Kill All the Lawyers

'If you visit your Mom, those nightmares will come back, kiddo.'

No, he would rather stay clear of the subject of Janice Solomon, junkie, tramp, and utterly worthless mother.

'If mah son won't go to Shabbos services with me,' Herbert declared, 'maybe mah grandson will.'

'I have to study,' Bobby said.

'On a Friday night? You oughta be praying, then chasing tail. Maybe praying you catch some.'

'Dad, what the hell's going on? You haven't been to synagogue in thirty years.'

'The hell you say. When ah was a practicing lawyer, ah went to High Holy Days every year.'

'Right. You handed out your business card on Yom Kippur. What's up now?'

'Mah grandfather was a cantor, you know that?'

Steve had heard the stories since he was a child. Herbert claimed to have traced the family tree back nearly three centuries. Ezekiel Solomon was among the first English colonists to settle Savannah in the 1730s. The Solomons grew and prospered, and over the generations the family sprawled to Atlanta and Birmingham and Charleston. According to Herbert, who specialized in the tradition of exaggeration employed by lawyers, peddlers, and Southerners, the tree that sprouted from old Ezekiel produced farmers and weavers, stone masons and mill owners. Even an occasional rabbi and cantor. Not to mention a stock swindler and a bookie who went to prison for fixing college football games in the 1940s.

But what was this crap about the court of King Solomon? It was one thing to trace your ancestors back to James Oglethorpe. But quite another to lay claim to a royal name three thousand years old.

Until recently, Herbert hadn't cared much about spirituality. So, why now? He was getting older, of course. Probably sensing his own mortality.

Then there's his fall from grace.

Nearly fifteen years ago, snared in a bribery and extortion scandal, Herbert had protested his innocence but nonetheless quit the bench and resigned from the Bar in disgrace. That had to be it, Steve thought.

Lost and found. My old man found religion to make up for what he's lost.

Career and status, gone. Wife-Steve's mother, Eleanor-dead of a vicious cancer. Daughter Janice in and out of jail and drug rehab. A touchy relationship with Steve.

Herbert picked up a hammer and a handful of nails and grabbed a two-by-four. 'Gotta get to work, son.'

'On what?'

'Gonna make a scale model of the Temple of Solomon,' Herbert said.

'You got a building permit for that?'

'Got the blueprints. How long's a cubit, anyway?'

Steve doubted his father could drive a nail straight. When Steve was Bobby's age, Herbert couldn't glue the wings of a balsa airplane to the fuselage.

'Robert, the temple is where King Solomon kept the Ark of the Covenant,' Herbert said, 'the very tablets the Lord gave to Moses.'

'I know, Gramps. I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark.'

Enough was enough. 'Bobby, I need to talk to your grandfather for a few minutes,' Steve said.

'So?'

'There are fresh mangoes on the counter. Go make yourself a smoothie.'

'You can't order me around. I'm descended from King Solomon.' Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. 'King Solomon. SOLO GIN MONK.'

'Fine, kiddo. Now, give us a few minutes.'

'Okay, okay.' The boy got to his feet and slouched toward the kitchen door.

'I've got a problem, Dad. I need advice.'

'Then you damn well came to the right place,' Herbert Solomon said.

Just as he had done with Victoria, Steve told his father everything. How he learned Kreeger's philosophy by reading his monograph on rational murder. How he uncovered Beshears' death, then sold Kreeger out in the murder trial by tipping off Pincher. How he found the marlin on his door and the gaff in his office, symbols of Kreeger's homicidal fishing trip. And how upset Victoria became when he confessed his lawyerly sins. When he was finished, Herbert exhaled a long, low whistle. 'Jesus and Magdalene, David and Bathsheba.'

'I don't think those two couples are equivalent,' Steve said.

'Then you didn't read The Da Vinci Code. Son, when you stroll through the cow pasture, you best not be wearing your wingtips.'

'What the hell's that mean?'

'You stepped in deep shit. So what is it you want? Girlfriend advice or Florida Bar advice? 'Cause if it's girlfriend advice, ah'd say it's high time that shiksa converts. A dip in the Mikvah, the gateway to purity. Miriam's well in the desert.'

'Jeez, Dad. Can you focus? I'm telling you this guy's coming after me.'

'You mean to do you harm?'

'No, to wish me happy Chanukah. Don't you get it? Kreeger killed two people. I was supposed to defend him, and I double-crossed him. He's out of prison and he's pissed. It's a Cape Fear deal.'

'Cape Fear, cape schmere. Ah heard him on the radio today. Talking about what a shitty lawyer you were. Some of it was damn funny.'

'Glad you enjoyed it.'

'He was riding you hard, sure. But it didn't sound mean. More like joshing.'

'So what's the message he's sending?'

'The way Ah figure, he's saying he knows what you did. Confirming you were right about him being a killer. Boasting about it. Thinking maybe you would appreciate the artistry of it.'

'Why would I appreciate him killing two people?'

'From what you say, he admires men who break the rules. That's you, son.'

'But not by killing. Not like him.'

'Dr. Bill probably considers you just a step or two up that slippery slope from where he stands.'

'And what do you think he wants from me?'

'Take the man at his word. He said he wanted you to come on his show. Maybe he thinks he's Johnny Carson and you're his Ed McMahon. His sidekick. Ah don't believe Kreeger wants to kill you, Stephen. Ah believe he wants to be your pal.'

'That's crazy.'

'Just listen to the man flap his gums. He's a talker.

But who's he gonna talk to about killing those people? You, son. In his head, you're the only one who understands.'

'I don't want to talk to him. I want him off my back.'

'Okay, go tell him that. But what if he won't let up?'

'Then I'll bring him down. I don't know how, but I will.'

'You best be careful about that.'

'You saying I should do nothing, let him smear me?'

'Ah'm saying, you call me if you plan to take him on. That sumbitch ain't a one-mule load.'

Bobby sliced the mangoes, taking care to cut around the pit so it would pop out, the way Uncle Steve had taught him. He could hear the two men talking in the yard. On the farm, when Bobby had been locked in the shed in the dark, his sense of hearing had sharpened. At night, he'd listened to the coyotes until he could tell one from another as they sang their songs. He could hear the horses shuffling in the barn, their rumps smacking the wall. Could almost feel the hot breath of their snorts and whinnies. During the days, he'd heard the trucks, their doors slamming, men cursing. When he was let out to work in the fields, he would listen to the birds chirping and the bees buzzing.

He'd liked it outside, even if the men would sometimes hit him for not working hard enough. The men smelled funny, and their beards were tangled and yucky. The women worked in the vegetable garden, bent over, greasy hair