Kill All the Lawyers (20 page)

"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 didn'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."

Great, Victoria thought. Just what they needed. A road rage incident.

Steve slid down the window on the passenger side, leaned across, and shouted: "Hey, you! Big car, little dick!"

Victoria swatted his hand away and hit the button, closing the window. "What's wrong with you! Don't you know how many drivers in Miami are armed?"

He turned on the radio. "No, but I'm sure you do."

"Your conduct lately simply defies description."

"Oh, c'mon, Vic. Give it a try."

"For starters, you've been both irresponsible and reckless."

A sports talk station came on, the caller and host debating whether Shaquille O'Neal was a better player than Wilt Chamberlain. The consensus seemed to be that Wilt scored more points and more women.

"Could you change that, please?" Victoria asked.

Steve punched a button, and another sports station came on, the host asking callers to choose the sexiest cheerleader from the Dolphin Dolls.

"How can you listen to this garbage?" she asked.

"I like it. Is that being reckless or irresponsible?"

"Juvenile."

"I guess good old Bigby doesn't listen to sports radio."

"Where did that come from? What's Bruce have to do with anything?"

"I don't know. He sort of popped into my head."

Ahead of them, traffic started moving and they inched past Mercy Hospital on the way downtown. Strange, Victoria thought. Just last night, her mother brought up Bruce. Victoria had been complaining about Steve and his penchant for trouble. Weirdly, The Queen had spoken up for Steve. What had she said exactly? Victoria couldn't remember.

Steve gave the Mustang some gas and said, "Good old boring Bruce Bigby."

Omigod.

That was almost exactly what The Queen had said.
"Steve may drive you crazy, but you love him. And frankly, he's a lot more fun than good old boring Bruce."

"Have you been speaking to my mother?"

"Why would I? She hates me."