Kill All the Lawyers

to dig in at home plate and not bail out even when the pitch was inside. Taking him to court and even to a couple of autopsies, which was way cool, except for the smell.

But he hides stuff from me, afraid I can't handle it.

Uncle Steve was planning to go after Dr. Bill. Which was scary.

But why can't he tell me?

Above him, on the bed, Maria draped a leg over his shoulder. She wiggled her toes, the nails painted some color that looked like flames.

The brain waves carrying thoughts of Dr. Bill suddenly flatlined. Bobby felt a pleasant buzz in his undershorts. But this was awkward. His butt was sunk into the beanbag chair, his back was toward the bed, and he couldn't even see her. To kiss her, he'd have to scoot around, get to his knees, and crawl onto the bed, and then what? It would take several seconds and would seem premeditated and dorky, instead of casual and cool.

Another problem: to tongue or not to tongue?

He heard more pages rustling. She couldn't be reading that fast. Could she be getting bored? Was she waiting for him to make a move? He wished he could ask Uncle Steve for advice right now.

Or Mom. Yesterday, she told me she first had sex at twelve. My age!

Now his brain opened another screen. There was Maria on the bed, her flame-toed foot dangling in his face. And there was Mom, talking about sex.

Bobby could never tell Uncle Steve what Mom said. Or even that he'd seen her. Uncle Steve thought Mom was still in prison.

She had shown up at the park, picked him up, just like a regular mother, not an ex-con. They'd gone to Whip 'N Dip for pistachio ice cream. She started talking about her life, the stuff just spilling out, and a lot was pretty icky. The guys-sometimes, she didn't even know their names. The drugs-they'd messed her up bad, and that's why she stole and got in trouble, but now she'd kicked the habit. She thanked Jesus for his help, the Son of God being the true messiah and all, and maybe it was time for Bobby to be baptized.

Sure, Mom. Right after my bar mitzvah.

Bobby had told her about Maria and how much he liked her. She seemed interested, especially in Maria's family, the mother being Catholic and the father Jewish.

'She sounds like a good candidate for Jews for Jesus,' his mother had said.

Now Maria draped a second leg over his other shoulder. She pressed her thighs together, squeezing his ears, knocking his glasses sideways. He could smell her perfume, orange and vanilla, like a Creamsicle. He wanted to lick her face.

'I'm tired of studying,' she whispered.

All right!

Time for action. But how?

If he could turn around and somehow stand up, his crotch would be at her eye level. Ordinarily, no big deal, but right now, he had a world-class boner. What if she didn't want to kiss him? Would she tell everyone at school he was a horn-dog perv?

A third screen opened in his brain, and Uncle Steve was saying: 'Always show respect for girls. Sometimes you even have to show more respect for them than they have for themselves.'

And Mom was saying: 'Like Jesus said, if you look at a girl with lust, you've committed a sin. But the cool thing about the Savior, Bobby, is that he's very forgiving. So my motto is to do what feels right at the time. You can always repent later.'

Twelve

REPORT AND RAPPORT

Why is Steve so quiet?

Victoria pondered the question as they drove across the causeway on their way to The Queen's birthday dinner. Of course, Steve wasn't exactly crazy about her mother, who treated him as she did so many people: like hired help.

The thought of Steve marrying into the family really curdled the cream in The Queen's demitasse.

'Steve has many qualities, dear, but is he really the one for you?'

Translation: 'I hate him, and you can do better.'

It probably didn't help his cause that Steve would sometimes wear a T-shirt with the logo: 'If It's Not One Thing, It's Your Mother.'

Irene Lord considered Steve declasse. Steve considered Irene Lord a gold digger. Victoria loved them both but, like the lion tamer at the circus, had to occasionally crack the whip to keep them apart.

Taking The Queen and her new beau, Carl, to dinner-and getting stuck with the check-probably wasn't high on Steve's list of favorite things. But still, Victoria wondered, why did he seem so distant? Okay, so getting humiliated on the radio and arrested for assault might throw a guy off his game. But Steve was used to verbal combat and was no stranger to jail, so what was really bothering him?

Thinking back over recent events, it seemed as if Steve had been out of sorts for a while. When they'd looked at the condo, he'd been almost hostile to the idea of moving in together. They were supposed to see other properties with Jackie, but did Steve really want to do it? In his typical male fashion, he wasn't talking, so she had no choice but to ask.

'So what's your plan?' she said as they passed Fisher Island.

The question seemed to startle him. 'Wow, that's something.' With one hand on the steering wheel, he playfully shook a finger at her. 'You're reading my mind.'

'Good. Tell me about it.'

'I'm not sure I can.'

'Who would you tell if not me?'

'It's dangerous,' he said, 'and I don't want you to worry.'

She was lost. 'Moving in together is dangerous?'

'What? Who's talking about moving in together?'

'We are. Or at least I am. I'm trying to figure out what you're planning. House or condo? Move in together now or maybe wait a bit?'

'Oh.'

'So what are you talking about?'

'Kreeger. How I'm gonna nail him.'

Wasn't that just like Steve? Or any man, she decided. Your guy is sitting there, quietly stewing, and you think he's worried about the relationship. Turns out he's wondering if the Dolphins can cover the spread against the Jets. And when men do talk, it's like dispensing the news on CNN. Hurricane in Gulf. Dow Jones up twenty. I-95 gridlocked. Just the facts, ma'am.

She had studied psychology and linguistics at Princeton, and she knew that men and women communicate differently. It sounded cliched, but it was true. Women talk about feelings, what academics called 'rapport talk.' Men dispense information, what's called 'report talk.' When they talk at all.

'Both Dad and Bobby asked me about my plan for Kreeger,' Steve told her, 'so when you asked 'What's your plan?' I just naturally thought-'

'It's okay, Steve. But maybe you should just let Kreeger go. It didn't work out that great on the radio.'

Her feminine mode of communication. She could have said: 'You really got your ass handed to you today, partner.' But with a lover, it was best to cloak your criticism in lamb's wool, not lash it with barbed wire.

'I was just getting warmed up when the cops came in.'

'It seemed like he enjoyed tormenting you. And if he's as dangerous as you say. .'

'Exactly. That's why my plan will work.'