Kill All the Lawyers (11 page)

"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 radio 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
clang
ed 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
clink
ed 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."

Steve chortled at his own joke, a cappella, as nobody joined in. "Bobby made that up for you, Irene."

"How sweet of the child," The Queen replied, her smile now cemented into place.

Steve signaled the waiter for a refill on the drinks, and Victoria felt the beginning of panic. She had hoped to keep the evening civil, at least until the Key lime pie. "Steve, are you sure you want another drink before we eat?"

"C'mon, Vic. You know me. I'm half Irish and half Jewish. I drink to excess, then feel guilty about it."

"Two lies in one sentence," she replied. "You're not half Irish and you never feel guilty about anything."

* * *

Victoria felt like a referee.

In one corner, six feet tall and 180 pounds, the base stealer from the University of Miami and the unaccredited Key West School of Law, the Mouth of the South (Beach, that is), Steve Sue-the-Bastards Solomon.

In the other corner, five feet ten in her Prada heels, 130 pounds (net, after liposuction subtractions and silicone additions), the woman known both for haute couture and her own hauteur, Irene The Queen.

Here was Steve, spouting his dogma for the underdog, railing against the Establishment, materialism, and Republicans. And there was her mother, who once remarked:
"Diamonds aren't a girl's best friend, darling. A diversified portfolio, including both growth and value stocks, is much friendlier."

Her mother's economic fortunes hadn't been as bright as the remark indicated. After the suicide of Victoria's father, Irene had been left to fend for herself. She fended fine for a while, attaching herself—like a remora to a shark—to a number of exceedingly wealthy men. There were rides on private jets, tips on stocks, and quite a few diamonds, too. But The Queen never attained the status she both desired and believed herself entitled to. These days, Victoria knew, her mother felt the sand was running out of the glass. Wealthy men cast their nets for younger, perkier fish. Maybe that was why Carl Drake seemed so important to her.

The platters of shelled claws had been removed from the table. The mountains of cole slaw topped with tomato slices had disappeared, the bowls of creamed spinach were empty, and the spears of sweet potato fries had been consumed. Waiting for dessert, The Queen daintily dabbed her lips with a napkin, then turned her crystalline blue eyes on Drake.

"Carl, darling, why don't you tell Victoria our little secret?"

"While you're at it, tell me, too," Steve instructed.

Victoria stiffened. She'd already had enough surprises for today.

The waiter delivered three slices of Key lime pie— mother and daughter would split theirs—and Drake straightened in his chair. "Well, Victoria, it seems your mother and I are related. Distant cousins, you might say."

"Not quite kissing cousins," Irene chirped. "See, dear, my grandmother's maiden name was Drake and if you go back far enough, our Drakes were related to Carl's family."

"Fascinating." Steve was using his fork to spread the whipped cream over the pie filling.

"I haven't gotten to the best part," Irene prattled. "If you go back four hundred years to England, both Carl and I are descended from Sir Francis Drake."

"The pirate?" Steve asked. "That explains a lot, Irene."

"Privateer," Carl Drake corrected. "Queen Elizabeth issued official papers that allowed Drake to plunder Spanish ships."

"Like the Bush administration and Halliburton," Steve said, agreeably.

"Isn't it exciting, Victoria?" Irene said. "We're descended from a famous sea captain."

"My old man thinks we're descended from King Solomon," Steve said. "Of course, he's off his rocker."

"Captain Drake enjoyed an especially close relationship with Her Majesty," Carl said. "So close that the name Virgin Queen might have been a misnomer."

Irene chuckled and Steve burped at the risqué little joke.

"Drake amassed millions in gold and jewels. When he died in 1596, the Crown confiscated his fortune. Now, you might think all that loot went to the royal family. But it didn't. Elizabeth still carried the torch for that handsome rascal. She created the Drake Trust, later administered by the Royal Bank. Well, the money was never spent and never disbursed. It was invested and just kept growing and growing for four centuries. It's now worth north of thirty billion dollars."

"You're quite the expert on the subject," Victoria observed.