear. "It'll be all right, kiddo. Uncle Steve's here."

  Myron Goldberg, a small man in his forties, wore a bathrobe and bedroom slippers and a look of consternation. His wife, Eva, her long black hair asunder, wore a white silk robe that stopped at midthigh. She was a petite but large-bosomed woman around her husband's age, and even without X-ray vision, Steve could tell she wore nothing under the robe. Cradled in the crook of her right arm was a short-barreled automatic weapon.

  "Mrs. Goldberg, tell me that's not an Uzi," Steve said.

  "This is America. I've got the right."

  Maria appeared in the doorway behind them. "Bobby di
dn't do anything!"

  "Back in the house!" Eva ordered. "Ahora mismo!"

  The girl muttered something Steve couldn't hear, then disappeared behind the front door.

  "The thing is," Myron began hesitantly, "your nephew is a peeper. We caught him in the tree outside Maria's bedroom."

  His head pressed against Steve's side, Bobby whimpered.

  "Doesn't sound like my Bobby," Steve said, giving the boy a squeeze.

  "Ask him!" Eva insisted with a wave of her arm and the Uzi.

  "Would you mind putting that gun down?" Steve said.

  She gave a dismissive little snort. "Second Amendment. You're a lawyer. Look it up."

  "I'm gonna take Bobby home and talk to him there," Steve said evenly. "I'll call you in the morning and we'll sort everything out."

  "Not good enough," Eva said. "I want a police report."

  "Let's not overreact," Myron said, so softly he could barely be heard over the neighborhood crickets.

  "Overreact!" She swung around to face her husband, and for a second, Steve thought she might unleash a quick burst with the Uzi and cut him in half. "You want this little pervert to do it again?"

  "Hey," Steve said. "Everybody's a little excited. Maybe we should all just go to sleep and—"

  Screeching tires interrupted him. Steve turned toward the driveway, expecting to see a police cruiser, figuring Bobby's future had just turned to a pile of crud. His nephew was about to become his client. A date in Juvenile Court. Psychiatric testing followed by sex-offender registration.

  But it wasn't a cop. It was a muddy green Dodge pickup truck, at least ten years old. A woman got out and headed their way. She wore a granny dress that came to her ankles and two-strap Birkenstock sandals. She was tall and stout, with a round face and hair pulled straight back and tied with a band. Even before she got into the light, Steve recognized her and immediately wished it had been the police.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Steve said.

  "Bobby called me on his cell. What the fuck's going on?"

  Bobby peeked out from behind Steve. "Hi, Mom," he said.

  * * *

  It was all happening too fast, Steve decided.

  First, Bobby tangled in a mess that could toss him into the maw of the justice system. Next, Janice showing up, allegedly to help Bobby, the child she'd neglected and abused and abandoned.

  "Bobby called me on his cell."

  Meaning they'd been in touch, and the kid had never said a word.

  Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. How could you?

  "If I was you, I'd put that gun down," Janice said to Eva Munoz-Goldberg.

  "And if I were you, I'd wash my hair and lose some weight," Eva fired back.

  "Gonna ask you nice one more time. Put the fucking gun down before I jam it up your tight ass."

  "Now see here—" Myron attempted.

  "Janice, let me handle this," Steve said.

  "You ain't doing so hot, baby bro." She turned to the Goldbergs. "The way I hear it, little Miss Hot Pants invited my boy to a peep show, so what's the big deal?"

  "How dare you!" Myron said.

  "Look, dickwad. I'm not throwing stones here. Hell, I was blowing guys behind the school gym when I was twelve. Don't get so self-righteous. Kids will be kids."

  "I've heard about you," Eva said. "You don't even know who Bobby's father is."

  "Hey, let's call it a night." Steve spoke up, not on his sister's behalf, but for Bobby. The kid had enough problems without these kinds of insults. "C'mon, everybody's nerves are frayed."

  "Chingate, shyster," Eva hissed. "I heard all about you on the radio. And I know about your father, the dirty judge."

  "Let's leave family out of this," Steve cautioned.

  "Coke whore. Shyster. Dirty judge. A whole family of degenerates."

  "Let the bitch who is without sin cast the first stone," Janice said.

  Eva gestured with the gun. "What's that supposed to mean, puta?"

  "Jesus loves you. Everybody else thinks you're a twat."

  Eva took a step forward, but Janice swung first. A combination punch and lunge, astonishingly quick for a woman her size. The punch grazed Eva's cheek, and she probably wouldn't have fallen, except Janice plowed forward, head down. Janice's beefy shoulder caught Eva squarely in the chest. An oomph, and both women tumbled to the ground, the Uzi flying into a planter filled with impatiens. The two men were left looking at each other, wondering if they were supposed to throw some punches, too.

  "Boob job! Boob job!" Janice screeched as she straddled Eva, the smaller woman's robe thrown open.

  "Jesus, Janice, get off her!" Steve said.

