Kill All the Lawyers

Twenty-Three

Women don't sweep into a room anymore, Steve thought. There are no more Scarlett O'Haras, their dresses hoisted by hoops and petticoats, whooshing into a room, putting on airs.

But then there was Irene Lord.

The Queen burst through the door of his office, her eyes taking in the police-auction furniture, her glossy, collagened lips pursing as she contemplated whether it would be safe to sit down, lest a palmetto bug crawl up her panty hose.

"We must talk," Irene breathed, those puffy lips barely moving.

"Vic's not here," Steve said.

"I'm not blind, Stephen. Old and decrepit perhaps, but not blind."

Steve knew the remark was intended to elicit the obligatory denials, and he semi-complied. "Irene, you're not decrepit or blind."

"And …?"

"And you're not old. You're gorgeous and vibrant and men still come sniffing after you like skunks after sunflowers."

"Thank you, Stephen. I've always been quite fond of you."

That stopped him. "A little early in the day for your gin and tonic, Irene."

"I haven't been drinking. I've come to see you, not my daughter, and I'm making pleasant small talk. Haven't you one iota of decorum?"

"Now, there's the Irene I love."

"And the truth is, I am somewhat fond of you, despite how damned aggravating you can be."

"Thank you."

"I know you say things just to get a rise out of me, but sometimes you're so aggressive and pushy."

"Pushy? Dammit, Irene, that's an anti-Semitic slur."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Not that again."

"We wanted to join your country clubs. We were being pushy. We wanted to attend Princeton. We were being pushy. Damn pushy Jews!"

"Don't raise your voice, Stephen. It's very unbecoming."

"Ah, so I'm loud, too. 'Loud' is another ethnic slur."

"Some of my favorite fiances were Jewish, so please cease this harangue. It's becoming tedious."

"You never hear about those pushy Episcopalians, do you? Those loud Lutherans? Don't think so. What's next, Irene. How about 'greedy'?"

"You're not greedy. God knows, I wish you cared more about money. Now, would you please calm down and give me some legal advice?"

"Ask Vic. She knows more law than I do."

"I need someone who's more. ." Irene clucked her tongue as if ticking off words until she found the right one. "Flexible. And forgiving. My darling daughter is somewhat. ." Cluck-cluck-cluck.

"Rigid?" Steve helped out.

"Exactly. Can I count on your discretion?"

"Lawyer-client privilege trumps boyfriend-girlfriend. Who'd you kill?"

Irene rolled her eyes and reached into a soft leathery purse that seemed to be made of the belly skin of a baby alligator. She pulled out a document, slid it across Steve's desk, whisked invisible dirt from the cracked leather client chair, and sat down. Her hair, the color of corn silk, was swept up in a style that reminded Steve of Princess Grace of Monaco.

"First Dade Bank versus Irene Lord," Steve said, reading aloud. "Mortgage foreclosure?"

"They're after my condo, Stephen. You must help me."

"Says here you're five months behind on payments."

"At the moment, I'm cash strapped. What can I do?"

"What about those old boyfriends with all the money? Call that Australian shipping magnate who said you were his favorite ketch."

"He moved on to a sleeker sloop."

"What about the gold-bullion trader? He's loaded."

"Last year, when I turned fifty, he traded me in for two twenty-five-year-olds."

"C'mon, Irene. Last year you turned fifty-seven."

"So he traded me for three nineteen-year-olds. The point is, I'm with Carl now, and he doesn't have a dime."

It hit him then. Carl Drake. Alleged heir of Sir Francis Drake. Smooth talker with a trim mustache and a gold-buttoned navy blazer. "Is that where your money went, Irene? To Drake?"

"It's for my share of the expenses in the trust. I had to put up my money to stake my claim."

"The son-of-a-bitch. When I grilled him at Joe's, he said you didn't have to put up a cent."

"I know. I know."

"And you kept quiet."

"The way I was brought up, Stephen, a woman does not contradict her man."

"Too bad you didn't pass that along to your daughter." Steve shook his head. "Jeez, Irene. Drake's a con man."

"Expenses came up. It happens, Stephen."

"Oh, come on, Irene. Sir Francis Drake's money hasn't been sitting around for four hundred years waiting for you to claim it. It's a scam. A flim-flam. A con job."

"When it pays off, don't expect an invitation to my yacht."

But she said it with such a lack of conviction that Steve immediately sensed something else. Irene knew she'd been swindled. Maybe she even knew it when she was writing the check. And this from a woman who was always the recipient of money and jewelry and designer duds. Which could only mean one thing, and that was scariest of all.

