Paul Levine - Kill All the Lawyers

"Fine, kiddo. Now, give us a few minutes."

"Okay, okay." The boy got to his feet and slouched toward the kitchen door.

"I've got a problem, Dad. I need advice."

"Then you damn well came to the right place," Herbert Solomon said.

Just as he had done with Victoria, Steve told his father everything. How he learned Kreeger's philosophy by reading his monograph on rational murder. How he uncovered Beshears' death, then sold Kreeger out in the murder trial by tipping off Pincher. How he found the marlin on his door and the gaff in his office, symbols of Kreeger's homicidal fishing trip. And how upset Victoria became when he confessed his lawyerly sins. When he was finished, Herbert exhaled a long, low whistle. "Jesus and Magdalene, David and Bathsheba."

"I don't think those two couples are equivalent," Steve said.

"Then you didn't read The Da Vinci Code. Son, when you stroll through the cow pasture, you best not be wearing your wingtips."

"What the hell's that mean?"

"You stepped in deep shit. So what is it you want? Girlfriend advice or Florida Bar advice? 'Cause if it's girlfriend advice, ah'd say it's high time that shiksa converts. A dip in the Mikvah, the gateway to purity. Miriam's well in the desert."

"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."

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?