  "Don't take the Lord's name in vain," Janice scolded.

  "Requetegorda!" Eva screamed. "Get off me!"

  "Ladies, please," Myron begged.

  It was all too surreal, Steve thought. Was he hearing things? Did his sister, who had had her bat mitzvah at Temple Emanu-el all those years ago, just call Jesus "the Lord"?

  "How much those hooters set you back?" Janice demanded, holding Eva's robe open. "I was thinking about getting me a pair as soon as I have the liposuction."

  "Puta fea," Eva wheezed, Janice sitting on her gut.

  "Christ Almighty," Myron Goldberg said.

  "Yes, he is," Janice replied.

  "Janice, what's all this religious stuff?" Steve asked.

  "Jews for Jesus, little brother. In prison, I recognized the true messiah."

  "No way."

  "Cross my heart."

  It just kept getting crazier, Steve thought. A father who'd gone ortho and a sister who'd Jesus-freaked. Just then he caught a flash of movement.

  "Look out, Mom!" Bobby shouted.

  Myron had picked up the Uzi.

  A Jewish periodontist with an Uzi!

  Unless the guy was in the Israeli Army, this was a prescription for disaster. Myron seemed to be trying to figure out how to wrap his hand around the pistol grip when Steve took a quick step and uncorked a right-hand punch. His fist caught Myron Goldberg squarely on the chin. Myron fell in a heap, dropping the Uzi.

  Steve felt a throbbing pain in his wrist.

  On the ground, Myron moaned.

  Janice slid off Eva, who was cursing in Spanish. "You did good, little brother," Janice said. "Hey, Bobby. Me and Stevie make a great team, huh?"

  "We are not a team." Steve shook his wrist, but the throbbing only increased.

  "We're on God's squad," Janice said blissfully.

  Myron shakily got to his feet, holding his jaw, saying something that sounded like "law-shute."

  A police siren drowned him out.

  "Gotta split," Janice said, heading for her truck.

  "Hey, sis. Stick around for the cops. I might need a friendly witness."

  "He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity," she said, without emotion, like an evangelical zombie. "He shall have judgment without mercy that hath showed no mercy."

  "Nice sermon. What's it mean?"

  She dropped her bulk into the driver's seat of the muddy green pickup and started the engine. "You're on your own, little brother."

  Twenty-Six

  CALL ME IRRESPONSIBLE

  Victoria thought she should be both delicate and diplomatic. She could say: "I question your judgment in striking Myron Goldberg." Or perhaps: "For someone still facing assault charges, your conduct might be considered somewhat ill-advised."

  But she settled on: "You're a child! An undisciplined, self-indulgent child."

  "C'mon, Vic. I was the peacemaker."

  "You're probably guilty of trespassing. And definitely assault and battery."

  "I handled it. The cops interviewed me, then headed off to Krispy Kreme."

  "So you're not being charged?"

  "They're still investigating."

  "I should talk to Dr. Goldberg," she said. "Try to talk him out of filing charges."

  "I should sue him." Steve held up his swollen right hand. "My wrist is sprained."
>
  They were stuck in traffic on South Bayshore Drive on a muggy autumn morning. Thankfully, Steve had put the top up on the Mustang, or her hair would resemble a floor mop. They were trying to work their way out of Coconut Grove on the morning after the reappearance of Janice, the nabbing of Bobby, and the near-arrest of Steve.

  Just another day in the saga of the Solomon family. Do I really belong here?

  Steve was like a trapeze artist working without a net. Sooner or later, he would fall. Would she catch him or be squashed by him?

  Okay, if Steve's a trapeze artist, what am I?

  The gal in tights who rides the prancing elephant?

  No, the poor gal following the elephant with the shovel and pail.

  She had picked up the circus metaphors from Marvin the Maven, the octogenarian leader of the Courthouse Gang, an unabashed admirer of Steve. Marvin had once told her why he followed Steve from courtroom to courtroom. "With Steverino, it's like the circus. You never know when a dozen clowns are gonna fall out of a little yellow car."

  But Steve's courtroom antics were usually planned and made some sense, even if they were borderline unethical. These latest actions—clobbering Arnold Freskin and now Myron Goldberg—made Victoria feel that Steve was out of control.

  "How's Bobby doing?" she asked.

  "Better, I think. He's calmed down."

  "Do you want me to talk to him? About girls, I mean."

  "Already did. A speech about being a gentleman, respecting girls. I also told him I was disappointed he didn't tell me about Janice the Junkie coming around."

  She shot him a look.

  "I didn't call her that," he said hastily. " 'Your loving mother' is what I said. 'How could you sneak off

  with your loving mother like that?' "

  "Go easy on him, Steve. He's got a lot going on."

  "Yeah, well, so do I."

  Steve banged the horn at a Hummer that was trying to nose into traffic from the Grove Isle bridge. "Asshole! Guy thinks he owns the road 'cause he's got the biggest bumper."