"Irene, please don't tell me you're in love with this guy."

Her eyes, unnaturally wide open thanks to lid surgery, now brimmed with tears. "With all my heart, Stephen. The man fills me with wonder."

"Oh, jeez." Steve stood up. "C'mon, Irene. It's not too early. I'm gonna buy you a drink."

They sat at a sidewalk table at an Ocean Drive cafe. A woman lost in the deep and treacherous ocean of love, Irene Lord rejected every logical suggestion Steve made.

No, she wouldn't break up with Carl Drake; no, she wouldn't sue him and freeze his accounts; and no, she certainly wouldn't file charges with the State Attorney.

Steve said he would do what he could to slow down the foreclosure litigation. He'd hit the bank with endless discovery. He'd claim fraud and usury and violations of banking regulations, and anything else he could think of, including the Treaty of Versailles and the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. He'd obfuscate and distort, muddle and confuse. He'd buy time with dilatory tactics, and if all else failed, he'd have Irene enlist in the army and seek protection under the Soldiers and Sailors Civil Relief Act. That was where The Queen seemed to draw the line, but otherwise she seemed to approve his strategy. And with each sip of Tanqueray, she appreciated Steve even more.

"I feel we're bonding here, Stephen."

"Aw, c'mon, Irene. The only bonds you know about are tax-free municipals."

She laughed. "I'm not going to pretend I'm your biggest supporter. Many is the day I've wished Victoria had found a man who was more traditional and less. ."

"Pushy?"

"Reckless." She smiled at him, her veneers snowy white. "But you do have something going for you."

He waited to see if a zinger was attached to the compliment, like a stinging cell on a jellyfish.

"Victoria loves you. She loves you in a way she's never loved any other man. And that goes a long way with me."

Wow. The Queen had never said anything to him like that before.

"Stephen, this is where you say you love her, too."

"I do, Irene. A lot. More than I ever knew was possible. I fell for Vic when we were on opposite sides of a case, and it just grew from there."

"So. If there's anything I can ever do for you. ."

It was an offer she'd never made before and might never make again. "To tell you the truth, I could use some advice right now. About Victoria."

"If you're worried, that's a good sign. Some men are so dense they never see it coming."

"It?"

"The three-inch heel of the Prada pumps as they're walking away."

Steve let out a sigh.

"Of course you have problems, Stephen. Every couple does. Nelson Lord was the love of my life, but boy did we fight." She used her fingertips to squeeze the lime into her gin and tonic. "With you and Victoria, it's even more difficult because you're so different."

In the next seventeen minutes, Steve summarized the current state of his relationship with Victoria, admitting that, yes, he had some second thoughts about moving in together, and sure, she'd picked up on it. Now she didn't seem to want to share a Coke with him, much less live under the same roof.

"She needs to know where the two of you are headed," Irene said.

"Why can't she just relax, go with the flow, see where it takes us?"

"Someone as highly organized as my daughter needs certainly in her life. Let's face it. Spontaneity isn't her strong suit and predictability isn't yours."

"I can change."

"How's that, Stephen?"

He thought about it. On the sidewalk, the usual collection of wannabe models sashayed past their table. In the street, teenage boys drove by in their parents' SUVs, gawking at the girls, their CD players blasting unintelligible reggaeton, something with a lot of drums from Tego Calderon.

"I'm gonna tell Vic to choose where we should live," he answered. "I'm gonna go to the ballet with her. I'm even gonna join the Kiwanis."

Irene's laugh was a bit louder than necessary. Three gin and tonics will do that. "If The Princess wanted a man like that, she would have married Bruce."

Meaning Bruce Bigby, Steve knew. Real estate developer. Avocado grower. Chamber of Commerce Man of the Year.

Irene signaled for another drink. But the waiter must have been an out-of-work actor, because he seemed to be posing for a table of teenage girls in shorts and tank tops. "Victoria dropped Bruce for you," Irene continued. "Why do you suppose she did that?"

"Temporary insanity?"

"She loves you the way you are, despite your many peccadillos. So don't you dare try to change. Besides, it wouldn't work. We are who we are. You, me. Victoria. Carl. All of us. Our true natures will come out, no matter what we do to disguise them."

"That's your advice, Irene? Don't change?"

"That's it. Although. ."

Here it comes, Steve thought.

"What's the Jewish word for money?" she asked.

"Yiddish word. 'Gelt.' "

Irene smiled at him and did her best impression of a Jewish mother. "Would it hurt you, Stephen, to bring home a little more gelt?"