Kill All the Lawyers

Eleven

Steve finished off the glass of kosher wine his father had left on the table. It tasted like liquified grape jelly. Bobby was in the bedroom with Maria, and Steve needed to fortify himself before moseying down the hall. He planned to knock on the door before entering. If it was locked, he'd batter it down like a SWAT team at a meth lab.

Just what were the rules with pubescent kids these days, anyway? Only recently had it occurred to him that Bobby, on the hazardous precipice of puberty, might need a fatherly lecture on the birds and bees. When he talked to his nephew about it, the boy said he knew all about STDs and condoms and even told Steve about a girl at Ponce de Leon Middle School who got pregnant.

"After that, none of the girls would, you know, do it, but there were a lot more rainbow parties, not that I've ever been invited."

"Rainbow parties?"

"C'mon, Uncle Steve. Where the chicks all put on a different color lipstick and the guys drop their pants, and the idea is to get as many different colors on

your-"

"Jesus!"

Now Steve paused outside Bobby's door, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. No tobacco, no pot. But something odd. A citrus scent. Oranges or tangerines.

Steve knocked once and headed inside.

Both kids had textbooks open. Wearing baggy shorts and a Hurricanes football jersey, Bobby was slouched in his beanbag chair. Maria was sprawled across Bobby's bed. She wore low-riding jeans with enough holes and shreds to give the impression she'd stepped on a land mine. A sleeveless mesh T-shirt revealed a lacy bra underneath. Her complexion was a rich caramel, and her bright red lipstick was as slick as fresh paint. A shiny rhinestone peeked out of her twelve-year-old navel.

Bobby waved at Steve but kept talking to Maria, sounding like a little professor. "The Battle of Gettysburg was a big-time accident. Lee and Meade never said, 'C'mon, let's meet in this little town in Pennsylvania and have a big battle.' That's just where the Union decided to stop the Confederate advance. I mean, if they hadn't, Lee's army could have taken Philadelphia, and then maybe Washington, and the South would have won the war."

"That'd suck," Maria said. "Hey, Mr. Solomon."

"Hi, Maria. So what are you guys studying?"

"Duh. Like calculus," Bobby said. Showing some spunk for his little hottie.

"American history, Mr. Solomon. Bobby knows everything that ever happened."

"It's no big deal," Bobby said.

"It is to me." Maria smiled at Bobby. An inviting come-hither smile. The citrus aroma was stronger

here.

"What's that smell?" Steve asked.

"Oh, probably my perfume, Mr. Solomon."

Perfume! Bobby doesn't have a chance.

"Boucheron," Maria continued. "My mom's."

First they take their mothers' perfume. Then their birth control pills.

Steve knew Maria's parents from a Neighborhood Watch committee. Eva Munoz-Goldberg, the proud daughter of an anti-Castro militant, frequently roamed the neighborhood, passing out flyers that called for bombing Venezuela and assassinating Hugo Chavez. As a child, Eva spent weekends with her father and a pack of cousins, trekking through the Everglades, shooting Uzis at cardboard cutouts of Fidel Castro. Later, they would all head home to grill burgers, drink Cuba Libres, and watch the Dolphins on TV. Recently, Steve had seen Eva piloting her black Hummer through Coconut Grove, an NRA bumper sticker pasted on the rear bumper.

Maria's father, Myron Goldberg, was a periodontist with an office on Miracle Mile in Coral Gables. Myron's hybrid Prius sported bumper stickers for Greenpeace and Save the Manatees, and the most dangerous weapon he owned was a titanium root-canal shaft. The Munoz-Goldbergs were Exhibit A in South Florida's paella-filled melting pot of cross-cultural multiethnicity.

Looking at the two kids lounging in the bedroom, Steve was certain he should lecture his nephew about exercising self-control in a time of raging hormones. Another thought, too. A contrary one. Could this little vixen be just using Bobby to pass her courses? As much as Steve adored his nephew, he had to admit the kid was not exactly a candidate for the Abercrombie amp; Fitch catalog. Basically, Bobby was a skinny, love-able loner in thick glasses who didn't fit into any of the cliques.

