Kill All the Lawyers

falling in their eyes.

Mom said they were organic farmers, but Bobby saw drums of insecticide and bags of artificial fertilizer. And he knew the leafy green plants were marijuana. On moonless nights, he heard the trucks pull in, heard the men grunting as they hoisted bales, heard them yelling at the moon, whooping after their women, guns blasting empty liquor bottles to smithereens.

Now Bobby listened as Uncle Steve told Grandpop about the psychiatrist named Kreeger. Uncle Steve sounded worried, which was weird. He was always getting into trouble but it never seemed to bother him. But this was different. Was Uncle Steve scared?

Bobby tossed the mango slices into the blender with a sliced banana, a handful of ice, and two scoops of protein powder. He wanted to gain weight so he didn't look like such a weenie, but it wasn't working. Despite the smoothies and ham paninis and all the pistachio ice cream he could eat, his body still was all wires and bones. With the blender whirring, he could no longer hear the men. Were they talking about his mother?

Uncle Steve doesn't understand. He thinks just because Mom messed me up, I don't want to see her. But she's still my mom.

There was something he needed to tell Uncle Steve, but didn't know how. His mother had called him yesterday. She cried on the phone, and he did, too. Said she loved him and was sorry about everything and she had completely changed.

'I'm a new woman, Bobby. I'm clean and sober.'

'That's great, Mom.'

'I'm never going back to those old ways. I have a new purpose. A guiding light.'

'What's that, Mom?'

'I found Jesus. I let Jesus Christ into my heart.'

Wait till Grandpop hears, Bobby thought.

But that wasn't what Bobby needed to tell Uncle Steve. What he needed to tell him was the last thing Mom had said.

'I'm coming to get you, Bobby, honey. I'm coming back to be your mother again.'

Eight

WAXING NOSTALGIC

Without really intending to, Victoria Lord was staring straight into The Queen's crotch. 'Maybe this should wait, Mother.'

'Nonsense. It's your duty to relieve my insufferable boredom.' Naked from the waist down, Irene Lord lay on her back, her hands under her butt, her legs raised and spread. 'Benedita, you will be quick about it, won't you, darling?'

'I will be queek so your lover can be slow,' Benedita vowed in a thick Brazilian accent. A young woman with cinnamon skin and flaming red lipstick, Benedita wore pink nylon shorts, a crimson sequined wrestler's singlet, and knee-high suede boots.

They were in a private booth at the Salon Rio in Bal Harbour for The Queen's monthly bikini wax. Already, Victoria regretted coming here, but she was desperate for personal advice.

Should I move in with Steve? Why is the thought of All-Steve, All-the-Time, so terrifying?

Victoria hadn't expressed her fears to him. How could she? Moving in together had been her idea. Of course, if Steve were more attuned to the subtleties of her moods, he would have picked up the vibes. Instead, she had asked: 'Are you absolutely sure you're ready for this?'

He quickly said yes, not realizing she had been expressing her own doubts. Typical tone-deaf male.

Now she was in full-blown crisis mode. Could she really work with him all day, then come home to the same house? Was 24/7 simply too much?

Something else, too. After that bombshell today, Steve nuking the ethical rules by turning on his own client, could she even work with him?

Then she wondered if she was overreacting. Or even worse. .

Am I subconsciously using what Steve did years ago as a reason not to advance our relationship?

She wanted to ask her mother all these questions. After all, The Queen's experiences with men crossed several continents over several decades and were exponentially greater than her own. But her mother, as usual, was engrossed in her own affairs.

'You really must meet Carl,' Irene said, peering over her pubic region. 'He's a dreamboat and a dead ringer for George Clooney. They could be twins.'

'Which would make him how much younger than you, Mother?'

'Actually, I haven't told him my age, but I implied I was too young to remember Neil Armstrong landing on the moon.'

'Which means you gave birth to me when you were, what-ten?'

'It's been known to happen, dear.'

'Stop moving,' Benedita ordered as she dusted Irene's private parts with perfumed puffs of baby powder. Snow falling on pubies.

'Princess, you really should get waxed,' Irene said.

'No thank you, Mother.'

'I've seen that bush of yours. You could use a weed whacker.'

'Mother!'

Benedita hoisted one of Irene's legs over a shoulder.

'I'm just trying to help, dear. Men love those bare, smooth loins. Probably the Lolita fantasy.'

'I'm not having this discussion.'

'Just trying to help, dear.' The Queen studied her daughter a moment, pursing her lips. 'And what have you done to your hair? Your other hair.'

'Nothing.'

'You've tinted it. I can tell.'

'I haven't done anything except wash it.'

'I liked it better the other way.'

'What other way! Dammit, Mother, you're impossible.'

'Don't raise your voice. Men can't stand a woman who's shrill.'

Victoria sighed. 'God, why did I come here?'

'Why, to keep me company, of course.'

Victoria blurted it out: 'I'm not sure about moving in with Steve.'

'Well, I am. It's a terrible idea. Why you ever suggested it is beyond me. A man won't buy the cow if he's getting the creme fraiche for free.'

'I thought you didn't want me to marry Steve.'

'Oooh,' The Queen sighed as Benedita slathered the warm beeswax concoction over her crotch. 'I don't, Princess. The man is totally unsuitable for you.'

'Why? Because he's not Episcopalian or because he's not rich?'

'Ouch!' A tearing sound and The Queen yelped. 'Jesus, Benedita. .'

Benedita smiled as she examined the glob of hardened wax she'd just yanked from The Queen.

'I'm not a bigot and I'm not that materialistic,' Irene said. 'But I can't help wondering, dear. If you're going to be with a Jewish man, why couldn't it be one with some wherewithal? Goodness knows, there are enough of them.'