Kill All the Lawyers

relationships. A far more important issue was on her mind today. They were shopping for a place to live-together- and that raised scary questions of its own.

Is this the man I want to spend my life with? Can two people so different somehow make it work?

She tried to answer logically, but could matters of the heart ever be determined by reason? Once she had thought so. Marriage was a partnership, right? She'd aced Mergers and Acquisitions as an undergrad, then gotten the book award for Partnerships and Corporations in law school. Business arrangements were based on cooperation between like-minded individuals with a common goal. So why shouldn't love be similarly logical? Why shouldn't marriage be a synergistic partnership of two people with similar interests and tastes? That calculated reasoning had led her into the arms of Bruce Bigby, real estate developer, avocado grower, Kiwanis Man of the Year. An All- American, all-around good guy. She believed their mutual interests-opera, Impressionist art, and summers on Cape Cod-represented a balanced life relatively free of stress. But once engaged to Bruce, she discovered that life was devoid of excitement and fun and. .

Electricity.

Which is what she found with Steve. Perhaps too much electricity. Is that possible? She supposed it was. Electrocution, for example.

What was it about Steve, anyway? He had dark hair a little too long and a little too messy. He tanned easily and looked great in shorts with his strong runner's legs. Then there were his eyes, a liquid brown, and his half smile, flashing with mischief.

'You're what my mother would call Mediterranean sexy,' she once told him.

'You mean a handsome Hebe?'

'There's just something about your whole look. Those full lips. That aquiline nose. Like a Roman emperor.'

'You sure you don't mean a kosher butcher?'

Now, waiting for him, she wondered if moving in together was a good idea. And she was the one who had suggested it.

She had taken a roundabout route, starting with Bobby, worried about his reaction. They had a great relationship. Still, being the girlfriend who slept over was different than being the full-time surrogate mom. A few weeks ago, she asked Bobby whether he was okay with her moving in. Bobby thought for a second, then grinned and high-fived her.

'All of us racking together? Cool.'

Steve signed on, too, without any apparent reluctance. But she could tell he hadn't given it much thought. Maybe she should have waited for Sports Center to be over before bringing it up.

'Good idea,' he had said, during the NFL highlights. 'We'll save money, cut down on driving time.'

Mr. Romance.

Then came the housing dilemma. Steve's bungalow on Kumquat Avenue was too small. Ditto, her condo. So today, Victoria had rushed from the downtown courthouse to the high-rise canyon of Brickell Avenue to check out this three-bedroom, three-bath beauty.

She liked it and hoped Steve would, too. Problem was, he wanted a house with a yard; she wanted an apartment with a balcony.

He says po-tay-to, and I say po-tah-to.

She'd been irritated with Steve at breakfast when he sidestepped her questions about Kreeger. On the drive to her hearing, she listened carefully to Dr. Bill's tirade, trying to determine if it was just a shtick or part of something deeper and more menacing. Kreeger, after all, had been charged with murder and convicted of manslaughter.

Underneath the wisecracks, Kreeger sounded deadly serious. Aggrieved and angry. Just what was Steve hiding from her?

So typical of him. It was, she decided, Irritating Habit Number 98. Always thinking he could shield her from unpleasantness. Protecting the little woman, as if that were his job. Not understanding that she could handle anything he could.

I'm a trial lawyer. I can stare murderers in the eye and never blink.

'So where's the bad boy, Tori?' Jacqueline Tuttle walked onto the apartment balcony, the curtains trailing behind her in the breeze. 'If he's not here soon, you won't have time to try out the bed.'

'Or the inclination,' Victoria said.

Jackie Tuttle, real estate broker, was Victoria's best girlfriend. A tall, buxom bachelorette with a curly mane of dyed red hair and a penchant for Spicy Nude lipstick, she drove a Mercedes convertible and worked the king-of- the-jungle market, high-rise condos where she hoped to find a wealthy, single man just dying to marry a tennis- playing, water-skiing party gal. Unlike Victoria, Jackie was uninhibited, with a loud laugh and a bawdy sense of humor.

There didn't seem to be a filtering device between Jackie's brain and her mouth. No subject was off-limits. Orgasms: number and intensity. Penises: shapes, sizes, and proficiency. Credit ratings: guys lacking a seven-figure net worth should not bother calling. She cataloged potential mates on a sliding scale she called 'Minimum Husband Standards.' Two extra points for the man who puts the toilet seat down. Two-point penalty for the guy who keeps his Rogaine next to the skim milk in the refrigerator.

Sometimes she would recite the names and attributes of her former beaus by creating a song to the tune of 'Do-Re-Mi.'

'Jack, a jerk, a cheapskate jerk. Dick, a drop of worthless scum. .'

When she could no longer remember the names of all the men she'd slept with by counting on her fingers, Jackie peeled off her Jimmy Choos and computed on her toes. When she'd run out of toes, she created a spreadsheet on her computer.

'Do you think Steve will like the place?' Jackie asked, fingering a button on her silk and cashmere cardigan, which was purposely one size too small.

'Doubt it. He hates elevators.'

'So why are we here?'

'It's a partnership.' Victoria looked to the north where the drawbridge began to open on the Venetian Causeway, a sailboat with a tall mast waiting to pass through. 'He doesn't get to choose where we live.'

'Ooh. Assertiveness raises its well-coifed head.'

'I mean, why should Steve call all the shots?'

'You go, girl.'

'If we're going to move in together, shouldn't I have equal say?'

'If?'

'What?'

'Vic-a-licious. You just said 'if' you move in together. I think you have cold feet and sweaty palms.'

'What are you talking about?'

'You're a commitment phobe.'

'That's absurd. I'm committed to Steve.'

'How many men have you lived with?'

'You know the answer. None.'

Jackie belted out a laugh that made her breasts jiggle underneath the Calvin Klein cardigan. 'I've lived with three in one year.'

'You call that commitment?'

'I call it courage. Tori, you're a scaredy-cat.'

'Am not.'

'Are too. You love Steve. You have from the day you met him.'

'I hated him the day I met him.'

'Same difference.'

'Sometimes, Jackie, you're as exasperating as Steve is.'

'Really? Well, if you ever dump that bad boy into the recycling bin, have him page me.'