"What's this about the high-water mark?" Maria asked, thumbing through the textbook. "It sounds like something that'll be on the test."

"The High-Water Mark of the Confederacy," Bobby said, confidently. "It's where the tide turned the Union's way at Gettysburg."

"Ooh, right." She scribbled a note.

"Pickett's Charge," Bobby continued. "Fifteen thousand Confederate soldiers. Some made it to the Union line, but they were cut to ribbons. A frontal assault moving uphill never works. When the enemy's holding the high ground, you gotta outflank him. Fake an attack on one flank." Bobby threw an imaginary left hook. "But really attack the other flank." With a whoosh, he tossed a roundhouse right. "When your enemy zigs, you zag."

"You're so smart." Maria rewarded the boy with another twinkling smile, then turned toward Steve. "We heard you on the radio today, Mr. Solomon."

"Yeah," Bobby added. "Never thought that shrink could school you like that."

"Are you going to jail?" Maria asked Steve.

"Uncle Steve's been to jail lots of times," Bobby declared, a touch of pride in his voice. "Judges make him stay overnight because he gets rowdy."

"Everything's gonna be okay," Steve said. "What I did was only technically illegal."

Bobby snorted. "Yeah, you technically beat the shit out of some guy."

"Watch the lingo, kiddo."

"Are you gonna let that shrink keep cracking on you?"

"Nope. I've got a plan to shut him up."

"Ph-a-a-t! How you gonna do it?"

Steve shook his head. What could he say? "Your uncle and grandfather are trying to nail a killer, but don't worry about it." No. He wouldn't spook the boy.

"Highly confidential," Steve said.

"Just so you're not doing what that woman in the hot tub did. Because if Dr. Bill killed her. ."

Bobby let the words hang there, then turned back to his book.

Half an hour later, Bobby scooted deeper into the beanbag chair. Maria was still sprawled on his bed, leafing through the pages of the history book. Moments earlier, Bobby did a trick with his brain, purposely dividing his conscious thoughts in two. Going split screen, he called it, something that let him think two unrelated thoughts at once.

I want to kiss Maria. And. .

Why does Uncle Steve treat me like a baby?

It was really Bobby's only complaint.

Most of the time Uncle Steve was really cool. Always spending time with him. Tossing the ball, teaching him to dig in at home plate and not bail out even when the pitch was inside. Taking him to court and even to a couple of autopsies, which was way cool, except for the smell.

But he hides stuff from me, afraid I can't handle it.

Uncle Steve was planning to go after Dr. Bill. Which was scary.

But why can't he tell me?

Above him, on the bed, Maria draped a leg over his shoulder. She wiggled her toes, the nails painted some color that looked like flames.

The brain waves carrying thoughts of Dr. Bill suddenly flatlined. Bobby felt a pleasant buzz in his undershorts. But this was awkward. His butt was sunk into the beanbag chair, his back was toward the bed, and he couldn't even see her. To kiss her, he'd have to scoot around, get to his knees, and crawl onto the bed, and then what? It would take several seconds and would seem premeditated and dorky, instead of casual and cool.

Another problem: to tongue or not to tongue?

He heard more pages rustling. She couldn't be reading that fast. Could she be getting bored? Was she waiting for him to make a move? He wished he could ask Uncle Steve for advice right now.

Or Mom. Yesterday, she told me she first had sex at twelve. My age!

Now his brain opened another screen. There was Maria on the bed, her flame-toed foot dangling in his face. And there was Mom, talking about sex.

Bobby could never tell Uncle Steve what Mom said. Or even that he'd seen her. Uncle Steve thought Mom was still in prison.

She had shown up at the park, picked him up, just like a regular mother, not an ex-con. They'd gone to Whip 'N Dip for pistachio ice cream. She started talking about her life, the stuff just spilling out, and a lot was pretty icky. The guys-sometimes, she didn't even know their names. The drugs-they'd messed her up bad, and that's why she stole and got in trouble, but now she'd kicked the habit. She thanked Jesus for his help, the Son of God being the true messiah and all, and maybe it was time for Bobby to be baptized.

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."