Kill All the Lawyers

Twenty-One

Victoria didn't really need new shoes. What woman really needs hot pink Jimmy Choo strappies or black patent leather Dolce amp; Gabbanas? Or even gunmetal Via Spiga slides and a pair of beige snakeskin Miu Mius?

But need is a relative term, Victoria knew. Maybe she didn't require shoes the way she required oxygen. But just now, she needed to get away from Steve for a few hours to think. And trying on purple velvet Manolo Blahniks was free, even if the shoes themselves were not. She had no intention of buying something she couldn't afford, but just why the hell couldn't she afford them?

Was Jackie right? Was Steve holding her back? Jackie didn't put it that way, exactly. But isn't that what she'd meant?

After Steve dropped her off, Victoria began walking west along Lincoln Road, passing the shops and cafes. Tall, willowy young women sat with suntanned men, sipping lattes and whiling away the afternoon.

Who are these people? Don't they ever work?

The more she thought about the current state of her relationship with Steve, the more upset she became. Moving in together now seemed like an idiotic idea. Where would it lead? Steve hadn't even mentioned marriage. And was that even what she wanted? Could they get along over the long haul? Was love enough to carry a relationship? Didn't there have to be some commonality in personalities?

So many questions.

Her thoughts returned to the house they couldn't afford and the shoes that were ridiculously expensive.

Why shouldn't I be able to splurge on some wafery Italian footwear that costs nine hundred bucks?

She thought about it a minute. Wasn't there a constitutional right involved here? A Woman's Right to Shoes. Ha!

Her thoughts kept returning to Steve. Right now, he was so embroiled with Kreeger, he'd let the practice slide. The key in any law firm is to keep the faucets flowing. It's not enough to just work on the cases already in-house. You have to prime the pump, constantly bringing in new clients. And what was Steve, the self-appointed rainmaker, hustling up these days?

City of Coral Gables v. Fiore. Defending a homeowner who, having been ordered to cut his lawn, mowed "FUCK YOU" into the three-foot-tall grass. Then there was the DUI case for the Zamboni driver at the Florida Panthers hockey games. And let's not forget Sheila and Max Minkin, suing their rabbi for showing up late to their wedding. Steve tried one of his old tricks with those two whiners.

He brings in a lousy case with obnoxious clients, then tries to palm it off on me.

She was so angry at Steve right now, she wished she knew one of Herbert's Yiddish curses. The one about having an onion grow in your navel. Yes, that would do quite nicely. Lacking that, she silently cursed her lover and partner in English, conjuring up the most wicked voodoo she knew:

Dearest Steve. May you have to spend the afternoon with Max and Sheila Minkin.

Then she said the hell with it and whipped out her American Express card. She was going to buy some damn shoes.