Kill All the Lawyers

Thirteen

"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 clanged 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 clinked 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 risque 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.

"It started as a hobby," Carl confessed. "Once I learned I was related to Captain Drake, I started constructing the family tree. It's quite a task, mind you. All those generations. I didn't even know about the money until the trustees contacted me and offered quite a tidy sum for my research."

"A tidy sum," Steve repeated. "I always wondered what an untidy sum might be."

"My work could save them years of going through musty documents in libraries and museums."

"Why do they want the family tree?" Victoria asked.

"To locate the heirs," Irene answered. "Isn't that right, Carl?"

"Precisely. By a secret ballot, the trustees recently voted to disburse the monies to all known blood relatives of Captain Drake. They want to close the estate."

"I know probate takes a long time, but four hundred years?" Steve questioned.

"It's quite unprecedented; but then, there's never been a case like this," Drake said. "I've located two thousand nine hundred and twelve descendants. The trustees estimate there are another six hundred or so. Thirty billion dollars going to thirty-five hundred heirs. As the kids say, do the math."

"I don't know, Drake. You tell me." Steve's eyes were closed as he savored a huge bite of the tart pie.

"About eight and a half million for each heir," Drake said.

Steve's eyes popped open. "You're saying Irene is going to get eight million bucks?"

"Give or take, once she's a certified descendant."

"Irene, have I told you how exceptionally lovely you look tonight?" Steve said.

The Queen rolled her eyes.

"And how much I've always admired you for your. ." He seemed stumped. "Poise and porpoise," he finished triumphantly.

"Stop being so silly, Stephen," Irene said. "What do you think of my good fortune?"

Steve turned back to Drake. "What's it gonna cost her?"

"Cost?" Drake seemed bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"All these heirs. They've gotta fill out forms, right? Affidavits. Birth certificates. Lots of clerical work before you get your slice of the pie."

"Of course there's paperwork."

"So what are you charging these lucky souls? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand apiece? That's the scam, isn't it? People will gladly pay that if they think they're getting millions. Because I gotta tell you, Carl, this is what my old man would call a bubbe meise, a grandmother's story. And it's what I would call a load of crap."

"Ste-phen!" The Queen hissed his name.

"Steve, that's very insulting," Victoria said. "Apologize this instant."

Drake smiled and waved off their protests. "No problem. A savvy attorney should be skeptical. There are no fees, Steve. No charges. I'll help Irene fill out the forms, and if it is her desire, I hope to be by her side the day the trustees disburse the money to all of us."

Three sets of eyes bored into Steve, who was licking the last of the graham cracker crust from his fork. "Perhaps I misspoke."

"That's not much of an apology, Stephen," Irene said.

He gave his lopsided grin, and Victoria tensed; Steve was preparing to misspeak again.

"So, if it's not a big con," he said, "there must be public records in England that'll back up your story."

Drake shook his head as he stirred his coffee. "It's a private trust and is quite confidential. You see, there is no lawful requirement that the trustees disburse these monies to the descendants. They could have just as easily escheated the money to the government or conveyed it to charity. And to prevent phony claimants from climbing out of the woodwork, there's to be no public announcement at all. It's to be all extremely hush-hush."

"If I were you, Irene," Steve advised, "I wouldn't spend that money yet."

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," The Queen snapped.

They were waiting for the check when a voice sounded: "What a surprise. Hello, Solomon!"

Steve didn't have to turn around. He recognized the resonant tones at once. Now, what the hell was he doing here?

Dr. Bill Kreeger sidled up to the table. He wore a dark, tailored suit with a yellow silk shirt, open at the neck. A handkerchief the same color as the shirt blossomed from his jacket pocket like a daffodil. Standing a half step behind him was a young woman wearing a stretchy pink top with holes cut out to reveal the contours of her breasts. The top stopped a foot above her hip-hugging slacks, giving a view of a nice set of washboard abs. Strawberry blond hair, wavy and shoulder length. She couldn't have been more than twenty.

"Solomon, this is my niece, Amanda."

Niece?

Steve refrained from laughing. Sure, the girl was Kreeger's niece. And Irene was the heir of Sir Francis Drake. And Steve was a direct descendant of King Solomon.

Hellos were exchanged and Kreeger flashed his smile toward Victoria. "You must be the lovely Ms. Lord." He swept his gaze toward The Queen. "And I'll bet you're her sister."

Irene beamed. "People are always saying that."

"Where?" Steve asked. "At the Lighthouse for the Blind?"

More introductions, a shaking of hands, The Queen saying she listened to Dr. Bill every day and found herself agreeing with him, especially about Steve. The young woman-niece Amanda-stood shyly in place, her eyes darting across the restaurant.

Bored, maybe. Or ill at ease. Steve couldn't tell which. Just who was she, anyway?

"Whoops, that's mine," Steve said, reaching into a pocket for his cell phone.

"That's so rude," Irene said.

"I didn't hear anything," Victoria said.

"It's on vibrate." Steve flipped the phone open and punched a button. "Hey, Bobby. No, Maria may not spend the night. Why not? Because her mother owns automatic weapons."

Steve noticed Victoria staring at him. Was there just a hint of suspicion in those green eyes? Man, he couldn't get anything past her.

"See you later, kiddo." Steve flipped the phone closed.

Bobby had not called. No one had. But Steve had clicked three photos of Amanda, from her strawberry blond hair to her six-pack abs.

SOLOMON'S LAWS

5. When a woman is quiet and reflective, rather than combative and quarrelsome, watch out. She's likely picturing the bathroom without your boxers hanging on the showerhead.